Civil War Aftermath Chapter 3: Season's End pt3

[Witchking of Angmar]

Berahthram I of the Silver Shield Dynasty
Eastern Roscrea
Satrapy of Myrumbria's Wilderness

There it roamed deep in the barren tundra, far from the soft plains and grasslands of the river Akarehkas nestled so firmly by the illustrious city of Nebbezzar. Here was the harsh north an ever present reminder of their dead homeland and the plague hand's reach, touching even the haven that is Roscrea. Berahthram never much cared for the northern coasts of Myrumbria but there were few wilderness' in the east that bore Saber Cats, the hands of man saw to that.

For days the ruler of all Eastern Roscrea, the King of Kings had with a sixth strength retinue partaking on a Royal Hunt. A symbolic practice of ancient origins for even kings must provide for their house, how could the master of all kings provide a steady hand of rule for his kingdom should he not be capable of providing for his royal house. An admittedly outdated practice from a time of Steppe Empires, the King of Kings knew nobody of his house would want to eat mangy Saber Cat meat, that being said neither would he. Never the less there was tradition in the practice, the image riding into his capital with the cat's corpse adorning the horse would as it has always done draw a great many eyes certainly helped.

Hunting for those endangered beasts wasn't by any stretch of the word an easy task, to go alone would be suicidally begging for ambush by the cleaver creatures while bringing a large retinue would be shameful on the ruling house much less make tracking far more difficult. Despite all the glory to tradition and the adoring looks upon reentering Nebbezzar, Berahthram would much rather be back in the city waiting for the Western Great Chieftains to finally answer his call for meeting. As much as the King of Kings loved his half brother he wasn't a respected man among both eastern and western notabilities, perfect for preventing the Vuzurg framadhār, A position like that of a vizier from staging a power grab however it would look poorly on his house should his half brother greet such powerful men in his stead.

Thus after such an abnormally long time hunting for a saber cat Berahthram along with his most trusted retinue were most handsomely pleased at a Saber Cat bearing a beautiful coat of fur milky white like a blanket of snow, The beautiful beast was utterly unaware of her hunter's approach. The retinue having used the clever craft to muffle their trained horses, mask the party's scent and silence the soft clanking of their scale armors designed not with foreign influences of modern equipment but with a glory lost in the ages of most powerful scaled kings.

Berahthram's retinue ceased their trotting a distance behind the beast, hidden far enough from the beast to be obscured by sight though with all hopes close enough to aid should the unforeseeable come to fruition. It was thirstily drinking from a spring, it's very presence denoted how mild the winter seasons where this year. It was very commonplace for the whole of the island instead of it's sparsely populated north to be covered in a blanket of snow, Even the river Akarehkas being among the most fertile and warm of Roscrea would find itself half frozen in the dead of winter. 

Among the men participating with the King of Kings the Royal Casurgian leader made sure to include a rather important element to his scheming, the youngest son of Clodovicus II Ninnavoz the rather untrustworthy Satrap of Brthynocia. He and his brother were taken as hostages years ago when the Stormcloak Rebellion proved an opportune time to break connection with the mainland, nearing but not yet a man at the time the young Prince Baranomoltus had been properly groomed as a true Royal Casurgian. Berahthram had the young prince involved in his own court, among his own family and the high born nobles clad in their golden scales.

In the here and now Berahthram had to strain in looking if he wished to see an Agotomaed, the boy now a man was Casurgian in all but blood even having adopted a proper Athrododic name. Prince Ariobaranes was much to the Agotomaedic heir apparent's objection the man's name, of his own choice. The elder brother however was not as impressionable, the man he was in arrival is the man he is now. As such the heir apparent Euandrias with his horrid Imperialized name utterly rejected any attempts at enlightenment, in a perfect scenario which never happens both Euandrias and Clodovicus would be dead with Ariobaranes as Satrap. Though as much as Berahthram was fond of the younger prince he'd kill him without a second thought if it advanced a unified Roscrea, for now Ariobaranes would enjoy a royal hunt honoring Kyne while his brother remained in the capital.

His entourage ever so slowly moved into their positions with most crossing the spring to flank the saber cat on the spring's other side while two remained with Berahthram to flank on his, giving a satisfying wait to allow all their places the King of Kings looked to his two companions hidden behind lamellar and mail. They need not give an answer for it was the distant sounds of hawks, Kyne had given her message and now so would Berahthram.

Whispering the words to break the enchantments placed onto themselves and their steeds, the beast would instantly hear and sense the sudden sensations around it. Nearly leaping across the spring to safety only to be barred by Berahthram's retinue that flanked the spring, the men blow into great bronze horns held in one hand while ringing large bells in the other petrifying the beast and sending it back.

In the seconds it took for the beast to run and be turned back Berahthram and his two companions were in position behind the beast, instead of scaring it off with the same horns and bells the King of Kings lept of his horse screaming at the saber cat. Having nowhere else to run it barreled towards Berahthram whom already had his composite bow trained on the great beast let loose an arrow. Finding it's place within the saber cat's left eye socket wasn't enough, the creature now bellowing and hissing furiously lept onto the King of Kings with such force it knocked him down tearing the air away from his lungs.

The beast wildly clawed at his neck, tangling it's claws which sought flesh into his mail coif. Threatening to tear it off his head with the saber cat's tugging. Berahthram wasn't much thinking about the dictated ancient honorable ways set in by royal hunts of old on how to deal with this, most foolish enough to follow archaic means found themselves killed. Instead gripping the beast with his left hand the King of Kings reached upward snatching the arrow still jutting out of it's eye and with all the force a pinned man could manage pushed inward, as deep as could be causing the beast to violently twitch and rock it's body in death strokes. Loosening it's bawls all over Berahthram in the process.

He gave up trying to untangle the claws with the beast's full weight still atop him and simply unlatched his coif to push the thing off himself, by no means was this a great feat for a people of Atmoran blood and he would feel much more accomplished were shit not dripping from his pristine scale armor. Amidst laughs from his retinue eventually the humor caught up with Berahthram as well, sharing the laughs as he splashed the freezing spring water on his kit. There would be no chance in Oblivion of riding nobly into the capital smelling like shit.

********

Lower Akarehkas
En route to Nebbezzar

The travel back had at first taken some time traversing the northern Myrumbrian wildernesses, that far north didn't allow much in the way of settlements larger then groups of burrows nor much infrastructure. Was cold as Skyrim this far north if not more so, by the time the retinue reached the slightly warmer southern regions of Myrumbria the basics of infrastructure reared it's pleasing head. These were basic dirt roads of which any further north would freeze over, they would eventually lead into the Royal Road systems that interlinked Eastern Roscrea. These roads would mark warmer travels that is relatively to northern Roscrea, when it was eventually reached the River Akarehkas always evoked a powerful feeling in the King of Kings. This is what gave life and fertility to central-eastern Roscrea, it was the nourishing mother to her horse riding usurpers.

Berahthram and his retinue enjoyed the many ecstatic faces of the garrison among one of the many river forts along the Akarehkas as their King of Kings triumphant return, cheers were given when Berahthram lifted the saber cat's paw into the air as it lay slain fastened to his horse. It was a sizable garrison well equipped with most having more half-plates sewn into their maille covering their entire torso instead of the front and back while still numerous others wore full Casurgian Ceannlann. The men had to have more expensive equipment given the importance of what they garrisoned, albeit having barely any outside activity compared to the western river forts and their bridges the river forts were the only practical way of crossing into Eastern Roscrea's heartlands. Foregoing the river forts and their bridges protected within the walls to ford the river had and will always prove disastrous, Uriel had over two centuries prior found just how sour such things can turn.

In crossing the stone bridge Berahthram had a much clearer view then when he left, central-eastern Roscrea was a beautiful land of plains and soft grasslands peppered with kind forests here and there. In nearly all winters the land was struck with the most terrible of freezes, in the already near-frozen north those braving the worst would huddle in their burrows throughout the winter, in one of the few occasions where east and west Roscrea mirrored each other in the warmer central and southern lands the lakes, rivers, springs and creeks would freeze over for the winter as harsh blizzards would covert the land.

Even the River Akarehkas is put in a state of freezing, to cross it now seeing light blankets of snow across the land having the fogs lay clear for once was breathtaking if not strange as someone accustomed to unforgiving winters. As unaccustomed to the mild winter Roscrea was blessed with as he was Berahthram was damn glad on how it permitted travel, he had taken this chance to please Kyne and to once again show her unlike the Nords that folks still honor her. Thus his retinue trotted along the river, occasionally seeing a lone river longboat being carried by a gentle breeze across the water. Overall it had been a pleasant Royal Hunt, the frustration was washed away like the shit smeared on their leader.

In the mostly even lands around the River Akarehkas the capital city of Nebbezzar was visible from a great distance away, it didn't at all bother Berahthram knowing that from a Tamrielic point of view the greatest and largest city of Roscrea would barely be considered a city. There was a certain pride that came with laying eyes on Nebbezzar even at such distances, this was not built by the hands of slaves to the elves as the Imperials flaunt a city that they have no honor promoting, this was built with free hands and the magics the mended the stones was that of human origin. To Berahthram the only mainland people worthy of flaunting their engineering genius would be the Nords, perhaps the men of Yokuda too.

Before Nebbezzar's eastern gates Berahthram and his retinue raised their hands up before the engraved obelisks bearing the symbolic stags and steeds, the stones were thirty times the size of Berahthram and fifteen wide and when Alduin has long since consumed the words these obelisks will still stand. The gates of Nebbezzar was magnificent in of itself, before the Empire invaded and caused a sudden urge to paint rooftops being influenced by the Blue Palace the blue gates were the colors of this city. It stood with a height that rivaled the obelisks engraved with two reliefs, Vallo and Bahram. The ancient city's architects stood ever vigilant against any and all, a testament that even the greatest empire on Tamriel since man's first could not breach either the gates nor the walls that surrounded them. Only in the city's second siege did the Empire have to build over them, a testament to the Empire's own trickery.

The King of King's presence was enough to gain entry for he needed no yelling to open, a dozen gatekeepers within tugged and pulled on the mechanisms and so Vallo and Bahram parted way. Now quite tired Berahthram did all he could to seem ever invigorated to his colorfully clad people, it was a marriage of bright colors that lined the streets. Every time the King of Kings saw a wealthier man in purple drab he couldn't help but smile knowing how it angered the Imperials having anyone other then their Emperor in purple, for his folk they were of a Royal race and so all Royal Casurgians had right to bear royal colors.

Berahthram had to eventually tune out the ever increasing noises emerging from his folk, they were loyal people expressing joy at their King of King's successful return from a Royal Hunt with a hopefully pleased Kyne to boot. All the man could think about now was having a blissful day;s sleep, thinking about what the serviles would do with the carcass. Once again he knew nobody of his family nor any other noble would eat mangy saber cat when there is plenty of savory lamb, it damn near sounded well enough to forego sleeping, nearly. It was before Nebbezzar's citadel that Berahthram would get some respite, passing through the gates onto the soft grass he dismounted without word. Letting his retinue take care of the horses, the Agotomaedic prince Ariobaranes following him in. After all he like his brother were hostages, being taken good care of for all that mattered.

Going their separate ways the King of Kings briefly greeted anyone in his path within the palace, his half brother could manage playing pretend administrator while Berahthram's own men are really in charge during his absence for one more day. Displeased on the Great Chieftains for failing to show up, as the Archdruid Galchobhar fab Myrthway of the Two Hills, a name denoting a rather high born western hillman, relayed to Berahthram on the purpose of said council had explained beforehand.

*******

Nebbezzar's Citadel
Council Chambers

Much to Berahthram's near seething displeasure it would be a little over a week before the Great Chieftains showed up, the first having reached Nebbezzar was the eldest of the Milhinngaet leaders. The Chieftain of Ultansborough, Teutorigos Borr the man in his seventies had reached Nebbezzar before any of the other chieftains and that was internally amusing for the King of Kings. Not at Borr's expense for he had great admiration for the man, but at the other so called Great Chieftains. Why the Great Chieftains always felt the need to show up for a strictly administrative council fully equipped in armor Berahthram would never know, none of them had any idea of his scheming anyhow.

It seemed that Teutorigos having finally answered the call to meeting had stirred the other chieftains as they arrived in the days that followed, finally filling the council chambers. The chambers itself was atop the Royal Library, the chambers had little more then richly decorated interior and a intricate stone table filled with foodstuff. Royal Casurgian administration didn't involve feasting while making decisions but as always this wasn't the case with the western Chieftains. Eight thrones stood around the table, six for the Great Chieftains, one for the King of Kings and the final throne unlike the stone was of humble wood and there sat in it an Archdruid, Galchobhar fab Myrthway of the Two Hills to be exact.

As was with tradition it was the King of Kings that began.

"It is hereby under Druidic decree the eleventh council of this era is called." Berahthram looked about the table at Great Chieftains paying more attention to their feasts then his words, Teutorigos as always was far too modest and payed his fullest attention as did the Archdruid. Continuing he raised his voice ever so slightly, "Within the Chiefdom of Boiliobris there is a growing crisis that threatens Roscrea's hegemony." Easing back into the throne Berahthram would let the Archdruid explain as he had to Berahthram.

"Greetings and healthy tidings to you all, when last this council convened it was decided that relations with Tamriel would be reestablished. Trade with the Kingdoms of Skyrim and High Rock were to bring and still could further wealth to Roscrea." Unlike when Berahthram spoke the Great Chieftains ceased their stuffing and listened intently to the Archdruid, it wasn't Berahthram specifically. It has always been recorded how unruly the Great Chieftains were towards King of Kings, no doubt a combination of envy and jealousy towards the most powerful man in Roscrea.

The Archdruid continued. "Such establishments of trading rights had attracted the Eastern Empire Company and without doubt the Empire too, the man having been entrusted with such enterprising has proven weak willed and allowed himself to be bribed. As I speak before the high born at this very moment there are Eastern Empire trading vessels docked in Boiliobris, members of our order have enticed the snake to reveal their true intentions and with clever mind to mirror clever tongue bared the admission of trading rights until decision could be reached upon at this council. To which the obvious choice of action is to stoutly deny the illegal trading rights." Letting it sink in for a moment the six Great Chieftains quickly came to the obvious decision and each agreed to deny the trading rights, to which Berahthram put forth his agreement too.

"And so by will alone you each have set your decisions in motion." Proclaimed the Archdruid. "Your wise decision will safeguard Roscrea to which I suspect hostile reprisal will be their answer, it would be without doubt a clear choice to prepare for naval attacks." Satisfied the Archdruid let the council know his word was finished.

"Now with that pressing matter dealt with there are other administrative discussions we should have, here and now." Spoke the King of Kings. "The growing issue with increasing discontent and this pointless clamour for reform by your warriors must be addressed, it is with my humble suggestion that-" Berahthram was interrupted by Teutorigos who's simply words swayed the other Chieftains right then and there.

"We're done here, what is needed has been addressed." Berahthram was left speechless as the Great Chieftains left without discussing a solution, it was clear they didn't want to hear the King of King's counsel. Berahthram was near the boiling point, it was situations like these inefficient councils that fall short of accomplishing what the Druids had intended them for. They had long since became ineffective and that they are continued even now only drove to internally prove Berahthram's point, the Chiefdoms and their ever prideful Chieftains were living in an old world. So focused on their own pointless spheres that they couldn't bear to hear advice from an outside source.

At the very least the Archdruid looked sympathetic, he could see the frustration on Berahthram's face. The King of Kings couldn't blame the Druids for this situation, they have had countless opportunities to become Roscrea's tyrants and even now when the island needed a internal push for greater authority the Druids remain benevolent wise men. That's what saddened Berahthram in relation to them, the heavy hand of the Druids are what Roscrea needs.

Berahthram and his father had long ago came to the unfortunate conclusion that if someone from within Roscrea didn't unified the island then a foreign power would do it for them, in time Berahthram would be the heavy hand this island needs.

[Witchking of Angmar]

Boldir and Mila
The Colovian Highlands

The first day wasn't the hardest, but it felt the longest. For Boldir, every step was a challenge that had to be overcome. He would plant his right foot firmly against the dry earth, and then, gripping his makeshift walking stick with both hands like a paddle without water, and then tentatively lower his left foot ahead of it. As if walking was not bad enough, he also had been forced to tear strips from Mila's cloak to bandage his bleeding forearm, while the dozens of other cuts and bruises nagged him like a swarm of biting insects.

Meanwhile, Mila was hungry. It was far from an unfamiliar sensation, but apparently thinking she'd died worked up a bigger appetite than might be expected. Both her group and Boldir's had come to the ruined gate carrying plenty of food, but that had vanished much like their horses and gear. She refused to complain though. It would have felt petty to do so while her father was in such a wretched state. Unfortunately, her traitor belly felt no such shame, and eventually started to rumble away without Mila's consent.

"We need to make for higher ground," Boldir decided upon hearing the sound. "Might get lucky and spot some smoke, a village or something."

If ever there was a pair who were born unlucky, Mila figured it had to be the two of them, which is why it came as no surprise when their half-hour struggle up a slope revealed nothing but more sparsely wooded hills in every direction. They took a few a few minutes to rest and scan the surrounding region before deciding that it was a pointless effort. "We're pretty deep in the wilds," she offered. "Maybe we'll find something closer to the city."

Boldir nodded. "Maybe." And so they continued south, keeping to the high ground when they could. His plan had been to simply backtrack, but Endar's trail had been made of magic, not dirt, and it quickly became apparent that there was little chance of them returning the way they'd come. Even Cloud Top, the most prominent landmark in the Colovian Highlands, was nowhere to be found. 

And so it was that they were lost in a foreign land with no food or maps, one injured and the other's soul claimed by a Daedric Prince. Friends had died only a day ago in their minds, and a thousand worrisome thoughts were on their minds. And yet even with all these troubles and more, there was a strangely positive air about them both that was unlike anything they had felt before. After all the hardship, the pain, and the loss, they were together, and both of them intended to keep it that way, regardless of how dim things got now. 
It wasn't long before they began swapping stories.

"Mammoth cheese?" Boldir looked at Mila sideways as he hobbled beside her. "How was it?"

"Bloody awful," she answered. "But by then we were living off our own horses when we got to eat at all. I had my share and was happy for seconds!"

"Would you go for some now, if you could?"

"Hmm..." She thought about it for a second. She was pretty hungry. "Maybe tomorrow."

Boldir laughed. "So how long did it take you to get through the mountains?"

"I can't remember how many days. More than a week, for sure. Two, maybe. We spent a few in the giant's cave, waiting for the storm to pass."

"And he never came home?"

"No, but we did find him in the valley. He attacked us. There was one point when he looked right at me, was ready to charge, and then a sellsword named Stoit killed him with his bow. Everyone called him Stoit Giantslayer after that."

"Stoit Giantslayer." The name came slowly to Boldir's lips. "He's the one who came with me to find you. The daedra got him."

Mila's heart quickened at the news, and then sank at the last part. "Oh."
Boldir had told her that one of the sellswords had helped, but he hadn't mentioned his name before now. She didn't know how she felt now. Stoit had been her favorite member of Sibbi's band. He was the nicest to her, the closest to her age, and he'd had a smile that made her feel like she was with a friend, not a captor. It was the exact reason she had ended up pushing him away. Now Mila wondered if things might've gone different had she returned his kindness.

"He was brave," her father went on. "Saved my life on more than one occasion. He is in Sovngarde now, no doubt. Feasting with the heroes of old."

He'd said it to make Mila feel better, but somehow, that only made her sadder. She owed Stoit everything, an apology most of all. But she would never see him in this life or the next. Even if they freed her soul from Vile, Mila knew that Sovngarde was no place for the likes of her. He would live on forever believing that she hated him.

Boldir noted his daughter's silence. She didn't look upset, but that sudden quiet said enough, and he decided to change the subject. "It'll be dark soon. Might be a good time to make camp."

"Aye," she agreed. "What about up there?" She pointed to a hill west of them. It was another rocky slope like the one from before. The top was decorated by a small contingent of trees that gently swayed in the wind. "We can use the trees for wood and shelter, and from so high up we might see someone else's fire."

He nodded, impressed. "That will do nicely. Just have to be careful climbing up. That one looks steeper than the last."

"You're one to talk, Captain Walking-Stick."

He chuckled. "I scaled the cliffs at Pale Pass by hand. It'll take more than a bad leg to keep me from making it up an Imperial anthill like this one."

"Well then, lead the way."

He obliged and led the way, all while Mila smirked playfully. As he had said, the hill was steep and the climb slow-going thanks to his wounds, but they reached the top without any serious issues, and with only another half hour of daylight left, they claimed a nice spot in the dry, wispy grass. Boldir carefully sat down, enjoying the sensation of his aching muscles finally getting to rest and the pain in his ankle finally getting some relief. He let out a content sigh. 

"Are you gonna help me chop some wood?" Mila asked.

"Here." Boldir drew his knife and tossed it next to her. He then unfastened his chest piece and laid back into the dirt. "It's the best thing we've got."

Mila looked down at the fat little dagger. She could cut wood with that, if she spent a couple hours at it, and first she would need to gather it. "You know, my cloak is actually pretty warm."
My cloak! Mila's eyes widened as she looked down at Boldir's left arm, which was currently resting atop his rising chest. "We need to change your bandages."

He sighed, and then slowly sat up. "I know."
Boldir slowly unraveled the makeshift brown strip until the dark stains turned black, and then it was off. Underneath, the bite was half scabs and half open wound, with the worst parts being where the little daedra's fangs had gotten him. The bleeding still hadn't stopped.

"You need to see a healer."

He grimaced. "If you find one, let me know."
Boldir took the bundle and pressed it tightly against the wound, and Mila used his knife to cut a long strip off the bottom of her cloak. Boldir wrapped it himself, making sure it was good and tight. When they were done, the two of them sat near the edge of the slope, watching Magnus sink beyond the faraway earth.
Eventually, they returned to the stories. Both of them were amazed by how much the other had experienced.

"My turn," Mila said. "What was it like traveling with a necromancer? Endar said he was very powerful."

Boldir felt a tinge of regret upon hearing Endar's name. The elf had been protecting Mila all along, and he'd murdered him. But this wasn't the first decent person Boldir had killed, and he feared that it would not be the last. Boldir shoved these feelings deep down, and returned his attention to the question.
"Aye, he was. You saw that for yourself."

"But what was he like?" she pressed. "Did he have draugr servants, or collect souls like Vile?"

"There were undead in the ruin he made his lair. And he did mention souls a few times. He mostly just talked about those glowing rocks."

"The welkynd stones," Mila stated, proud of herself for knowing the correct name. "Endar said that Rythe's were special because he grew them himself using Dawn magic."

"Uh-huh." Dawn magic. Dusk magic. Afternoon magic. It was all the same to Boldir. And although he was grateful that the wizard had kept Mila safe, his own experiences with their kind made him worry that Drenim might have rubbed off on her a little too much. "Most rocks don't glow, so I'd say these ones were special regardless of what made them."

Mila hadn't expected him to understand. She barely did herself, and she actively tried to. "Now your turn."

He already had a question prepared. "Matilda. It's fitting. What made you choose it?"

"It wasn't my first choice. I wanted to go with Rebec, but Anrich said that I needed to use something closer to my actual name. In case I ever slipped up."

"That's smart."

"Aye, it was. He reminded me of you, sometimes."

He grunted, unsure what bothered him more: being likened to a notorious thief, or Mila considering it a compliment. At the end of the day, the man in the gray cap had cared for Mila and helped him find her, and for that Boldir supposed that, like Drenim, he deserved some gratitude for that, at least. "You know I never mentioned your Aunt Vex to him. I don't know why I didn't. Seems like it would've made sense to bring up at the time."

"Neither did I," Mila said, surprised by the notion herself, now that she thought about it. "I guess I just didn't want to think about her, or Riften, or..." She stopped herself. "I just wanted to move on from all that. Not think about any of it."

"That's not an easy thing to do."

"No, it's not." Mila's eyes slid back and forth over the horizon, taking in the pinks and oranges that melded together and then faded into purple the farther they got from the sun. She imagined Riften, as the fires died and turned to dim embers. Even now, after all this time, she did not know exactly what had happened up there. Only Boldir did, and she was afraid to ask. Why? Am I afraid of him? No. Afraid of what he'll say? Of what might be true?
"Boldir?"

"Hhm?"

"All those people in Riften. The hundreds who died... did they die because of Ma and me?"

The question startled him. "Of course not. The Black-Briars-"

"The Black-Briars came after you, I know." She frowned. "That's not what I mean. But they didn't burn their own city down."

"The situation at Riften was complicated," Boldir said, struggling to word it correctly. "Even without us. Lots of people ended up getting involved who shouldn't have."

"And the bandits? Would they have done what they did if I hadn't been locked in that house? If you hadn't been trying to save me?"

He almost sighed and then stopped himself, looked Mila in the eyes, and said, "Yes." Several seconds passed, and then he added, "Like I said, it was a complicated situation. The Black-Briars had many enemies."

Mila searched his eyes for the truth and found it. Relief washed over her, crawled down her back and made the hair stand on her arms. She knew she shouldn't have felt this way. It didn't change that many people had died. But knowing that it wasn't Boldir's fault like everyone said -that it hadn't been all about her- lifted a weight from Mila's shoulders. Made her feel strangely clean.

***

That night, Mila slept calmly, without any of her usual dreams. Boldir was less fortunate. His arm stung him, and he shivered more than any Nord should in a Cyrodiilic Spring. When he finally did go to sleep, it was fitful and filled with unpleasant dreams that shifted too quickly for him to distinguish one from the next.
The next morning, Mila found him pale as ice and coated in sweat.
"Hey!" She grabbed him by the shoulder and shook gently, to which he responded with a low whisper that she couldn't make out. That made her scared, and she shook him harder. "Boldir!"

Boldir's eyes opened. "What?"

Mila sat back, relieved, though still a little worried by how hoarse his voice was. "You look bad."

"Aye." He grunted as he struggled to sit up. "I feel pretty bad, too." His wounds somehow felt even worse than yesterday, and his head felt like it had been baked in an oven. "How much water do we have?"

Mila offered him her skin. "I've got plenty."

He shook his head. "Best if we don't share. Find something to pour it in."

She got up and immediately set to task, ignoring her now furious belly as she scoured the area in search of something, anything, that could be used as a cup. Her first idea was to use a leaf. She was pretty sure she remembered a story about an adventuring Bosmer who drank from a leaf. But the trees here were not like those of Riften or most parts of Cyrodiil, they were the ones with the useless pine needles. Mila's next thought was to use her shoe, but she quickly dismissed that as stupid. Lastly, she wondered what Endar would do, only to remember that the wizard solved pretty much all of his problems with magic, the best of which she could accomplish was making white sparks dance at her fingertips. In the end, Mila settled for carefully trickling the water into Boldir's mouth. It was so simple that it made her feel dumb for considering it after her shoe.

The cool water felt good going down Boldir's throat. And he let out a satisfied gasp when Mila took the skin away. "We'll need to be careful with that," he said, acutely aware of how bad his voice sounded. "There's no telling how long it'll take us to reach the nearest well."

"You plan to walk?" Mila asked.

"Of course." He smiled weakly. "Show me a road and I'll run you a race."

She snorted, but at the same time felt nervous. "Alright, but be careful on the way down the hill."

"Imperial anthill," Boldir corrected, before erupting in a fit of coughs. When it was finally over, he took a long breath. "I'll lead the way."

Getting down now was a lot harder than getting up had been. To Mila it was a matter of watching her father's every step, and to Boldir it was the same, only with a lot more pain involved. By the time they reached the bottom and were continuing southward, he was huffing and puffing, completely out of breath. "I don't know about you, Mila, but I'm damn hungry."

Perfectly on cue, her stomach rumbled, much louder than it had yesterday. "Me too." She kept her eyes on Boldir. It wasn't just the fever that worried her. His limp seemed worse than it had the day before. Food was the least of her concerns right now.

"Could probably go for that mammoth cheese right about now, huh?" he continued to joke. 

"Aye, I could." 

"And a nice mug of that juniper berry mead to wash it down. You've never had mead, have you?"

"I've had it," Mila said. "In the Jeralls."

"With Sibbi's lot. That makes sense." Boldir frowned and kept going in silence. Just like he could feel his body weakening, he could feel his mind drifting, pulling away and struggling to focus on the task. It was like the state shortly before one falls asleep, only Boldir was wide awake. Or so it felt like, at least.

"Maybe you should sit down and rest," Mila suggested a short while later. "I can make a sling and try to hunt rabbits. Maybe find some water to refill at, or even a village."

"We can't split up," Boldir replied at once. "We'll find something. We just have to keep moving. Make for some high ground again. See if we can spot something."

"You don't need to be climbing right now. You shouldn't even be walking."

"It won't matter when Chorrol's best healer fixes me up. It'll be worth it, but only if we get out of these wilds. So let's make for the high ground."

"Okay..."

They spent the whole morning and a bit of the afternoon making for a distant hill that was in the direction they were headed. This one wasn't quite as steep as the last, but Mila was still shocked by how Boldir managed to climb it in his state. It was like he ran on nothing but will. Still, a quick look around told her that it had been a waste of time. "Okay, no more of those."
She looked up at Boldir, only to find his eyes transfixed on something in the distance. His bruised lips slowly turned into a smile.

"Look there."

Mila followed his gaze, and after several moments of focusing, she saw what he saw. It was a lone farmhouse. The wooden building was so far away that it managed to blend in with the surrounding landscape. She was surprised that Boldir had been able to spot it at all. Her stomach rumbled. "Do you think they will give us food?"

He didn't answer at first, just squinted against the sun as he considered the little dwelling. There was no smoke trail, and no animals that he could see. "There may not be anyone to give us food." He shrugged. "Doesn't mean it ain't worth checking out."
Planting his stick ahead of him, Boldir started toward the house with Mila close by his side.

The walk took a couple hours, and Boldir's condition seemed to worsen with every minute. He knew what it meant. He'd been a soldier a long time, and he'd seen his share of soldiers develop infections from their wounds. Infections led to fevers, and without potions or healers, fevers often led to death. Often. Not always. Mila needed him. Her very soul was counting on his survival. I can survive like this for a few days. Long enough to get help.
There were a couple instances where he stumbled, and Mila offered to help him walk. He declined, of course. The poor girl would need her own strength, and she was far too small compared to him to be of much help regardless. He could make it. This was nothing compared to what he'd been through before. Even so, he was grateful to finally cross the crumbled stone wall that had once marked the edge of a farmer's land, or maybe a shepherd's meadow.
By now, Boldir was sure that no one lived here. There should have been cattle, sheep, hogs, maybe even something more exotic that only lived down here in the warmer climate of Cyrodiil. This place was abandoned, and judging by the ramshackle condition of the house, that had likely been the case for a long time.

They approached the door and Mila knocked. After hearing her stomach rumble again, Boldir decided that there was no point in pretending like someone would answer and just shoved it open. One look at the inside, and he let out a sigh.

The farmstead hadn't been abandoned by its owners. They had been slaughtered. At the back of the room, a skeleton lay slumped against the wall, covered in cobwebs. And right at their feet was another, this one face down and with a rusty longsword just out of reach of its extended right hand. A cluster of mushrooms had sprouted through his ribcage from the rotten planks beneath.

"What do you think happened?" Mila asked as she stepped over the one with the sword. "Do you think bandits got them?"

"I don't think so." Boldir's eyes had fallen on a familiar-shaped object in the fireplace. He limped over and picked it up. The wooden totem had been burned black and was shaped like the hilt of a sword. He turned it over in his hand to reveal that the word HERETICS had been crudely carved into it. "This was the Thalmor."

"Oh," That made Mila feel a little uncomfortable. Whiterun had largely been spared from the persecutions, but she had heard her share of the stories. Everyone had. "Do you think they did this during the Great War?"

"Maybe. Or maybe it was after Mede signed that treaty. Makes no difference. I doubt we will find anything useful here."

"Still, it doesn't hurt to look."

He nodded. "You're right about that. You go ahead. I'm going to take a seat on the bed, try to rest a bit."

She nodded, glad that he wasn't too stubborn to let her pull some of the weight this time. For his part, Boldir laid back on a moth-eaten pillow and watched her search. Mila was unfazed by the dead. She stepped over the murdered couple's bones like they were just two more pieces of furniture. He had been prepared for her to be different, but it was still strange to see with his own eyes.

She searched the barrels first, but whatever food had once been stored in those had long since been devoured by rodents or insects. The same ended up being true for the cabinets and drawers. Even the books had been gnawed away. After searching every corner of the little house, Mila was certain that Boldir had been right. Anything of value had either been looted or rotted away. Unless...
She looked over at the mushroom skeleton. The rotted planks were not thick at all.
The cynic in her said that the two of them could never be so lucky. Others maybe, but not them. But the thief said that it was always worth checking. Mila walked over beside Boldir and picked up his stick.

"What are you doing?" he asked. 

"Lots people don't like to leave their valuables out in the open, or even in a safe." She struck the floor with it, causing a low, hard thump sound. Mila swept the stick around to another spot of the floor and did it again, producing the same thump. "They would rather hide them. Floorboards are popular back in the City Isle Waterfront."

Thump. Thump. Thump. Mila skipped over the patch near the door where the wood had rotted and mushrooms had grown out. Thump. Thump. She stopped near the bones of the person who had died with a sword in hand. Thump. Thump. Thump. She moved over to the fireplace, a few feet left of the other skeleton. Thump. Thump. Thomp.
She knelt down. She could see it now, the plank was a little loose right here at the base of the fireplace. She looked back at Boldir and smiled. "I found something."

"Impressive." Boldir struggled to sit up, curious what Mila had just turned up.

She used her knife to pry the board up a little, and then dug her fingers underneath and started to pull. The wood came up easy, and sure enough, there was a hollow spot beneath it. Mila started prying up more boards, each one taking less effort than the last, until finally, the little hollow space was completely uncovered. There was a wooden box inside. She took it out and set it on the floor beside the hole. Please have a healing potion.

Mila lifted the lid. "Well, it's better than nothing." She pulled out a pouch of septims and held it up for Boldir to see. "But it won't do us much good before we reach the city."

Boldir couldn't feel too disappointed. It was more than he expected to find in this place. "Good job. That looks like enough to rent us a room and get some food, at least."

"There's something else, too." Mila reached back into the box and grabbed a small book that had been under the gold. She opened it and read the inscription on the inside cover: Haval's Journal.

"Nothing useful." She tossed the tome aside and set to work tying the gold pouch to her belt.

"Oh well. At least we got the gold." Boldir placed a hand on the bed frame and stood back up. "And if there's a farm out here, there's a good chance we're not too far from a village either. What do you think about climbing one last hill for the day? See what we can see?"

Mila wasn't so sure. "Don't you think that sleeping in a bed would be good for you? Some actual rest might help with that fever."

"Not as much as herbs or a potion," he responded. "I've seen what I have before and you're right, I need rest. But this ain't a normal sickness, and it ain't gonna go away overnight. There might not be many more days where I can climb a hill. We need to make use of the ones we have."

That scared Mila, perhaps more than he meant for it to. Boldir had been in countless battles and survived them all. She'd spent the last two days watching him climb hills with a crippled foot and several nasty wounds. If this condition had the potential to get so bad that worried him, then she wondered how he could possibly make it to Chorrol. Her stomach rumbled, which made her scowl. "Will you be quiet?"

Boldir chuckled. "That troll inside you agrees with me. We both need food, and the longer we tarry, the less water we'll have as well. Give me my stick, and let's go somewhere more pleasant."

 "Alright," She nodded and handed him the stick. "Alright. Lead the way, Captain Walking-Stick."

It was both a blessing and a curse that the Colovian Highlands were so jagged and uneven. One minute, you couldn't see two miles in any direction, and then a minute after you would be blessed with a view of woods and hills that spanned for miles. That meant that they could have passed a dozen villages before finding the shack, and they never would have known. Likewise, it also meant that the nearest hill could reveal more, if they used up the strength it took to climb it.

Fortunately for them, the farmstead was built not far from the base of one such hill. It wasn't quite as steep as the one they'd slept on the night before, nor as high as the one from which they had spotted the house in the first place. But after only a few minutes' journey, it became apparent that Boldir was feeling even weaker now than he had then. At one point, Mila practically made him take a seat on a large boulder to rest. He only spent a minute there before he started again. The climb went slowly, and what should have taken half an hour ended up taking them almost two.
By the time they neared the top, Boldir felt like he was in a trance. He hurt all over, especially in the foot. And he was was shivering, even though it felt like he'd been sprinting for days and then walked into a sauna. It was all he could do to focus on keeping his eyes down, to not make any bad steps.

"Are you holding up?" Mila asked. They were finally almost there, and it had been a while since he'd last spoken. A few seconds passed, and she received no answer. "Boldir?"

"Huh?" He looked at his daughter and gave a weak grin. "What's that?"

I asked if you were-" Mila saw Boldir's bad foot slide into a little crevice between two rocks in the slope. "Boldir! Be careful!"

It happened so fast that there was nothing she could do. The misstep led to a stumble, and then Boldir's walking stick went flying. Mila tried to take hold of his arm, but his immense weight jerked it from her grasp and pulled him downward. 
Boldir tried to break the fall with his arms, but the wounded one smashed against a sharp rock, shredding his wraps and launched a dizzying pain to his brain. He started to tumble. Every old bruise, scrape, and cut became like the poke of a dagger, and were quickly joined by new ones. And his bad foot felt ready to be torn off completely. The next several yards felt like a blur to him, and then, nothing.

Mila chased him, praying to anyone that he was still alive. When Boldir's big body finally came to a stop, it was only because he struck a particularly large rock on a flat point. His eyes were closed. "No-no-no-no-no! Not now! Not again!" Mila knelt down beside him and gave his face a light slap. Her father grunted, but his eyes remained closed. "Not dead. Just asleep." She swallowed a gulp of air and then looked around, as if help would somehow come to her out of nowhere. When it didn't, she returned her attention to Boldir, whose previous cuts and bruises now had friends, and worse, a dark flower was blossoming on his arm wrap. "Oh gods please don't let this happen. Not again!"

Mila unceremoniously hacked another big strip off of her cloak, wadded it up, and then pressed it tightly against Boldir's forearm. It didn't take long before she noticed that it was starting to turn dark as well. "Gods, no."
Keeping the pressure down with one hand as best she could, Mila cut off another strip of her cloak -which was starting to resemble a shredded bib at this point- and proceeded to wrap it around his arm again and again, this time higher up and much more tightly than the bandages. After a minute of this, she pulled the two ends as tightly as she possibly could and tied them in a knot. The blood flow slowed, and then came to a stop, and Mila allowed herself to sit back and rest a moment, barely aware that she was now covered in red, herself. What now?

She looked up at the sky. Magnus glared down at her, looking bright and hot even in the cool of Spring. Nothing like her old friends, the moons. It was then Mila knew what she had to do.

***

The purple sky greeted her again as the sun traded places with Masser and Secunda. Mila's dagger rested in her lap, the metal blade cold and sleek, the one possession she made an effort to keep in good shape. But it wasn't the quicksilver that Mila needed tonight. She needed the weapon's true power. The moons slowly grew larger, brighter, and suddenly, as always, the blade started to glow with the same pale light. Mila took it over to Boldir, who was on his back, still asleep with his arm stretched out. She removed the bloody rags from his wound, and found that the nasty bite beneath had been split into a deep gash. He might've bled out if Mila hadn't learned that trick from watching Sibbi's sellswords patch each other up in the Jeralls. Even now, she feared for his arm, which was strangely discolored. That would have to wait. The wound was more important.

She lowered the enchanted dagger's sharp edge towards Boldir's wound. "I'm sorry," she whispered, knowing he probably couldn't hear her. "It can't burn someone until it cuts them. This is going to hurt."
Mila eased the edge into his wound, causing Boldir to jolt, nearly slicing his arm open even wider in the process. "Shor's b-!" Mila wretched her dagger back. His arm crackled, like meat cooking on a spit. The enchantment had taken effect, but she hadn't had time to finish the job. "I'm sorry," Mila said again. And then she sat on Boldir's shoulder and pinned the arm down. Quickly and deftly, Mila lowered the blade to his wound and just barely pushed it in. 

This time, Boldir screamed. It was a wild, unconscious scream that sounded unnatural from a human's lips, and was accompanied by more jolts. But this time Mila held fast, using all of her weight to hold down his arm while she brought out the dagger's magic in his bloody injury. Once that was done, she turned it flat-side-down and pressed against the wound. Hard. The weapon's energy hissed as it burned Boldir's flesh and turned his bloody gash into a crisp. She held it there and counted to five, ignoring Boldir's thrashing until she was certain it had been done properly. On five, she lifted up the dagger to reveal a dark mess of scarred scabby... stuff. It looked ugly. Much uglier than his other burns, but if what the Nords said was true, it may have saved his life.
She sure hoped so.
Mila rose and stepped away, then relaxed a bit when she saw that Boldir was settling down. He muttered something.

"What?" Mila dropped to one knee and lowered her ear to his lips. When he did not answer, she sat back up and sighed. "That was a close one, huh? The Imperial anthill really kicked your ass." She frowned. "You better not die, Boldir. Everyone else did, but I won't let you, damnit. I won't. You're gonna get better."

She looked around. The farmhouse was only a ten minute walk back, but with him, it might as well have been miles. She looked in the other direction, the one he'd fallen from. "Just sit tight, okay. I'm going to finish the climb. If there's a village around, this won't have been for nothing."

And so that's what Mila did. By now, she was aching all over herself. Not just her stomach, but her limbs and chest too. But if Boldir could preserver, so would she. At her own pace, the anthill took no time to scale at all. She was on the peak in minutes, looking out over the dark highlands. The moons were bright enough that night for the landscape to be pretty easy to make out. But that didn't matter. A village would have lights: lanterns, torches, lit windows. But all Mila saw in any direction was more darkness. She dropped to her knees and seethed, "Are you kidding? Nothing?!" Her wits left her for a moment, and Mila started to tear up. "I just got him back. Please, give me something. I don't know what to do."

Mila didn't wait for an answer. She'd done all this before. "Can't go crazy right now," she muttered. She collected herself and returned back to Boldir's side. "We should've stayed the night in the house," she told him. "Now I've got to find a way to drag your big butt back there on my own."

Did the farmstead have a cart? Could she get Boldir in one and pull him even if it did? There was only one way to find out. Mila did her best to make him comfortable and then started back. Fortunately, there was a little wagon behind the house that was on two large wheels. Mila didn't know enough about farms to know what it had been used for, but she did know that it was big enough to carry Boldir... sort of. When Mila returned, he was right where she'd left him. "Alright, let's do this big guy."

First, Mila positioned the cart at an incline, lower down the hill than Boldir was, and positioned against one of the many large rocks. Second, she carefully removed what remained of Boldir's armor and set it aside. Third was the hard part: Mila rolled him onto his stomach. Even unarmored, he was extremely heavy and Mila was feeling quite weak as it was. She didn't know what force it was that pushed her on. Perhaps the same one that had driven him. With a great heave, she rolled him onto his back again. And then his stomach. And then his back. Soon, Mila had rolled her father all the way down to the wagon waiting below. The last attempt was the most difficult, as the lip of the cart was not at a decline like the hill was. It took all of Mila's strength, but one limb at a time, she somehow managed to half-roll, half-drag him into the old thing.

Now for the other hard part. 

Mila had always heard that someone who worked too hard could mess up their back, but she had never really noticed that for herself. That night, she did. Pulling Boldir felt like pulling a damned horse. If not for the decline, she doubted she could've done it at all. Even with the decline, they moved at a pace that a crawling Breton could have put to shame, but after some of the most strenuous toiling of her young life, Mila eventually managed to haul her father back to the front door of the farmstead. After that, she didn't waste any time. She kicked the mushroom skeleton's bones over to the side and cleared a path to the middle of the room. Then she pulled the mattress over to the door and dumped Boldir onto it, weary of his bad foot and multitude of other injuries. With that done, Mila stepped over him and tried to drag him inside. That was even tougher than the rolling, but the plank floor was flat and smooth enough or it to be doable.

Finally, after so many hours of struggling, Mila and Boldir were back where they'd been before, only he was critically wounded and she was just about too tired to stand. Mila fell onto the floor next to the mattress, and slept there comfortably.

***

The new day didn't give any answers to Mila. Boldir looked worse, just as he'd predicted. And no matter how hard she tried, how many dusty blankets she covered him in, he would not stop shivering. But then, his skin was burning up, which made her wonder if the blankets were a bad idea. In the end, she decided to just leave him under one. She gave him the last of her water as well, but that was one thing Mila wasn't too worried about. The farmers had to have gotten water from somewhere, right?

After doing everything she could do, Mila went back outside and gave the hill another go. By now, she felt that she might've genuinely been starving. This would be her third day with no food, and a forth would probably leave her too weak to go and find some. And she had no idea how long Boldir would last. Mila's third time climbing the hill did finally reward her some good news. Not too far to the south, she could see a creek. Smiling with cracked lips, Mila practically ran to the water, and grinned all the wider as she stuck her hands into it and found that it was icy cold. She filled her waterskin, drank half of it, and then filled it again. Then something caught her eye that seemed almost too good to be true. A little red fish darted around a bend and swam straight past her. Mila stood and watched a little while longer, and sure enough, three more swam by in suit. She tried to grab one, but the fish were much too quick. "I'll be back for you," Mila promised.

She went back to the house and gave Boldir some more water, then grabbed a blanket and a couple buckets before returning to the stream. Mila filled the buckets immediately, and extended the blanket as a makeshift net just around the bend in the stream, using rocks as weights. It was not long before another red fish rounded the bend and then smacked right into the cloth. "Gotcha!"
She leapt into the cold water and quickly yanked the corners of the blanket back together, gathering them into a bundle so that the fish had nowhere to go. It flopped around like mad, and she answered by smacking the wet blanket against the earth like a giant with its club. 

Mila had learned a lot about meat and how to prepare it during her time with the various groups she'd been with, but it had always been things like deer, or birds, horses even. Never fish. After Mila managed to start a fire in the cabin, she impaled the fish on a spit and just started cooking. She knew the scales were bad, at least. And thankfully, they came off easily with her knife. Beyond that, Mila didn't much care. She was hungry enough that eating the wrong parts didn't sound all that bad.

But first, she had to tend to Boldir while she let it cook. Mila found some rags in one of the drawers and soaked them in one of the buckets. One went on Boldir's forehead. The other, she used to wipe the grime away from the many lesser cuts and scrapes that practically covered his body. She was glad to find that his shivering had lessened. Almost as glad as she was when she decided that the fish had been on long enough.
Not bothering to cut it up or find a plate, Mila just ate the fish bite by bite off of the stick. It tasted, well, fishy. But her stomach didn't care. And after devouring the one, she ran back to the creek and caught two more. She prepared them in a stew, or something like a stew at least. The final product tasted pretty bad, but Mila was able to spoon some through Boldir's lips and make him swallow. "We're doing good now," she said to him that afternoon. "I'll keep doing this, and you keep working on getting better. We'll be in Chorrol in a week."

That night, Mila felt like she had strangely little to do. Boldir was still quite hot, but he had stopped shivering and seemed to be sleeping soundly otherwise. She had taken the dead couple's bones outside, filled another bucket of water, and sharpened her dagger with a river rock the way Boldir had once taught her. Now, she just sat at the table, spinning one of the septims's she'd found like some bored child with one of those tops. Eventually, she turned to Boldir. "You know, it would've been nice of the bugs to leave us some books, at least."

That's when she remembered the journal. Mila wasn't sure what kind of escapades a farmer would have to write about that would've been even remotely interesting, but she figured it was better than nothing. She retrieved it and sat back down next to the fire for some light.

Haval's journal

Mila turned to the first page.

17th of First Seed 176

Well this is it. Wars over and me and Gelana finally finished the farm weve been wanting. Dicided to keep a journal so we dont forget how lucky we are.

Got some sheep from Lydia and some cows down in Chorrol. Dam near lost one tryin to cross the creek but it turned out alright. Now im gonna

Mila yawned and looked at Boldir where he slept. "Well they didn't die in the war, in case you were wondering about that too." She skipped ahead to a random page in the middle.

24th of Hearthfire 179

Not seen a storm of this like in years. Maybe ever. Hopefully this dont mean that trolls will be wandering down this way again. Last time we had a storm the big bastards came in an killed my best cow and two dogs. Should have kept my sword from the Legion like everyone else does. Maybe buy a new one next time im in town.

"You lived well after the war," Mila noted. Curious, she went ahead and turned to the last page. 

3rd of Sun's Height 181

Gelana thinks im wrong. That its wolfs taking our sheep like back in the day. But i know better. I know its that dam butcher down in Dewrigde. Targus. That thievin whorson! Ill show him. He thinks those elfs will protect him now they have boots in town. Well i wasnt scared of em during the war and i ent scared of em now! Talos give me strength becuase its time i gave em all a piece of my mind!

Mila frowned, and then reread the passage. Dewridge. It had to be close, right? How far would someone be willing to travel to steal another's sheep? Her heart started to pound in her chest. Could this be the help she'd asked for? Had it been here all this time?
Quickly, Mila turned back to the beginning and started skimming through pages. Looking for any mention of Dewridge or even the word 'town'. It took a minute, but the first mention was in a passage marked 12th of Second Seed 176. Unfortunately, it made no mention of the town's location. She started skimming again, until the town was mentioned again under 21st of Evening Star 176. 

To much snow. Wasnt ready for so much up here. Gonna have to go to Dewridge and see about gettin a bigger shovel. Maybe a wagon too so i can get started on building the wall. Animals ent goin nowhere but itll help keep the wolfs from draging them off. Gonna leave early so the sun wont be in my eyes goin or comin. I cant wait to have this place finished!

Mila smiled and closed the book. West. Dewridge is to the west. "Thank you, Haval." She looked at Boldir. "And to think I said this thing was useless! Boldir, I know what to do now. Really!" She knew she shouldn't let herself get too excited because she would need to sleep, but it was hard not to. "I'm gonna take a trip tomorrow, alright? I know you don't want us splitting up, but it's the only way. I won't be gone long." She took a deep breath to calm herself. "We're gonna be alright."

[Witchking of Angmar]

Endar Drenim
Cloud Top Encampment

Cloud Top Research Log 40, Day 26

As of this morning, the speed of Sample Ayem's natural growth has nearly doubled from the previous recorded rate. This phenomenon began at the exact moment that Magnus became visible on the horizon, and has yet to subside. Likewise, there has been no apparent loss of magicka in response to the shard's increased weight. In fact, it appears as though the power emitted has increased relative to its size. 

Will watch Sample Bedt closely in light of this new development. If the phenomenon remains constant with the conditions, the same should occur for Bedt at sunrise tomorrow.

Due to the new conditions, experiments planned for Samples Doht, Ekem, and Hefhed shall be postponed for the sake of more consistent observation conditions. Experiments for Samples Cess, Geth, and Hekem shall continue unimpeded.

Satisfied, Endar set aside his quill and looked at the crystals once more. The home-grown "Welkynd stones" glowed a bright blue, their energy -energy he created- shining like fragments of the stars; which, technically, they were in all but the most literal sense. The eldest of them, the shard he had dubbed Sample Ayem, was now a good deal larger than the average chunks of meteoric glass that the Ayleids once cultivated. Based on the notes he obtained from Rythe, Endar suspected that it was nearing the end stages of its growth, and that tonight it would halt entirely. Although Rythe's own procedures had never resulted in growth so rapid, so it was very possible that Endar's own experiences would differ.

He held a hand over the stone and let himself go for a moment as he enjoyed the sensation. Never in all his life had Endar interacted with such raw, pure energy. If this is what the Tribunal had experienced in Red Mountain to an infinitely greater degree, he now understood the allure.

"Av latta magicka," the Psijic Monk said.

"Indeed." Endar pulled back his hand. "I am eager for some of the younger samples to reach such a stage. This one is to be left alone, but I would find out to what extent they are subject to manipulation as they near adulthood. I believe that creating a magicka apex of five or six times that of the more common stones would be trivial with a small amount of manipulation."

"Trivial?" Illorwe chuckled, though Endar was sure the monk was envious. "That would be unprecedented. You are certain that you have translated the book correctly?"

"Beyond a doubt. My hypothesis is not from the book, but rather my own observations. And it is not unprecedented. Rythe managed to achieve similar results."

"Ah yes, the necromancer." She frowned. "Your colleague."

"That's not the word I would use. We hail from the same Great House, but we never worked together."

"Was there anyone specific that you did work with?"

The question seemed innocent enough, But Endar had grown all too aware of the Psijic's attempts to probe his past, to try and 'get to know him'. She presented it as friendly and harmless, but he knew better. The Mundus was full of simple-minded idiots who felt the need to compensate for their own shortcomings by developing bonds with others, but he refused to believe that one as bright and experienced as Illorwe was one such person. Therefore, it was only logical to conclude that these personal questions of hers masked some hidden agenda, possibly tied to her order's desire to learn the secrets he had discovered.

Endar would have called her out on it long ago, but he found it strangely amusing, albeit somewhat obvious. As such, instead of deflecting her questions as he would for most, he preferred to deliver false information. "Yes," he said. "One of my closest associates was an Archmagister by the name of Frathen Drothan."

"I've heard that name before," Illorwe said. "Was he not a rogue who sought to topple the Empire?"

"Indeed he was, though he was actually quite amiable in the flesh. He had a pack of albino guar that he trained to levitate."

The monk laughed in an effort to maintain her charade. Endar just rolled his eyes and returned his attention to the stones. He was making great progress. In just under a month, he was successfully replicating Rythe's greatest achievements. Given another, he would be able to surpass them with ease. With this in mind, Endar was confident that he could soon begin running tests on the samples that would be relevant to the Sunbird research, and if those went well, development of a weapon or counter could finally begin.

"How goes it?" said an annoying voice that Endar knew belonged to the fat little Bosmer member of their camp. He had expressed numerous times that he would prefer it if the Synod and Fighters Guild would vacate his research camp, but Attendant Moorsley insisted that he had orders to remain. And so, Endar had little choice but to tolerate them, no matter how annoying their presence could be.

"If by it you mean my research, then you wouldn't understand even if it was any of your business."

"Well I do know that you're building some kind of weapon, right?" The Wood Elf tried to mosey closer, forcing Endar to hold up an arm and stop him. "We've been hearing stories about them Dominion Firebird ships. Said they can take out whole fleets without taking a hit. Said that just one was enough to nearly wipe out a city in Skyrim."

Endar arched his brow. "Skyrim was attacked? When? Which city?"

"You haven't heard?" The elf shook his head. "Their new capital, Windhelmet or some such, it got hit and that rebel king of theirs got burned to ashes."

"Yeah," said a new voice. Endar turned to find that one of the Colovian Guildmates had snuck up on them. The man wore a grim look. "And then some new guy climbed outa those ashes and took his place."

Endar cast Illorwe incredulous glance. She said to him telepathically. 'There was indeed a Sunbird attack on Windhelm. I assumed that you knew already. Their High King is dead.'

'And what's this nonsense about ashes?'

'A soldier named Baldur Red-Snow drove off the Thalmor and stepped up as the new Jarl. Some Nords have taken to calling him the Ash King of Eastmarch.'

"It sounds like the Nords have gotten themselves another Wulfharth," Endar said aloud in response to the Fighters. He meant it sarcastically, of course, but that went over their heads. He doubted very much that Windhelm's new Jarl climbed out of Ulfric Stormcloak's ashes. Still, if the man survived a Sunbird attack and managed to force a retreat, then he was someone that Endar would very much like to meet.

"Wolf who?" asked the Colovian, whose stupidity was enough to make Endar scowl.

"Never mind. Leave me, both of you. Your incessant lollygaggery is distracting me from my work."

"What about Lore?" The Bosmer pointed at the Psijic Monk. "You don't seem to mind her being around."

The Colovian clouted his pointy ear. "The wizard wants us to leave, we leave. Come on." To Endar's annoyance, the grinning Fighter looked from him to Illorwe, and then winked before he turned to leave.

"Imbeciles," he muttered, returning to his work.

"I find them funny," said the monk. " 'Imbeciles' are in short supply on Artaeum."

"A shame then, that we are not there right now," Endar mused. "Tel Mora was much the same."

"Why did you leave if you prefer the company of people like yourself?"

He frowned. There she goes again. "The scope of my work demanded more than what was available to me there. Divayth Fyr did not become the most accomplished mage in the world by sitting in a tower, and neither will I."

Her golden eyes watched him carefully. "You hope to become the most accomplished mage in the world?"

"Of course. Do you not?"

"All Psijics strive to better themselves, but rarely to such an ambitious end."

"Which is why I will one day achieve my goal, instead of a Psijic."
He looked back at his crystals, noting that they all continued to grow at the expected rate. "This is just the beginning, I assure you. Even conquering the Dominion's greatest weapon will only be a side-effect of my mastery of Dawn magic. Your Summerset kinsmen wield it like petty alchemists following steps of a recipe. I intend to achieve a greater understanding than that."

"You are not the first to make that claim," Illorwe stated. "The magic of creatia is not some toy that a mortal can manipulate at will."

"Tell that to the Tribunal," he retorted. "I do not make these claims lightly. Nor do I intend to act without the proper tools."

"This is the first time you've mentioned tools. What do you mean by that? What have you discovered from that pillar, besides how to make glass grow?"

"Nothing that your order need concern itself with, and that is the end of this discussion."
Endar turned away from her, and back to his work.

***

Cloud Top Research Log 55, Day 33

Results with Samples Ekem and Hefhed remain consistent with the findings of Samples Ayem, Bedt, and Doht. These younger samples, with minimal interference aside from the initial procedures, have halted growth and appear to have reached full maturity. All five aforementioned samples display with a magicka apex of roughly four times that of a common Welkynd stone. Meanwhile, Sample Geth has also matured, and as with Sample Cess, now successfully contains an estimated six times the power of the common stones. No doubt as a result of manipulation.

Alterations have been made to the procedure that resulted in the disintegration of Sample Hekem. The new procedure has so far yielded positive results on Samples Iya and Jeb, which despite being less than a week old, already approach the elder samples in maturity. Virtue tests have revealed an apex of over three times that of a common Welkynd stone. I expect these to greatly exceed all previous samples. The m
 

"Master Drenim."

Endar took a deep breath and looked up from his journal. Whatever the Fighter wanted had better be urgent. "What is it?"

An Imperial guildsman popped his head through the tent flap. His eyes were wide. "There's some men from the Imperial City here who wanna talk to you. Some of them are the Empress's own."

"If they came this far to speak, they can come a little farther. Direct them to my tent."

As the Fighter vanished, Endar returned to his writing. It did not last long, of course, for within a minute, an Imperial man stepped through the flap of his tent. He was a lean individual, but strong looking, and slightly taller than most of his race. He looked at Endar with colorless eyes that did not wander in the slightest, a rare trait.
"Master Drenim, my name is Trevis Hayne. I'm an Inspector of the Penitus Oculatus. Do you have time to speak?"

"Precious little. I prefer to use my time in other ways."

"Then I'll make this short." The Empress' agent approached, stopping just on the other side of the table Endar had commandeered and turned into a desk. "I am leading a mission to locate and apprehend a dangerous fugitive from Skyrim named Boldir Iron-Brow. Does this name sound familiar to you?"

"I do not make a habit of memorizing the names of every stranger I encounter," Endar said. "I have already forgotten yours and you only told it to me moments ago."

"Right," the Inspector frowned. "Well, my men and I have been tracking this man for several months now, ever since we linked an attack in the Imperial City with him. We believe that he is somewhere in County Chorrol, and that he came here from the city of Cheydinhal. This is why I thought to come to you when I learned of your whereabouts, as it seems that his traveling pattern has been very similar to your own."

"Fascinating, truly." Endar rolled his eyes. "My company of late has consisted of the fools you have seen around me. Ask them about this Bold-Ear fellow if you must, but I know no one by that name."

"And what about the name 'Mila'? Boldir's daughter. We believe that he may have come this way in search of her."

"I don't know anyone named Mila either," Endar said, starting to get annoyed. "Is that all, or do you have even more meaningless names to waste my time with?"

"That is all," the Inspector said, though his tone suggested a smidgin of frustration, as though it were Endar's fault that he had spent months failing to find a killer. "If something changes, and you believe you have information that could assist in their discovery, send for me in Chorrol."

"Yes, yes." Endar waved the man goodbye. "Good luck with your hunt."

[Witchking of Angmar]

The Imperial City
Several Months Ago

Trevis stood before his superiors with a calm expression and his head high. Seven years ago, he might have been halfway to his knees, blabbering, scrambling for excuses. That was before. The Penitus Oculatus broke down the man he had been back then, and built him back up into something else entirely. The Trevis who stood there now knew the extent of his failures and understood that there would be consequences. And so he gave the jumbled briefing exactly as he had given all the ones before it, and then he patiently waited, and hoped that they would consider what he had to say.

"Six dead in Talos Plaza, one of them Skyrim nobility. Two dead at the Waterfront. Three dead in the Elven Gardens. All of them connected, none of them subtle, and the primary suspect is a big armored Nord with scars. Yet even with a trail so clear a common watchman could follow it, you and your men have come up with nothing."
Intendant Lerol did not look angry. He looked disappointed. Trevis had operated under him for years, and the man knew he was capable. But Spymaster Quentas herself had entrusted them with the task of bringing her Black-Briar's killer, and instead they had a bunch of foreign sellswords who knew nothing useful at all.
It was embarrassing.
"Honestly Inspector, what would you say if you were in my place?"

Trevis looked from the Intendant to Major Infernus beside him. The Major was not overseeing the investigation, but the Spymaster's interest in it was enough to warrant him getting involved in some way. He watched their exchange without a trace of sympathy. Turning his head back to Intendant Lerol, Trevis answered, "I would reprimand me, sir. And then I would consider the details in my briefing, and allocate more resources to looking into the findings I mentioned."

"Theories," declared the Intendant. "The findings you mentioned were theories. The likelihood of three separate attacks on the same group within a short timespan having different culprits is beyond low."

"I understand how it looks, sir, and yet I believe it to be so. The killings in the Elven Gardens and Waterfront do not appear to have furthered the goal of killing Sibbi Black-Briar in Councillor Marillan's manor. If anything, they would have shown our killer's cards before he was ready to play them, making his task more difficult. Moreover, there were signs of magic usage in both of those instances, something that there was no evidence of at the scene of Black-Briar's death, despite it having the highest number of casualties."

"Sibbi himself suffered from severe burns."

"Burns caused by an enchanted blade," Trevis countered, "not a regular spell. According to his countrymen, 'Boldir Iron-Brow' is not known to use spells of any kind. He prefers an axe, which is the weapon that was used to kill the sellswords downstairs."

"So you are truly suggesting that these attacks happened within days of each other by coincidence?"

"I believe that there was a degree of coincidence involved, yes." Trevis could see from the looks of both the Major and Intendant that they did not believe it, but he pressed on anyway. "Black-Briar was a wealthy man, from a family noted to have even more enemies than friends. The possibility that Sibbi's unexpected arrival here motivated someone other than Iron-Brow to make an attempt on his life is not inconceivable. I believe that we have struggled to find our man because we have been trying to link the motives and actions of two separate entities who happened to have a similar goal. One of them may have even been taking advantage of the movements of the other." He paused, and glanced at Major Infernus, "Remember the assistant who was later spotted at the scene by several guardsmen and even the Coroner. She claimed to be there under your orders, Major, which turned out to be a lie. I detected the use of magic in the manor that same day. Why would Iron-Brow or one of his allies return after he killed Black-Briar? I believe that this woman was there for a different reason."

Major Infernus wrote something down and then whispered a few words into the Intendant's ear. Lerol looked surprised, but nodded. Then Major Infernus got up and left the room. Intendant Lerol waited a few moments, and then he looked at Trevis and said, "You've always been good at this, Trevis. Now that it's just us, tell me true: Are you trying to cover up your mistakes, or do you really believe what you say?"

"I believe it," Trevis answered at once. "Send me back out there and let me narrow down the leads to just the ones I know involve Boldir, and I believe that I can find something for you."

The Intendant smiled. "I was hoping you would say that. Come with me, I have someone for you to meet."

Trevis wasn't sure if he was more surprised, relieved, or confused, but he followed this superior. They left the building and proceeded to make the long walk down to Talos Plaza itself. Trevis did not ask where they were going or why. If the Intendant wanted to him know before they got there, he would have told him. It came as no surprise that they arrived at the mansion where Sibbi Black-Briar and several of his lackeys had been killed. What was surprising, however, was that the men who waited for them on the grounds were neither city watch nor his own. Every one of them was a Nord, big as Trevis had ever seen, and wearing ornately carved armor that made them look like bears made of metal. They looked up as he and the Intendant arrived at the scene, but none said a word. They just glared with the cold eyes of killers.

"These men are from Skyrim," Intendant Lerol said. "Grim Ones. Experts trained in Haafingar at the behest of Baldur Red-Snow. They have been sent here to capture Boldir Iron-Brow so that he may face justice for even worse crimes in Skyrim."

"Riften," Trevis said. He had studied the reports extensively.

"That's right. They want this bastard even more than we do, and Spymaster Quentas has given clearance for them to conduct their search in conjunction with your men. Some of them know Boldir personally, so I think they will be useful to you."

"That true?" Trevis asked, stepping closer to the Grim Ones. "Some of you know Boldir?"

"Aye." One of the Nords approached him, bringing to attention just how much larger the man actually was. He wore a greatsword on his back that no doubt could have cleaved a person in two. "We served together in many battles. He was like a brother, once."

"What is your name, soldier?"

"Thorald Gray-Mane. And yours, little Imp?"

"Inspector Trevis Hayn."

"Good to meet you Inspector Milk-Drinker. Now if we're through lallygagging, I would like to get down to business. We have a traitor to catch."

The edge of Trevis' lips twisted up in a rare smile. Yes. This will do nicely.

***

Mila
The Colovian Highlands
Present Day

Mila heard Dewridge before she saw it. Somewhere ahead, masked by the hills and trees, a baby cried and a pair of dogs barked loudly. Several minutes later, she was standing at the edge of the village, breathing heavy after running the final stretch. It was a small, little more than a few dozen homes scattered around a low hill and surrounded by a short stone wall that only came up to Mila's waist. She climbed over it and started on in.

Now to find help. Mila walked out into the dirt road, drawing peculiar looks from a few residents. From their expressions, she figured they did not get visitors too often, especially not in the form of lone girls. Mila picked out a couple of women busy in a vegetable garden and called to them. "Hey- hey you there, does this town have a healer?"

The women exchanged a glance. From their similarly pointy noses and angled features, she assumed that they were kin, perhaps mother and daughter. The elder of them answered, "No, no healers here."

Damnit. "What about a priest? Do you have a priest? Or a shaman?"

The younger one seemed confused, but the older spoke. "No girl, we don't have those neither. We got Tolvo. Go talk to him."

"Where can I find him?"

"Down the road to the bottom of the hill. Got a set of antlers hangin' over his door."

"Thanks." Mila hurried down to where she'd been pointed, ignoring the way people were looking at her. When she found the antlers, she approached the little house and knocked. A few seconds passed and no one answered. Feeling anxious, Mila knocked again, harder, and was rewarded by the sound of heavy footsteps followed by the door opening. Tolvo was a burly man who looked to be in his late forties. He had an axe at his belt and was dressed in Nord-like fur clothes. His deadpan expression immediately reminded her of Kuslaf.

"You're not from around here." His eyes shifted past Mila, searched a bit, and then returned. "Where are your parents?"

"I came here alone," she answered. "But my father ain't far. He's very sick and needs a healer today. Is there something you can do to help us? We have money."

The man did not seem particularly moved by Mila's predicament. Nothing about his expression, his tone, or his stance changed in the slightest. "You two from Chorrol?"

Mila frowned. What does that matter? "No, we ain't from Chorrol."

"Thought not. You sound northern. Bruma or Skyrim?"

"Skyrim." Mila wrung her hands impatiently. "Now can you help us or not?"

The man stared at her for a few moments and then said, "Don't know. Depends on what's wrong with him. Got some herbs."

"That will have to do. Will you come look at him, then? He's in an abandoned farm, used to belong to someone named Haval. Do you know where I'm talking about?"

"No."

"Well it ain't too far, I promise. Just a few hours east of here. If we leave now we can make it before sundown."

Tolvo regarded her for a few seconds, seemingly deep in thought. At last he asked, "What's your name, girl?"

"M-" She stopped herself just before she'd have answered 'Matilda'. This man was considering helping her. For once, she had no reason to lie. "Mila."

He considered that for a moment, and then nodded, satisfied. "Alright. Wait here while I get my things. And my hat."

"Your-?" She didn't even finish asking the question. The man just turned and walked back into the house. Behind her, a few of the villagers continued to stare as they went about their day's chores. Mila didn't know much about Colovians, but Endar had said that the ones who lived deep in the Highlands were a suspicious bunch. The complete opposite of the Nibenese. She figured that the people of Dewridge must've been among the more traditional of their kind.

When the man returned, Mila had to stop herself from laughing. On top of his head was a cone-shaped fur cap that covered his ears and extended nearly a foot into the air. This must be some kind of joke, right?
The man did not seem the joking sort. When he stood in front of her donning his hilarious new helm, his face remained as stoic and unresponsive as ever. 

"I'm ready," he said. Before Mila could even think of a proper response to that, he went on, "I'm Tolvo, by the way. Lead on, Mila."

And with that, Mila led Tolvo back to the farmhouse. It was a quiet trip. Every now and then, Tolvo asked her a question like "how far do you think we are now?" or "your father too sick to walk?" but for the most part, he was a man of few words. Mila would have been grateful of that normally, but for some reason with Tolvo the silence felt awkward. As wrong as she knew it was, she found it a little weird that he was so quick to offer up his day to help her. But she supposed not everyone in the world was bound to be as untrusting and selfish as herself. Who was she to judge him for doing a good deed? I wasn't always like this, she recalled. But I didn't have much of a choice.

It was still a few hours before dusk when they made it to the farmhouse. She immediately went to Boldir's side and was thankful to find that his condition did not appear to have worsened. "I'm back," she whispered to him. "I found Dewridge."

Tolvo just stood in the doorway, looking down at them. "You sure he's alive?"

Mila gave the Colovian a scowl. "Yes, I'm sure. He's breathing." She turned back to Boldir and uncorked her water skin. "Here, you're probably thirsty."

"I don't think he can hear what you're saying."

"I know that," Mila snapped. She lifted Boldir's head a bit and poured some water between his lips. "This is Tolvo. He's got some herbs that'll help you. I told you things would be alright."

Tolvo watched her do this, adjusted his massive hat, and said, "You're an odd girl."

Mila sighed and rubbed her forehead, "Aye, suppose I am. Now please, help him."

"Mhm." Tolvo went to Boldir's other side and knelt down, placing a hand on Boldir's forehead. "Yup. He's sick."
Mila rolled her eyes but said nothing as the Colovian dug into his pack and produced a jar with some leaves in it, then another with some roots, and a couple vials with some sort of murky reddish liquid in them. "Huh," Tolvo said after he removed the blanket and pulled back Boldir's shirt. "You only said he was sick. Didn't mention he was beat to Oblivion and back. What happened?"

"He slipped and fell down a hill," she answered. "It was bad. He hasn't been awake since."

"Mhm. And the burns?"

"Those are older, from when he was a soldier." Mila motioned over to the pile of armor in the corner by the bed. "Except for that bandaged spot on his arm. I did that to stop the bleeding."

Tolvo's busy eyebrow arched. "You did?"

"Aye, and it worked."

"So it did. Listen, I can help your father with the infection and fever, even ease up some of these bruises and cuts. But there's nothing I can do about that leg. That's gotta heal on its own time."

"What about magic?"

"If you can get him to the city, then that'll work too. But he'll not be be in any shape to travel for some time." The Colovian looked around the farmhouse. "You two got plenty to eat out here?"

"Not much," Mila admitted. "I've been fishing in the creek."

"Uh huh." Tolvo nodded. He retrieved a mortar and pestle and started grinding up the leaves and roots. "I'll bring you some food tomorrow. And something clean to drink." He sniffed. "And something to deal with that smell."

"Thank you. Really." Mila hesitated. This man was so helpful, it almost seemed unreal. And he had barely even spoken to her. "But why? I said I had money, but you didn't even ask how much."

"Don't know how it is in Skyrim, but most folks here wouldn't turn away a starving young lass when she shows up at their door. We can talk about pay when your pa is feeling better. And other things too. For now, just keep your mind on taking care of him."

So that's what Mila did. She watched the herbalist grind up ingredients and mix them together with the red stuff. He went about his work for nearly half an hour, working the mixture until it was a thick red paste. He poured the paste into a bowl and handed it to Mila. "Rub this on his cuts and bruises. Doesn't take much, but make sure you cover them good."

While Mila did that, Tolvo got out a new set of ingredients and began mashing them up like before, this time creating a thinner liquid that looked like dirty green water. Several minutes passed in silence, and then she finally worked up the nerve to ask, "Can you really make him better?"

Tolvo stopped his mashing and looked up at her. For the first time, Mila could read the look on his face. It was one of pity. "He's not doing great, I'll tell you that. But if he made it through the first night, he's like to keep doing so. Especially with some of this in him." Tolvo motioned to the bowl and returned to his work. Several minutes later, he carefully poured the grainy liquid into a bottle and handed it to Mila. "Give him a couple spoons every day at sunrise and sunset. I'll bring some more when I return."

He started to rise. Mila, still hanging over Boldir, reached out and grabbed him by the elbow. "I've said it already, but thank you again. I don't know what would've happened if you had not come."

Tolvo grunted. "Just take care of him like I said. And don't put that blanket back on him. Now that I know the way, I'll be back tomorrow." The herbalist turned and left the farmhouse, ducking slightly so that his ridiculous hat didn't hit the low doorframe. He stopped just outside and looked back. "And don't go wandering either. There's wolves and trolls in these wilds. Keep to that creek of yours for fishing, and by Shor don't walk to Dewridge on your own again." With that last bit of advice imparted, Tolvo took his leave.

Mila sat cross-legged at her father's side, resting his head on her lap. She set the green bottle aside and placed a hand on his hot forehead. "I'll wait till you get a say, but I think that when you're feeling better, we should stay in Dewridge for a little while. Vile never told us that we needed to hurry, and this way we can spend some time training like you've talked about." She looked at his leg and laughed. "It's not like you should be walking all the way to Chorrol anyhow. What were we thinking, huh?"
Boldir's lips moved a bit, making her heart jump. "Boldir?!" She put her ear to his lips. "What was that?"

As before, Boldir said nothing audible. Mila sighed and sat back. "We'll get there. Seems like we never catch a break, but when you're better, there will be nothing left to stop us. We'll do what we've gotta, and then we'll find someplace safe. Someplace near a beach. We'll be a family, like we always wanted."

***

One Month Ago

Trevis gripped the horn of his saddle with both hands as his horse struggled its way up the steep hillside. From City Isle to Cheydinhal, to Chorrol, his trusty courser had proven to be the most reliable horse in their group, but upon entering the highlands, the roles were reversed. His poor beast struggled to manage the uneven terrain, while the Nords' shaggy little mounts plodded uphill and downhill with the ease one would expect from a mountain breed.
Luckily, this particular hill was not as steep as many before it, and the trail was easier to follow than had been the case with some of the other villages in this backcountry of the Empire. The locals watched him and his men through closed windows and cracked doors, but Trevis knew that it was the three Nords who really held their attention. It had been that way everywhere they had gone. 

They dismounted at the heart of the village, and Gray-Mane immediately barked orders to his men, telling them which houses to start with. Trevis wished that he wouldn't do that, that instead they could conduct their search with a little more tact, but trying to control the Nords was like trying to tame a land dreugh. They simply had their way of doing things. Granted, it was effectual, and faster than if the Oculatus were handling the searches, but as the saying went, you can whip a drunk's ass and he'll tell you what you want, but if you buy him an ale, you're buying a friend.

And so while the Grim Ones went from house to house, Trevis ordered his own men to head out and find the town's leaders. As it turned out, there really wasn't one. The most prominent citizens they could round up were an innkeep, an herbalist, and a huntress. Of the three, only the innkeep greeted him with a smile. Trevis smiled back, though he knew that the look did not suit him any more than it would've the other two Colovians. "Greetings." He let the smile fade. "I am Inspector Trevis of the Penitus Oculatus." They showed no sign of whether or not they recognized the name. "We're looking for a fugitive from Skyrim named Boldir Iron-Brow, and have reason to believe that he is in the Chorrol region, searching for a girl." He produced the sketch that the Grim Ones had verified as accurate. The bearded Nord in the picture had dark hair and scars around the left edges of his forehead and cheek. "The girl's name is Mila, believed to be around fifteen or sixteen years old. Any information that leads to Boldir's capture or Mila's discovery will be handsomely rewarded."

"Would remember someone like that if I'd seen him," said the innkeep. "What'd he do?"

"He's wanted for the murder of at least six men, one of them a visiting Noble from Skyrim."

A shadow stepped up behind him. "That ain't the least of it," said Gray-Mane. "The man burned down a city. Betrayed his own kin. His own family."

"We've no love for people like that here," said the herbalist. "If this Boldir fellow turns up here, you can count on us to contact you."

***

Present Day
 

"Contact who?"

Tolvo the herbalist finished writing the letter. "The Inspector. He and his men are in Chorrol. Shouldn't be hard to find with those Nords he's got."

"What if he wakes up while I'm gone?" asked his son. "What if he tries to leave?"

Tolvo shook his head. "Won't. The girl is giving him medicine for the wounds, but the stuff he's drinking's gonna keep him asleep. Made sure of that."

His son looked at him in awe. "That's brilliant."

"Just take this and get going, boy. And make haste. I will see to them until you're back."

[Witchking of Angmar]

Dales Motierre

Imperial City 

Night

Dales got out of her bed, yawning slightly, the twilight haze of dreams still not leaving her. She went forward to her wardrobe, and began to dress in an appropriate manner, switching out her sleeping garments, for a simple set of leather armor.  She did up her long, blonde hair in a ponytail, as she furiously adjusted her leather chest piece, and then her wrist guards. The armor in question was just fancier light imperial armor, though instead of being dyed red, it was simple brown leather.  The Empress’s hand reached for her weapon rack, grabbing her black wraith dagger, and a rather large looking gladius. Plain imperial steel, besides a gold handle.  She gently flourished her blades, as she safely tucked them into her leather belt. Dales knew how to handle a dagger, shortblade, and a spear quite well, but she was rather clumsy with longswords. 

The night extended, as her vision held a slight haziness to it. If this was a dream, it was the most vivid dream in her life. The voice, softer than the enju flowers, said, echoed in her mind once more, “Brave thy Night."  

As if an eternity passed with each step she took, the sleepiness never left the small Breton. It was as if she had been awake eons, but she couldn't close her eyes. Dales left her bed, and began to wander the halls of the Imperial Palace, a specter in the night. Formless shapes entered her vision, but she ignored all of them, something drew her forward. First she passed the mist filled officer's lounge, then the larder, then the guard barracks, all the way up to the throne room. Her footsteps but a whisper. Dales breached the Throne Room, and went beyond, stepping on the white marble floor of the Imperial Palace. No stars hung above in the dark sky, but the sinister full moon hung in the sky, shining unwholesome moonlight, though not a single soul walked the grounds to enjoy it. Dales repeated what that phantasm told her, all those weeks ago, “Seek this emblem. Trailed by moonlight, you shall walk among the dead in pilgrim, and offer the blood of Dragons to find entrance to the Spring of Whispered Dream. There you shall find me.” A brief examination of that phrase, led to a eureka moment for the young Empress. 

Dales knew where to go. 

It didn’t take her too long to reach the Green Emperor’s way. The ancient path of decrepit and ancient mausoleums, consumed almost completely by the green underbrush, was sinister during the day, but at night, especially one like this, it took a horrifying ethereal look. Ancient ruined gravestones jutted out of the earth, sickly mausoleums made from black stone littered, and the ghastly remains of half buried monuments of forgotten idols lingered the premise. While vibrant in the day, the vast amounts of vines, moss, and vegetation that intermingled with the ancient stone, took a sickly green hue underneath the gaze of Masser  A necropolis in the heart of the Imperial City, the Green Emperor’s Way held the crypts, and mausoleums of the imperial nobility and royalty. Hundreds if not thousands of corpses we’re buried here, and when she was little, Dales hated going here. A green mist had fallen, denying the Empress proper vision. She always thought a skeletal hand would reach from the dark earth, and pull her underneath to the underworld. Even now she seldom walked these pasts, and even if circumstances had forced her hand, she loathed too.

Her eyes wandered from gravestone to gravestone, seeing if she could spy what the ghastly she-elf had whispered too her. A thumping in her chest, kept her running forward, sweat forming on her brow. Few things could compare to the terror she was feeling. I should have consulted teacher before pursuing this spectre...Dales tightly gripped her short blade, keeping it drawn as she wandered the darkness consumed area, putting herself into a fighting stance. The Empress’s cold eyes trailed from grave to grave, as she looked for some kind of bull, to no avail. 

Dark whispers began to emerge around her. Some kind of chanting. Voices she couldn’t really hear, as if they kept to the back of her head.

For eons she seemed to walk among the dead, timeless hours passing, as she was consumed by the nightmarish place. At long last...she found what she seeked. Much of this place, Dales could have sworn...didn't exist in the Green Emperor Way, massive monoliths of black, and red stone, and statues of nameless deities long forgotten to the march of time. Yet the thing she face did exist. A massive slab of a mausoleum. Large and thick, the rectangular tomb was caked, and covered in vines, turning it from grey to green. It's occupants we're now nameless, as the stone markings had long since faded away, and whatever identifier it had was long gone. Though like the rest of the large tombs sprouting in the ancient graveyard within the city, Dales had lumped it up as just another tomb. But it seemed to be far more then that.

Sitting in the front, like akavari household guardians, stone bulls sat flanking the doors. Most tombs had sinister gargoyles laughing above on the tomb's roof, but not this one, for it held the symbol on her sigit ring. Or what she assumed we're bulls. They were shaped like the animal, but their details, had long vanished from the stone. Dales moved forward, escaping the whispers, as she fled from the sickly moonlight, and greenish fog, entering into the ancient tomb, as she pushed forward the large rotten wooden doors, which crawled hundreds of insects.

What awaited her was darkness. A thick impenetrable darkness. The doors closed with a thud, the sickly moon providing no source of light. With the lifting of her gloved hand, the young Empress conjured pale light, using an elementary candlelight spell, illuminating her surroundings. The blank, for tomb raiders must have stolen everything of worth ages ago, stone walls were decrepit, filled with moist blackness among the upper layers. Mold. The floor was covered in a filthy, bug infested carpet, now practically a rag. Torch sconces littered the walls, but the charcoal-like substance mingling decayed in the metal scones showed the torches they held had worned out centuries ago. A dark mist hung in the tomb’s entrance, making the Empress feel many shadowy thoughts. Thoughts of despair and sadness. This place...was horrible. Yet a faint source in the distance, made her go on. Like a light at the end of the tunnel. Using her light, the Empress scanned for anything that would be of use. Her eyes fell from one part of the decrepit tomb to the other, until she found something that caught her eye. A small plaque near the end of the hallway. The bull was faded certainly, but it was a near replica of the symbol on her ring. Shining the small orb of light in front of it, Dales examined the bull only to find a small wall of text below it. Speaking out loud for the first time in hours, the young Empress read, 

“I consume darkness, no matter how shadowy the void is.
I consume light, no matter how bright
I consume mountains, no matter their roots.
I consume life, no matter how used.
I consume all.
What am I?”

A blasted riddle!? Damnation! Mind games weren't Dales forte, even when she was little. She always preferred reading books. Dales began to ponder, as she sat cross legged right in front of the small plague, her surrounding illuminated by the magelight. Dales pondered the riddle, as she put her leather gloved hand to her chin, and sat, deep in thought. After a few minutes or so, Dales answered,  placing her sigit rings centerpiece onto the stone bull, and drawing a snivel of blade by stabbing her arm with a fingernail.  “Time.” She closed her eyes, ready to get a spike impaled in her chest (Dales read way too many stories). Nothing as painful came, a rewarding sound instead flooded Dales hearing, causing her to grin. 

With a creaking noise, all of a sudden, the wall in front of Dales with the bull plaque moved, century old dust was thrown up, and the wall soon collapsed to reveal a gaping void of darkness. The young Empress stepped forward, a sense of pride, and accomplishment filling inside her, just as she went deep into the ancient halls, her magelight hovering above her, showering the area in pale light. That was easy. Dales my dear, you are brilliant. A smug smile formed on her lips, as she lifted her chest, and walked down the halls with pride  Dales walked a few steps through the heavy darkness, until she reached a set of stairs, which led downward, deep into the spiral void of darkness.

Point of no return Dales.

With a heavy sigh Dales made her first step downward, into the void-like depths. And then another step. And then another step. The stone stairwell went downward in a deep spiral which seemed like an endless loop. With nothing but the magelight as her companion, and the sound of her own heavy breathing, Dales plummeted. This grim silence went on for an eternity. A long never ending silence. Dales went down, in a dark descent. Forever haunting her, at the bottom, was a pale blue light, just out of reach, almost as if the gods of this place we’re mocking her.  And after what seemed like hours, she reached the bottom of the stairs. Her eyes filled with an otherworldly blue light, as her bored gaze twisted into surprise . In an instant she extinguished her magelight, for she no longer needed it, the darkness no longer holding sway, and the shadows inside her vanished, replaced by pure awe. 

Halls of grand white marble outstretched in front of her. Giant white pillars stood, holding the grand ceiling from falling down, and collapsing into the pale floor. The walls we’re covered in Weykland stones, strange artifacts found within Ayleid ruins that gave off a strong, yet otherworldly blue light, giving a unique kind of ambiance to the rooms they illuminated. The light surrounding her floated above, a lapis lazuli glow, radiating, and lighting up the massive room, revealing it to her pale blue eyes. A thick, bluish hue painted the entire place, turning what should be white, into Lapis Lazuli, making her feel like she was swimming in the shining depths of the ocean. The white walls turned blue, from the glowing light of the elf stones that littered the walls! It is magnificent! No place else could compare to the splendor of this place! The walls, made from same wondrous white-marble of the Imperial City, we’re carved with strange, glowing glyphs, the same color of the Weykland stones, and vine-like bas reliefs. Dales couldn’t decipher these glyphs but they looked elven to her.

It was no question then, to what this place was.

Dales had discovered an Ayleid ruin deep below the Imperial Palace itself. Ironic, that a place so foul such as the Green Emperor Way can unearth otherworldly beauty as this.

As the sight of them, something deep stirred inside the Empress. Something was...calling out to her. Maybe someone? Vast...power emanated from the ruins. Such power she had only glimpsed once before. It was...unknowable. Taller than a mountain, and as wide as the longest sea Leviathan.  The power...tasted so sweet. Almost like nectar, to an aspiring mage such as herself. It was...intoxicating being exposed to this kind of energy. How in earth had this place not been discovered before? This well of pure magical energy would have attracted mages from all over, being practically a beacon of untapped raw magic. How it remained undiscovered, deep beneath the heart of Tamriel,  was the greatest mystery to Dales.

As she continued to examine the large chamber, she suddenly filled with fear, as her eyes trailed around the second half of the chamber. She spotted an archway all right, that led outside the massive room, but something stood in her way. A narrow bridge suspended itself across a chasm of darkness, which led to that very exit. Across the bridge, we’re jagged steel pendulums, sharp enough to draw blood,  which swung from one side of the chasm to the other. They were glowing softly, and being suspended in the air by a magical force. To get deeper into the ruin, Dales needed to get past those deviously placed trap. Mustering all the courage she could, Dales approached the stone walkway, as she curiously gazed down the chasm from the safety of the floor. It was...deep. Very deep. She couldn’t see the bottom. Dales had never had a fear of heights...but this was overdoing it just a tad. She sheathed her blades, as she mentally prepared herself for this first trial. She wasn’t afraid of blood, killing, or monsters , unlike most girls her age, but man, being sliced in half, and then thrown into a bottomless chasm was a moderately scary prospect. It would take all her willpower not to piss her pants.  Gulping nervously, the young Empress took her first step across the small white, stone bridge. From where she was it wasn’t too small. About two humans the size of Dales could shuffle across it shoulder to shoulder, but who the hell would want to do that? The young imperial gulped nervously, as she began to inch her way across the stone walkway. Nothing else to do but move forward, Dales. I need to find out what this place 

A chill draft of air breathed across her face. She had a good distance to go before she reached the first pendulum, so she pushed the roaring steel blades to the back of her mind. No need to face them until the time came. She hesitantly edged herself forward, whispering as she did Don’t look down. All she listened too was the beating drum of her heartbeat, and the low tone of the three blades cutting through the air. Closing her eyes, Dales slowly walked across the outstretched bridge, until she heard the blades cutting right before her. Preparing, and steeling herself, Dales opened her cold blue eyes, only to see the first blade cutting through the air right in front of her. A lesser woman would have panicked right there, but Dales had immense courage. She waited for the right time, and when it came, Dales quickly pushed herself forward, getting past the first pendulum. Wasting no time, she repeated the above process, quickly sprinting forward across the stone bridge, and past the second pendulum. Krojun’s, Tullius, and Lorgar’s training had pushed her both physically, and mentally, she could easily conquer whatever was thrown at her. Reaching the final trap, Dales in a burst of speed, passed the third swinging pendulum, and found her way safely across the remaining stretch of bridge, careful to control her movement, less she plummet to her death after getting so far.  

Breathing a heavy sigh of relief, she walked through the large stone gateway, and deeper into the ruins. A few steps later, as the glow of the blue Weykland stones casted a watery ambiance to the hall, Dales found herself in a narrow hallway. The air was unusually stale giving the Empress a slight headache, but it seemed unremarkable otherwise, having the same blueish aura as the previous, much larger chamber. Seeing no reason not to move forward, Dales pushed herself at a brisk pace, letting the navy blue lights guide her way. Thud. Thud. SQUEESH. All of a sudden, Dales left foot sunk into the stone floor, half a foot down, releasing a cloud of dusk, and a loud creaking noise. A trigger plate?! The Empress threw herself to the floor, practically hugging it. All around her, metal spears basically threw themselves out of the stone walls, intent on skewering any unlucky trespasser  stupid enough to come into their physical range. The spears missed Dales by a single inch, the heavy weapon poking Dales in the cheek. A small line of blood began to drip down, as the weapon pierced her skin. She maneuvered her feet, very carefully,  to avoid being skewered by the spears, lifting it up slowly to disarm the pressure plate. It rose back up with a heavy thud. The spears as sudden as they came, retreated back into the wall. Dales entire face dripped with sweat, as she nervously breathed in and out, practically hyperventilating, which was followed by a long sigh of relief. Her muscles relaxed, as she very slowly, and, especially, carefully rose, sturdying herself on the wall, extra careful not to trigger any more pressure plates. 

That was too close. I’m a pretty shitty adventurer. The Empress, despite her dire predicament couldn’t help but grin. But her amusement was replaced by grim foreboding. She was stuck in this hallway, unable to move forward, until she found a way to get pass this spear trap. She couldn’t rely on getting lucky a second time, and the spears just barely missing her skull. She scratched her chin, as the Lapis Lazuli light coming from the Weyklad stones shone on her, I need to get pass this room without setting off the spikes again. She stood their for a couple of minutes weighing her options. Just like before, at the foot of the tomb, a “eureka” moment fell upon her. 

Smiling smugly, the Empress lifted up her hand. Her hand glowed bright yellow, as Dales summoned up her Magika reserve, and conjured an elementary alteration spell, a simple, yet powerful feather charm upon herself. Lithe and mocking, the Empress pranced around the room, testing every nook and cranny. If there was any more trigger plates, they wouldn’t activate anymore. Not wanting to waste any more time here, the Empress, without looking back sprinted forward, and left the hall of spears. 

****

After bypassing several other deftly crafted traps, of both magical, and mundane origin (which included vibro blades, Argonian skeleton men, burning logs, a stupid oil barrel, and a large crate of venomous frogs (which the Empress would never talk about to anyone) the Empress was pretty confident in her ability to navigate the ruins, though elaborate death dungeon was a more aprt description for it, in the young mages humble opinion. Like who built this place? Seems fucking stupid to me. A stab of annoyance brewed in her stomach, as she left another blue hallway, only to spy yet another narrow bridge, which entered her vision just as she was about to leave the room. The time, it didn’t overlook a bottomless chasm, but...a bog of some kind. The dozens of Weykland stones illuminated the vast chamber, and below the bridge, Dales could make out...murky black water. It didn’t seem deep, as damp, dark green plants stood out of the black water, as did various hills of dark mud. Well this doesn't seem hard. Just need to get across the bridge without falling. Pompously she lifted her chest and began to walk across the bridge, slowly, just as she scanned the area one more time for possible traps. Nothing. Dauntless, she began her march. 

One step. 

Two step.

Third step. 

Fourth step.

Fifth step. 

Sixth step.

“Overconfidence is a slow, insidious killer.” A dark, mocking voice entered her mind, surprisingly Dales as she screamed in surprise by the sudden jumpscare.

PFFT 

In a sudden display of speed, Dales was thrown of the bridge, her pale face filling with pure shock, and horror. An invisible force had struck her in the chest, knocking the wind right out of her. In panic, she didn’t have any time to stabilize herself, causing her to be catapulted off the already narrow bridge, and thrown into the stone wall. The force behind the strike was of such power, it flew with Dales, throwing her backwards a good distance beyond the bridge, and towards the formerly distant wall . With a crash, her body collided into the wall, causing bones to crack, and pain to assail her. The horror didn’t stop, as her body began to fall, and plummet towards the dark swampland below. While certainly, her fall would be cushioned by the muddy water, it was only the difference of breaking her legs, instead of being killed on impact. Even in her mentally broken state, the Empresses well tuned survival instincts kicked in, as she drew forth from her mind, a spell that slowed her descent. Just in time too, as the Empress was just about to be thrown into the dark earth. With a sting of pain, the spell not being as effective as she hoped, Dales crashed into the muddy, soil. Dales lay crumpled in the mud, her masterwork leather stained with the black mud, her blonde hair in tatters, and her general body covered in filth. A pathetic looking person. Tears formed in her eyes.

She wasn’t crying because of her haggard appearance.  

It was the pain. Oh gods, the pain. 

She could tell some of her bones we’re broken, from the sheer impact of that unknown force from above, and her colliding into the wall.  She tried to move, only to cause a fiery storm of pain to fill her, as her bones creaked. A few ribs, at the very least. The softened swamp bed, as well as her cushion spell, had saved her from true damage, but that didn’t change the fact her entire body shook with agony. Tears began to form on her eyes, as Dales screamed at the top of her lungs in pain. She bit back the tears, and struggled to rise but she fell down each time. She couldn’t feel her legs. Maybe her legs no longer worked? Couldn’t even cross a bridge right. 

As if the blighted bog surrounding her was a dark reflection of the Empress's own state of mind, Dales felt truly alone. Pure despair, the pain only augmented her suffering and strife, I’m a failure. She glanced around, looking at her present surroundings. The distance swamp was now we’re she rested. And by the god, she truly wished within her heart she hadn’t fallen down. Thousands of skeletons, of both humans and large animals, lay within the dark mire, polluting the mire with half eaten bones, red rotten flesh lingering on them, the ancient meat preserved by the swampy climate. The skulls stared at her.  Insects crawled around, and withered on her skin. Dark green stocks jutted out of the water, as did rotten logs, which softly floated in the shallow water, which seemingly got deeper as you got closer to the center. The “water” was sludgy, and clung to the Empresses form, like it was trying to become one with her, forcing her deeper into the putrid filth. Despite the water being, we’re she was, only up to her ankle, it felt...like she was sinking into the black bile. Dark whispers entered her mind, as thousands of voices filled in her head, of men, women and children. Utterly overwhelming her. She sheepishly plugged her ears barely able to move her injured arms, shouting, “Stop!” They were...enticing her to stay with them. To stay in the dark drowned bog, the voices caressing her, and drowning her thoughts in darkness. She was getting drowsy. Maybe...maybe it was better for everyone, for Dales to rest her. Letting her head fall down, the Empress closed her pale, blue eyes, and began the long sleep, as the voices consumed every thought she had, and her-

“Do you always give up so easy, Dales Motierre? I thought you would not abandon your people?”

The whispers were silenced in an instant. Light filled Dales' vision, overwhelming fiery light.

“The proud are usually humbled by their own hubris.” She heard words being called out to her, but unlike the presence on the bridge above this voice was filled with...warmth, instead of cold venom. The honey in it's words caressed and soothed the broken Empress. But at the same time...the voice was stern. The voice of a kind, yet disciplinary father, making sure his son acted proper. It was booming, and deep. Deeper than a bottomless hole. “You have not been humbled though. You’ve been destroyed and remade. Again and again, until now you are a broken shell, child.”

Dales’ pale blue eyes struggled against the light. It wasn’t like the light of the sun, but that of burning flame. She sheepishly said, “I...am broken?”

“Indeed, gaze at thy self. You can only do so much, to repair something broken.” He, or what she assumed was a he, softly chuckled, a vibrant of power echoing in his voice, almost a roar. A roar of primal might. It...wasn’t human. Reptilian? “I cannot fix you.” The flaming light roared, as it almost consumed the entirety of Dales vision. The voice continued, “You can only do that yourself, child.”

“Fix myself?” 

The voice continued, “You may have forsaken my name, but I will never abandon you, or the Empire. I am ….forbidden to help you directly. There’s rules. You are a dragon...but you aren’t of dragon blood.” The thing that manifested itself as the flame, spoke again, “I can only reach out to you now, because this place is filled with power. Pure magical power. Very few places on Nirn act as a conduit as strong as this. Hear me Dales Moitre!” The voiced paused, "Don't give up! “Fight, you must fight! You swore an oath to your people, that you would protect them, no matter the cost to yourself! Will you die in this limbo, you’re promised unfilled, and your honor forever tainted?”

“My people…” Despair still hung on her, trying it's best to drown her in her own dark thoughts. She cared nothing for honor, or promises for that matter. But...indeed. She needed to protect Cyrodiil! Along with every, man, woman, and child inside of it! That was the one thing she would not fall at! “I need to protect Cyrodiil!” Dales tore at the invisible darkness. She needed to break free of it! 

The red flame exploded, coursing through Dales, rejuvenating not her body, which ached with the same pain as before, but her spirit. The flame...reformed, blazing, but now in the shape of a...talon. A dragon's talon. The talon went forward in front of Dales, and outstretched, as if it was offering to help her up. Dales, gazing into the flame light directly, reached out for it, gripping the talon. Even if she didn’t consciously know who this was, she knew, deep down. The voiced echoed a final time, “Remember young Empress, the only reason we fall, is so we can pick ourselves up again!” 

Screaming with rage, Dales pale blue eyes opened, as she tore herself out of the black mire, which she had almost fully sunk into. Almost as if it was alive, the bile was stalwart, and clung onto the Empress’s skin, trying to force her back into the ground. Despite the pain overwhelming her, the Empress pulled herself up, and out of her would-be tomb. Struggling to stand up, Dales lifted her slime soaked hands into the air, and angrily drew forth the pure magical power around her, coming from the unknown source. She would not fall today. She concentrated hard, until she practically felt the untapped vestiges of Magika within her, drawing it close, to her bosom. She brought her hands to her soaked chest, and let the massive stores of energy course through her hands onto her gnarled body. Dales conjured forth the strongest Restoration spell she knew onto herself. Her body becoming warm, the strong yellow light spread around her body, causing her wounds to go numb, and the external injures to close up. The effect of the vast amounts of magicka swirling around her, we’re instantaneously, as the normally extremely difficult to mend, internal wounds began to heal, and she felt a strange sensation within her. Her broken bones mended, and her internal bleeding closed. She had done it. By the end of her display of healing magic, Dales still hurt like hell , but had enough strength left to pick herself up, and begin to limp away from her almost-grave. It didn’t matter we’re she went, she needed to get out of her, before the despair took her again. 

Something was augmenting it. 

With desperate intent, the Empress glanced around the bog filled bottom of the chamber, looking around for an exit. She spied a small tunnel that presumably lead out of the foul chamber.  She carefully made her way around the middle part of the room, consciously choosing to take the long way around,  knowing it to be deep, and treacherous water. Instead sticking to the wall. The battered Empress trudged through the dark swamp, intent on getting out of this horrible place as soon as possible.  After about thirty minutes, due to her injuries, and her new respect for being extra careful in ancient ruins, Dales was half way across the chamber, just as the water near her knees began to become turbulent. The bruised Empress swore, as she drew her Gladius and glanced around the black mire with a snarl. She was at an immense disadvantage, but she thought she could still fight.

Oh how wrong she was. 

The turbulent, blackwater, became massive waves, as Dales was pushed back by force. It nearly knocked the wind right of her, and would have flattened the imperial, if she hadn’t put up a powerful ward just in time, blocking the technically elemental force, as well as the bone bits that we’re thrown up by the waves. A horrifying, ear piercing, gurgled, screamed echoed across the chamber. The waves became larger, as more water was being pushed forward, barely being kept at bay by the Empress’s formidable magic. With a jet of water, something emerged from the middle of the black morass. 

It was something from a nightmare.

The beast held the traits of both a reptile, and a fish. It's skin...no fish scales, we’re a sickly green shade that perfectly blended with the water, making it seem like it was just an extension of the dark swamp.  Perfect camouflage for ambushing unwitting prey that stumbled upon it's long forgotten lair.  Dark as the night, green as a tree. Almost like a snake, it was elongated, disgustingly narrow. It’s head was serpentine, it’s six eyes, dark beady, and reptilian. with a large black dorsal fin, that went from it's nose, all the way down it’s back, allowing it to cut through the dark waves, of whatever underwater primordial lake this abomination had swam from. It took a moment for Dales to realise, but it actually possessed six heads all of the same length and height as the first one, as Dales summarized when each head came out of the water. Inside each of its gaping maws, which perpetually grinned, hundreds of gladius sized teeth stood, ready to gobble down whatever stood in it's path. The Snake-Esque necks and heads lead downward in the middle of the room, deep underneath the black swamp. Whatever body it was attached too, was not visible. It arose from the depths, as the waves crashed around it’s colossal form. It was massive, bigger then any creature Dales had ever seen, filling up the chamber, and consuming the black swamp.  The beast roared, an otherworldly scream of the ancient depths humanity no longer knew. Like a crocodile, mixed with a mountain lion.

For a moment, Dales couldn’t breath. And then all six of the creatures heads turned towards the young Empress, and eyed her hungrily. They all roared at the same time.

In a display of horrible speed, the first of the six heads launched itself forward, intent on swallowing the young imperial whole. Not even caring about her previous wounds, Dales dodged to the side, throwing herself away from the monster's maw, just as she tossed aside her tiny blade into the water. The thing would be useless in this situation. Using the soft mud, and dark water as a cushion, Dales avoided the monsters first lunge by a single inch. She flourished her wraith dagger, getting back up, and before the beast could do anything else, Dales lunged at it, stabbing into one of it's eyes without any fear.

The monster recoiled in pain, as the enchanted Witch-Blade bite caused the wound it made to hiss, as if acid was poured onto it. The monsters gargantuan head shook in pain, colliding into the surprised Dales, throwing her backwards, and into the wall once more. Knocking the wind right out of her, Dales had no time to sulk, recovering just in time to avoid another head butt, the beast catapulting it's face straight into the wall, shaking the entire, massive room.

This foe...was beyond her skill to fight. An ancient beast of the elder days. Dales quickly decided discretion was the better part of valor, as she turned around, and began to sprint as fast she could towards the small tunnel. 

Only to be barred.

A hint of fiendish intelligence glimmered in it's dark eye, right as one of it's heads launched itself forward, turning up a torrent of water, barring Dales from reaching the tunnel, avoiding a wave of water, Dales turned to heel, and ran away, only for her path to be blocked by another head. Dales was trapped and surrounded.  No way out huh. Fine, lets do this! Snarling Dales conjured forward a massive fireball, the sheer heat surrounding it as it flung forward causing steam to erupt from the water. The flaming spell collided into the snake-like monstrosity, charring it's flesh, causing it cry out in pain once more. The monster responded by launching three of it's heads forward, trying to swallow up the tiny imperial. Dales once more managed to avoid it, rolling out of the way, being able to accurately plot we’re it's heads we’re going to land before hand. Upturning the black water even more, the abomination, ripped it's heads from the dark depts, causing massive waves to form inside the swamp. Dales, having spent most of her Magicka reserves summoning that powerful fireball, didn’t have time to put up a barrier of force, throwing her backwards. The black liquid filled inside her mouth, as she struggled against the waves, drowning in them for a couple seconds. They receded, as the turbulent waters spat Dales out, back onto the muddy, ankle high puddles. Coughing up  water , Dales pushed herself up, and faced the smirking water-demon once more. Her entire body was drenched, and she shivered from the cold. She swore, gripping her wraith dagger tightly. I can't fight this thing. Maybe if she had a professional monster hunter with her, but by herself, she was imperial meat.

Wait. She was...by herself. A eureka moment came! Silly Dales, mages don’t need to be by themselves! We can have minions do our dirty work! A sinister grin formed, as she lifted her hands up into the air. Her hands began to glowing bright purple. She was never good at conjuration, far from it. Her most successful spell in the school she ever casted was aimed at ending her own life, after all. But today it had a different purpose. Remembering the augmented effect her restoration magic had, Dales drew, from whatever source it came from, the highly potent magical energies that swarmed in this ruin, hoping it would make the difference for her somewhat lacking skills in summoning Daedra. As the Hydra was probably preparing to gobble her down any second, she really had no time in choosing what reinforcements to call, so she simply summoned what first came to mind. In this case a Dremora Kynreeve. As she pulled the power into herself, her eyes flared bright blue for a single second, right as she unleashed her spell.  The walls to Oblivion we’re breached for a moment, as Dales drew her chosen blade from the halls of the Deadlands. Right as she did, however, her lack of focus on the Hydra in summoning her spell had been a deadly mistake. The beast, was upon her, and one of it's massive heads fell down, intent on swallowing her whole. Her body froze, paralyzed by the Hydra’s eyes. She...she couldn't move.  Her life flashed before her, as surprise filled her eyes, as she came too from the spell. It was practically meters away. Time slowed down, as she could feel her heartbeat. It’s skin was disgusting, greenish brown like the most filthy of water, not being beautiful like jade or emeralds. The massive jaws reached forward….

And found nothing but dark water. Something grabbed Dales, lifting her small frame with supernatural strength, and avoided the Hydra’s lunge with a burst of speed. The spell on Dales had been broken, as she coughed, struggling underneath the grip of her savior. Dales was tossed down, thrown aside like a smelly fish. The Empress landed in the water, who angrily rose, and looked to her side to see the person who rescued her.

Her spell had worked. It was a Dremora who had rescued her. But it was one unlike she had ever seen in the flesh,

The Dremora’s armor was black. A shade of black so dark, it seemed to be made from, instead of ebony, the night sky itself, or even the Void. Dark silver mingled on some of the edges, but was otherwise consumed by darkness. Dozens of crimson rubies glistened, inserted into the rib-like chestplate he wore, as well as his large dark pauldrons. Surprisingly enough, for a Dremora, the suit of armor he bore wasn’t that spiky. His gauntlets and greaves we’re suitably animalistic, the toes guard being like a monster's foot, and the hands, long metalistic clawed fingers.  The most distinct thing, however, was his helmet. It looked Eastern, being more of a war-mask then an actual helmet. Narrow, war tusks erupted from it's “mouth”, and jagged demonic horns sprouted from it's forehead, all of which we’re lesser compared to the plummet of red hair that fell down like a braid. Orbs of glowing red eyes floated in the mask eye slits, that glowed with both grim manolvence, and immense intelligence. On it’s back, it carried a gigantic two handed weapon, some kind of...glaive. The horrible glaive had two black blades attached to each end, and it's handled was encrusted with dozens of purple gems. The glowing red eyes stared into the Empress’s cold blue eyes.  The dark Daedra spoke in a bassfull, deep, powerful tone, “I did not expect to be summoned in a place like this, no less by a little Breton mage.” He turned around, drawing his weapon at the sight of the animistic horror swimming in the dark waves. The Dremora grunted, “Haven't spied one of these in ages. Tell me, meatbag, do all mortals just gawke, and not offer a single word of thanks and gratitude to their saviors?”

Dales gulped nervously, “Thank-you.” She muttered, with genuine intent behind her words. Krojun had taught her to remain as impartial and professional as possible when dealing with summoned Daedra (Especially Dremora. One of her favorite books was a Tragedy in Black.) But it had just saved her life. The Daedric Warrior nodded his head in acknowledgment. The young girl didn’t want to seem ungrateful. She turned around to look at the screeching monster that was advancing on the now duo, and asked, “You spoke with familiarity about that beast, do you know what it is?”

“It’s a Hydra, a river one, if I recall." Dales screamed out, interupting him, "How the fuck does that fit in a river?!" His glowing red orbs rolling, the Dremora igorned her outburst, continuing, A primal water monster from the first era. I haven’t seen one in ages, most we’re killed by Ayleid hunters for their hide.” The Dremora, his raspy voice practically a snarl, advanced undaunted forward through the black mire. The Dremora Lord flourished his massive, jagged blade, wielding the absolutely huge weapon in a single hand, along with a spark of black flame in his other. Underneath his Daedric war mask, the raspy, downright demonic voice of the Daedra echoed in the darkness, “Stay behind me, meatbag. I shall rend our foe in the name of Dagon!” One of it's massive heads, the one Dales had injured with her dagger, came soaring forward. Liftly, the Dremora side stepped, avoiding the attack with ease, before he launched his own. A sprout of black flame, coming from his gauntleted hand, incinerated the hydra, as it screamed out in pain. Dales, contrast to the Dremora’s advice, advanced just beside the flame spewing Dremora, summoning a frost spell, a large stream of chilling ice collided with the fire spell, the two magical streams mixing and become a single beam of magic. The intermingling of fire and ice brought the beast's neck to the muddy ground, as it's body convulsed in agony from the magic. Balefire was cursed flame. Dales rushed forward, intent on jabbing out it's other eyes before the other heads could rush forward and defend it. A metallic hand reached forward, grabbing Dales’s shoulder. The Dremora spoke once more, his voice practically intelligible, due to how deep, and menacing it was, “Stop. Hyrdra’s have over thirty separate eyes. Eyes that can put you underneath a charm that limits movement. Unless you want to try and outlast the thing in a game of endurance, blinding it will take too long, and will ultimately be a waste of our time.” He pushed the small Breton behind him, as he approached the screaming Hydra’s neck. It furiously struggled to get away, but was stopped by the Dremora heaving it's heavy greaves onto it's neck, pinning it place. The Daedra lifted his strange glaive into the air, right as it exploded being consumed by a screaming wave of black flame. The Dremora cut into it's neck, severing it in half. The wound cauterized instantly from the dark fire, melting it, leaving nothing more then a long serpentine stump we’re it's main head used to be. The other heads flailed about, screeching in pure pain. The Daedra, without looking back, muttered “If you cut off one head, two will grow back. That is the Hydra’s most dangerous weapon. Only by killing its body, which it purposely hides beneath the waves, or lopping off all of it’s heads, and binding the wound with flame can we permanently fell it. Now like I said before, stay behind me! If you want to help, assist me, but otherwise, stay out of my way.” And with that, the Dremora lept into action.

Charging forward, the Dremora plowed through the dark waters. Dales was about to scream to him about the depths being infinitely deep, but her concern morphed into amusement, as the warrior quickly began to sprint across the surface of the water. He has cast a “Water walking” charm onto himself. The Hydra, quickly realizing the danger that it was in, launched several of it's heads forward intent on crushing the charging warrior. The Dremora, despite how heavy his armor must have been, deftly evaded each strike, almost as if he was lighter than a feather. After his final dodge, his glowing red eyes filled with surprise, as it had kept one of it's gargantuan heads in reserve to surprise the Dremora with a quick hit. Before he could even attempt a magical ward, the head was blown across the room, and out of the sky by a gargantuan fireball, the impact leaving a large scar of burnt flesh on half of the Hydra’s face. The Dremora turned around to see his small companion, chucking small boulder sized fireballs at the Hydra, casting it's attention away from the Dremora. Grinning underneath his oni-esque warmask, the Dremora flourished his Daedric glaive, and slashed the first neck he got into range off, the Hyrdra’s thick, magical hide offering no resistance to the ancient, and heavily enchanted warglaive he wielded. He cut another neck in half, the wound once more being bound by the glaives heat, as the head went crashing down, flopping in the water for a few seconds before becoming still. 

The Dremora lifted up his strange glaive, quickly diving to avoid being struck by the Hyrda's sting. He was fast, real fast, faster then anything his size should be. Narrowing missing it, the Dadra slashed down, countering against the Hyrda's head. In a display of green blood, another one of the Hyrda's heads fell flat, lifeless, withering in the back water, as the heat from the blade prevented its regenerative ability from activating. 

Only minutes into the fight, the Dremora had already cleaved off half of its heads.

But once more, a spark of twisted cunning came from its dark, reptilian eyes.

All of a sudden, the Hydra blitzed enacting its last stand, throwing all three of its remaining heads forward, at the same time, two went soaring towards the Dremora Lord, the other, straight for the Empress, causing a tidal wave of black water to erupt around it. It knew, the power that anchored the Dremora into Nirn came from the Empress, and if the Empress killed first, that very power would dissipate. Dales, who was busy throwing balls of fire at it, was surprised, seeing as until now, the Dremora was keeping it busy. Throwing herself to the side, and into the shallow water, Dales avoided it's initial charge, saving her entire body being smashed into the wall, once more. But this time it stopped, and circle around, facing the stunned Empress, who could yell, "****!" As it plunged forward. The Empress conjured a glacial ice spear, and used her favored weapon to block its bite,"just int time to lock its jaws. Snapping madly, the Hyrda wanted to end this quickly and after a few seconds, one of its fangs got though, and punctured the Empress, biting through her mud-soaked leather armor like it was cloth. Dales screamed in pain, as she arduously struggled to push the thing back, perpetually channeling a strength spell through her body, keeping the Hydra from snapping down and devouring her whole, the ice spear looking like it was about to break. 

The Dremora, quickly rolled away from the impact of the first head, slashing with his crescent blade in a circular motion, decapitating it in one foul swoop, his plumage of horsehair trailing behind his war mask.  The second one aimed to attack the Dremora from behind, the serpentine monster grinning as it made the plunge, only for it to meet immense pain. A jagged ice spike lodged itself into its side. The Hyrda turned around, to see the struggling Empress raising her freehand.  Each time, as the ice spear was about to break, Dales unleashed a spike of magic, reforming it each time. Distracted by the Empress, the Dremora lord charged forward, sprinting at inhuman speeds as he cut the neck in half. Eliminating the Hydra's fifth head in a single stroke of its glaive.  

The Hydra salivated all over Dales, as it was just about to break through her magical defense, when searing pain erupted all across it's back. A stream of black flame went soaring towards it, searing it face. Snarling, the Empress jammed a reformed ice spear into the Hyrda's now open mouth, pinning it into the black mud, causing it to bleed its green, bile blood, as it yelled out even harder in pain. Rolling to safely through the shallow water, the Empress, began to summon small bursts of fire balls, burning its skin, and flesh distracting it. Climbing atop its scaly head, the Dremora wielded his war glaive, lifted it up to the sky, yelling, "In Mehunes Dagons name, I banish you!" The Dremora plunged his blade into the top of the Hyrda's head, as it burst into black flames, right as the sword piercing into the brain, with a final coup de tat. 

It was finished.

With a final, seething cry of pain, the withering lumps of beheaded Hydra necks ceased their moment and then, slowly fell to the swamp floor, never to move again. As the colossus mounds of flesh fell to the swamp, a wave of dark water threw itself all around the large chamber. The final neck slowly lowered, as the Dremora Lord gripped it's practically exploded head as it did. Tearing out his flaming glaive, the Dremora let out a resounding war cry. That battle was exhilarating. He safely slid off the lifeless head, and landed in the dark swamp, reclining his knees so he landed comfortably. He turned to examine the condition his summoner was in. It wasn't good. 

Dales had positioned herself on a rotting log, using it to support her exhausted body. By now, her entire body was drenched in the black swamp water, and her honey blonde hair was thrown all over, the pony tail she made having fallen apart aside during the hectic flight away from the hyrda, now blackened by filthy mud. Her pale skin was not so pale, covered in mud, blood, and the Hydra's saliva. Her wound was the worst part. Blood oozed from the large gaping hole. Thank the gods it missed her stomach, and any organs, but it still hurt like hell, and it wouldn't matter if she bled out. The young mage tried drawing more of that magic that surrounded her, into herself, so she could heal the wound but to no avail. 

Without wasting a beat, the Dremora led knelt beside her, grabbing her shoulder, as he uttered, pouring magic into her, "Be still, girl." Upon closer inspection, she could see the finer details on his set of Daedric armor. It was breathtaking, really. She had seen sketches of it, and from a distance, spied a handful of Krojuns summoned lackeys, but never glimpsed it this closely but those sketches couldn't compare. It was darkly beautiful, masterfully crafted and maintained. Though it did look, very different to the sketches she'd seen. It was...exotic, and very eastern. It had a few black spikes, but was no where near as "spiky" as the sketches she glimpsed. The warmask was the most haunting part of it. A horrible face molded, and forged onto it, the horrible expression magnified by the guttural tusks in its "mouth, and shadowy horns that stuck from its forehead. Only upon this close look, Dales could see how really big he was. Over seven feet tall, thick with muscles, which could easily snap the Empresses neck in a mere instant. The Dremora spoke once more, "The fangs of a Hyrda are magical. No restoration spell can bind the wounds caused by it. You need to save you're magika reserves, meatbag."

Fear stabbed into the of Dales stomach, but she was more angry then anything at his "I know everything"attitude, "Are you a fucking hyrda expert or something?"

The Dremora...rolled its glowing red eyes, as it muttered, "Knowledge is power, mage. The more knowledge I have, the more foes I can slay in the name of my prince. Giant monsters are exhilarating to fight, so I know much about them. Even the ones lost to time." He placed his black gauntlets on his warglaive, touching the blades. The black fire dissipated, as it was sucked away by an unknown force, being extinguished. Seeing it up close...caused Dales to tremble in excitement, for a moment she forgot all about the seething pain coming from near her stomach. She yelled, her previously pale face lighting up, "Is that a Daedric Crescent?!"

The Daedra grunted in acknowledgement, speaking, his voice reverberating with pure power, "Aye, the only remaining one in existence." The Dremora proceeded to rip a large strip of leather from Dales armor, placing it in her mouth, as if it was a gag. "Bite down on this." Dales hesitated to accept it, but did so. Her voice muffled by the leather strip, Dales asked innocently, "Can I see you're Daedric Crescent?"

"No." The Dremora said, simply. 

"Pretty please?"

"No." The Dremora seethed in annoyance. Perhaps if he was in a bad mood, he would plot to trick her into releasing the binding on him, to shut her up permanently. But that fight before...was intense. If following her around as her temporary bodyguard would get him more battles like that, he would put up with her annoyance. Besides, she seemed to be a semi-decent fighter. Better then most mages, who we're sniveling cowards who stuck to only using spells behind cover. He brought up his Daedric warglaive, bringing the blade close to his hand. He felt the ancient blades edge, and cast a spell. Unlike the cursed balefire, this time he only heated the edge of the Crescent, causing the blades metal to glow blood red. Dales, confused, asked, "What are you doing?"

"We wont be able to use magic to bind you're wound, meatbag. I'm using a more...natural approach."

"What-" Dales was cut off by burning searing pain in her abdomen, as she screamed out a cry of utter agony, she gripped tightly a handful of decaying swamp plants, which she crushed underneath her fist. The Dremora pressed his crescent onto the oozing, gaping wound, intent on cauterizing the grisly injury, before it got infected by the dead Hyrda's saliva, and would prevent the girl from bleeding out. His haunting red orbs hung above, the only thing she could pass the pain. A mocking voice emerged from the Daedra, "Well you mortals do say alternative medicine can be...painful." NOT FUCKING FUNNY! Dales bit down on the strip of leather, knowing that if it wasn't there, she would surely have bitten off her own tongue.  The blade lingered on her wound for only ten seconds, but it was some of the word pain the Empress had experienced in her life. At long last, the Daedra was satisfied with his first aid, and withdrew his burning glaive. Dales pale eyes flashed with rage, "You could have fucking warned me you we're about to do that, Dremora!"

"You wouldn't have agreed to it if I did." The Dremora offered her its metal hand, which Dales half heartily accepted, her entire body still reeling in pain from the makeshift medical treatment. The Dremora spoke again, in its deep, powerful voice, “I am Dregas Volar, Lord of the Moon Blade, and Valkynaz of Dragon.” He gave a slight bow of his head, his voice trembling with power,  “You fight well for a meatbag, little girl.”  Dales leaned on the armored figure, letting him help her walk. She sheepishly limped forward, thousands of thoughts forming in her head. At the least though, she survived the hydra. 

Dales returned the curt nod, as she muttered, “I am Dales Draconius, Empress of Tamriel.” 

He snorted, speaking in a mocking tone, “Empress of Cyrodiil more like. Unless you haven’t been looking at the dreadful state of affairs that is the 4th era, Meat Bag.” 

A Dremora with humor. Now Dales had seen it all. 

Frowning as she snarled, still practically reeling from the agony of the burn, "Why do you keep calling me meatbag?"

"Mortals are meatbags." He said with a hint of amusement at her apparent offense. The Dremora warrior glanced at the dark swamp, "We shouldn't linger here. Who knows what else lurks in the depths."

Dales, biting down on her tongue, pointed towards the small tunnel ahead, "I think there's an exit over there." She paused, before asking, "Wait you said you we're a Dremora Valkynaz?!" Her pale eyes filled with shock. Dregas nodded his head, wrapping his metal arm around the young Empress for extra support, "Indeed. What of it?"

"Nothing." She was sure she summoned no Valkynaz. And that she couldn't even if she tried, even unbound. She kept it to herself, however, as the duo made there way past the dark swamp, and deeper into the ruins.

[Witchking of Angmar]

The Colovian Highlands

Boldir stood at the edge of a hill, a short man on his left, and a scruffy black dog on his right. The land before them glowed as fires spread as far as the eye could see. Their heat nipped at him as it had in Riften, and the smell of death filled his nostrils.

"You had best wake up," said the man in the all-too-memorable voice of Clavicus Vile. "Snooze too long and the flames will reach you."

"You don't want that," yapped the dog. "Not if you plan on getting her soul back."

I don't know how, were the words Boldir wanted to say, but for some reason his mouth could not open. How do I wake up?

"I don't know Barbas, he doesn't seem to be trying all that hard. Perhaps I put too much faith in my latest champion. No matter. I will find someone else if he dies."

"Maybe we should help him. Fellow hasn't even gotten a chance to try." Without warning, the dog bit Boldir's hand.

What are you doing?! He reared away from the mutt while Vile watched, laughing. Barbas snapped again, forcing Boldir to jerk away.
 

***
 

"Stop!"

The single word uttered by Boldir startled Mila so much that she jerked her wrist, spilling most of the medicine that she had been lowering to his lips. The green liquid dribbled down his chin and was lost in his beard. "Damnit!" Mila set the half-empty vial aside and grabbed a rag. "Well at least you spoke. This stuff must really be working."

She lowered the rag to his chin, and as she did, Boldir's left arm lashed out and struck the larger jar containing the rest of the potion. It shattered against the fireplace, spilling all over the wooden floor. 

"What the- No-no-no!" Mila went over to the spill and tried to use the rag soak up as much of the potion as she could manage, which was precious little. She glared back at her father, who despite the single thrash, appeared to still be sound asleep. "What is wrong with you?! Don't you know this stuff is saving your life?!"

As usual, Boldir did not respond in any way. She sighed and went to wring the liquid she'd saved into a bowl. It only amounted to a few drops, which she poured into the half-empty vial. "Good going. Now instead of a week's worth, you don't even have enough for today!"

Mila tilted Boldir's head back and made damn sure that he swallowed the potion. "There. Now I'm going to have to go all the way back to Dewridge. Tolvo won't be happy about that."
She placed a hand on his forehead. "At least your fever seems to be gone. Wounds are doing better, too. And now that you're saying words and being stubborn again, maybe you'll be waking up soon as well."
She waited, as if just saying the words out loud would force him awake. "You know, Tolvo said there are trolls out there, and I'm going to have to travel through their lands alone. Got any thoughts on that?" Boldir didn't answer, so she leaned in a little closer, weary of the possibility that he would lash out again. "Come on, you said 'stop'. Do you have anything else for me? Anything at all?" Mila gave him a light tap on the cheek, then another, though this time more of a slap. Boldir did not respond with even as much as a grunt. "Figures."

Mila got up and started gathering her things into a pack. "Well since you refuse to wake up for me, hopefully you can go another day without doing it while I'm gone." 
She knew damn well that if he did, Boldir's first course of action would be to limp outside and start scouring the hills for her. To avoid that, she went ahead and wrote him a note using a blank page from the back of poor Haval's journal. Next, she fed Boldir some soup made from tomatoes Tolvo had brought them, placed a new wet rag on his forehead, and donned what remained of her tattered traveling cloak.
"I'll be back tonight," she promised as she made her way to the door. "And I'll have some more medicine. Please don't get worse while I'm gone."

***
 

Though they came to Cyrodiil as a group of fifteen men, the Grim Ones preferred to travel in packs of three. From the stories Trevis had heard and a few of the Nords' own boasts, three of them were apparently more than a match for ten of any 'southern' foe. They rode to Dewridge with nine. Nine Grim Ones alongside Trevis and four of his own men, all to apprehend a foe who was purportedly stuck in a drug-induced slumber. It seemed excessive, but neither he nor the Nords were willing to take any chances with this.

"Aye," Thorald Gray-Mane had said as they set out from Chorrol. "He was a great warrior back in the day. Felled many an elf. And a turncloak he may be, but that only makes him more dangerous."

"Do you think he could possibly take on three of your men?" Trevis asked.

"Three of my men? Of course not. That's why I'm bringing nine."

Now they rode on towards what looked to be a rather anticlimactic end to the months-long hunt that had nearly cost Trevis his career. And he was perfectly okay with that. He was content to leave glory-seeking to the Generals and adventurers. His job was to serve the Empire, not himself.

It was midday of their second day on the road when the horses started acting up. Trevis' was the first. The stallion twitched, sending tremors down its body to warn him well before his human senses could have detected a threat. His hand dropped to his sword and he ordered the procession to be silent. Naturally, the Nords only obeyed when Gray-Mane echoed his command. Their horses were not trained the way his was, but they still bucked and whinnied something awful. One of the Nords almost fell out of the saddle, but managed to balance himself at the last moment.
Then they heard a roar.

"Troll," said one of the Stormcloaks. Two more roars followed in unison.

"Aye," Gray-Mane said. "Lots of 'em."

Their informer -an herbalist's son named Hekel- spoke with a surprising calmness. "There are lots of them in these parts. But they won't attack a group our size."

Everyone remained quiet for a few moments, listening for more troll calls, and then a Grim One broke out in laughter. "Even the trolls down here are milk-drinkers!"
The Nords got a kick out of that. They laughed for a bit, no doubt to hide the relief that they were not about to get ambushed by a pack of monsters twice their size. Though he did not join in, Trevis was relieved too. The last thing they needed right now was to lose someone to injuries.

"So Inspector," one of the Grim Ones rode up beside him. A younger man named Luthmar. Like his comrades, Luthmar was a large Nord clad in the peculiar bearish armor, but where all the others were bearded, he stood out by only sporting thick red whiskers along the sides of his face. "What're your thoughts on your Empress, eh?"

Trevis did not like the tone the Nord spoke with. "She is a just woman, and strong. I'm proud to serve her."

"That's not what I meant. I got a glimpse of her in Falkreath, you know. Chest as flat as my shield, but by the gods that face..."

"Hold your tongue," demanded Bentrius, Trevis' second-in-command. "You speak of the Empress as a guest in her lands."

The Nord snorted. "Little man, I'd speak the same of your ma as a guest in her bedroom."

"Bentrius-" Trevis started, but before he could get another word out, the man who was supposed to be a professional of the Oculatus leapt from his saddle, tackling the larger Grim One from his own with a ferocious scream.
"Bentrius!" Trevis barked, but his voice was drowned out by the sound of the other Nords shouting. They drew their horses away to avoid trampling one of their own. 

The fall winded Luthmar, that much was clear. Otherwise the Grim One might have reacted more quickly to Bentrius' fist crashing against his nose. Instead, he took four solid blows before finally grabbing the smaller man by his shoulders and hurling him off. The tides changed then, as the two clambered to their feet and the Nord's superior size came into play. Bentrius was quick enough to dodge the first punch thrown at him, but Luthmar proved even faster, following up with a second swing that busted his lip and dazed him just long enough for the Nord to grab him under the armpits, lift him into the air, and throw him back down onto the rocky earth.

By this point, Trevis, Gray-Mane, and several others had all dismounted and were closing in on the combatants. Luthmar got pulled back by his own men. Blood was visibly dripping from his broken nose, but to Trevis' surprise, the man was grinning. Bentrius, on the other hand, was still struggling to catch his breath. "Bloody Nords," he muttered as Trevis helped him up. His lip was busted and at least one of his teeth had been lost.

"You gonna patch yourself up with your magic, Imperial?" Luthmar taunted.

Bentrius grunted, straightened, and then turned to face the Nord. "Patch what up? You don't hit half as hard as my ma."

The Nord threw back his head and laughed, joining the choir of his friends. "Perhaps I would be wise to hold my tongue around her after all!" He wrenched free of his comrades and returned to his horse. "What a brawl!" he shouted. "That was exactly what this ride needed."

Trevis returned his gaze to Bentrius. "You're lucky that turned out well. Are you okay?"

"Yeah," he second said. "Look, Trevis, I didn't-"

"Shut up." The agent's mouth closed. "If you ever ignore me again, getting your arse kicked by a Nord will be the least of your worries. Understood?"

"Yes sir."

"Good. Get back on your horse."

Trevis went to do the same, and found Gray-Mane waiting beside the beast with his arms crossed. "You'll have to forgive Luthmar. Despite our name, we ain't all grim."

"You seem to be."

"Aye, and so do you. And your friend with the bloody lip is mouthy and stupid, same as Luthmar."

"He's not stupid." Trevis pulled himself up onto his horse, and as Gray-Mane did the same, he continued, "He has a better head for the arcane than the rest of us combined."

"To survive the Grim Trials, the stupid ones have to be extra tough." Gray-Mane jerked a thumb back at Bentrius, who was now chatting away with several of the Nords as though they were close as kin. "He ain't any different. He's just got his magic to compensate with instead. I've met enough wizards to know that magic doesn't make you smart. It's a skill, same as any."

Trevis couldn't say he fully disagreed. He had never met a mage who wasn't well read, but that did not stop them from acting like fools. They were still human, after all. Bentrius was a clever man, and a very skilled tracker, but after his display just now, it was hard to say that the Nord was completely wrong about him. Losing his temper consequences be damned was very stupid of him, and Trevis would keep that trait in mind going forward. It was not appropriate for an inspector.

Turning his thoughts to other matters, Trevis asked, "Your Grim Trials, what do they entail?"

"I'm not sure if Jarl Baldur would want me sharing that information," Gray-Mane replied. "And you would not believe me if I told you."

So you say. Trevis thought back to the culmination of his own training. The Dunmer woman had not seen nor heard him as he'd approached. She had thought herself alone atop that wall right up until the moment his hand pressed against her back, but by then there was nothing she could do to save herself from falling. "Congratulations, Inspector," they had said afterwards. She had lost her life, and he had gained a title. 
Somehow, Trevis doubted that the Grim Ones' recruitment process had anything like that, but he was in no greater hurry to give Gray-Mane those details than the Nords were to give theirs.
"You have said before that Boldir was a Grim One. But to my understanding, Red-Snow did not found Kyne's Watch until after his retirement."

"Aye, it's true. The Grim Ones existed before the trials. We were the Nords who guarded Pale Pass and hunted traitors in Falkreath."

"Say what you mean. By traitors, you mean Imperials."

"Yes, Inspector. That is what I mean." Gray-Mane's face grew serious. "I have little love for your country and less for its people. But the Imperials I truly despise are the ones in my homeland. The ones who supported your last two Emperors even as they tried to steal our god. The ones who put us in chains and gave us to the Thalmor."
The Grim One hesitated for a moment, and then said, "I will not forgive your people for what they did to us, Inspector. No more than I will stop hating the elves. But I do appreciate that you would not have me mince words about it. It's refreshing down here where honesty is so rare."

Trevis kept a tight lip. He did not care to argue with Gray-Mane, or to defend the Empire's actions. The Nord's experiences, his losses, his opinions, meant meant nothing to him. But despite being hailed as honest, that was the kind of information that he would keep to himself. Not out of fear, but pragmatism. They needed to cooperate, and that would be a lot harder if the Grim Ones hated him. So Trevis decided to lie. "I lost loved ones to the Thalmor, myself. I promise you, I hate them and the White Gold Concordat as much as any Nord."

The Nord made a sound that was a cross between a grunt and a huff. But he did not speak again for some time. Not until hours later, when Trevis rode close and addressed him. "Do you think that the herbalist could be lying?"

"I know that he could be," answered the Grim One. "And that's enough to make me weary. The Stormcloak soldiers of the Rift were wiped out nearly to the man because they underestimated Boldir, and Riften burned for it."

Trevis nodded. He agreed. If he was being hunted, his first effort would be to eliminate the hunters, not escape them. The easiest way to do that would be to make them think they're safe and slip up. "You and I have spoken at length about him many times, but have said little about the girl. What should we expect from her?"

Gray-Mane shrugged dismissively. "She used to sell fruit in the Whiterun market, not far from where my own ma set up. I wouldn't worry about the lass. She's just a child. Probably not strong enough to hold a weapon properly, let alone hurt us with it."

"If Boldir truly is asleep, then that child may be the only opposition we face."

"Aye, and if that is the case, we have an easy task ahead of us. Baldur wants her alive, and so do I. The hardest part will be putting up with the tears after we explain to her that papa is going to lose his head."
 

***
 

It was late in the afternoon when Mila reached Dewridge and came upon Tolvo's front door. The herbalist looked surprised to see her, but he invited her inside nonetheless. "I told you not to come back by yourself," he said. "Dangerous to be alone in the wilds. There are-"

"Trolls and wolves, I know." Mila took a seat on a wooden chair next to an empty fireplace. "But I didn't have a choice. Boldir spilled all his medicine."

The herbalist's eyes went wider than she'd ever seen. "You mean he is awake?"

"No," she shook her head. "He did it in his sleep. Started thrashing and the next thing I knew, he'd flung the jar across the room!"

Tolvo seemed to relax a bit. "A shame. But a bigger shame that you had to put yourself in such danger. You may sleep here tonight, and tomorrow I will make the journey with you to give him the medicine. Safer that way."

She was already shaking her head. "No no, I need to go back as soon as possible. Tonight. If he dies because we took too long-"

"The worst is past. Your father will not die."

"Well what if he wakes up? I left a note that said I would be back tonight."

"He won't wake up," Tolvo said, his brow lowering.

"Why wouldn't he?" Mila was starting to get angry. "He's looking better, he's moving more, and you even said that it could be any day!"

The herbalist hesitated, and then said, "Thrashing... is an early sign that it's working. Folk don't usually wake up from fevers like this until a few days after it starts."

"You're lying..." Mila accused. She folded her arms. "Why are you lying to me?"

"Damnit, child I'm not! And I'm also not about to let you go traipsing through the wilds alone in the middle of the gods damned night!" She had never heard Tolvo yell before, or even raise his voice. It was surprisingly powerful, like an officer in the army. But as she recoiled, the herbalist looked guilty and settled back down. "I promise you, I will be awake before dawn mixing up some more for him. After that, we can leave as early as you like."

She glared at him long and hard, and then finally nodded. "Fine. I want to leave before the sun comes up."

"Fine." Tolvo looked around, and said in a completely reverted tone, "Now, how about some dinner? Bought some deer cuts from Yagna today. Animal was walking around this morning."

Mila had been in such a hurry to get here that she'd skipped every meal since breakfast. "Deer sounds good... thanks."

"Think nothing of it."
 

***

"Wake up."

There was a time when Boldir might have heard the words in Carlotta's voice. But that time was sadly over. Instead, it was the string-pulling Prince of Pacts who spoke to him now, and it was all too real. His eyes flicked open. No longer was Boldir standing on a hill in the Colovian Highlands. He was on a mattress, staring at the thatch ceiling of a little house. A single window allowed in the dull orange light of an evening sun.
Boldir groaned and sat up. "Where am I?" His voice sounded almost as raspy as his body was stiff. He closed his eyes and opened them, wiggled his fingers and toes. After the fog in his head started to clear, Boldir tried looking around. "Mila?"

He was alone, but somehow he'd ended up back in the farmhouse that they had stopped in. Boldir remembered leaving it, but not returning. His armor had been removed and stacked in the corner, and the wounds on his chest and arms were coated in some earthy-smelling cream. Gods, what happened? 

He struggled to recall his last memories. He and Mila had left the house together. He had been very sick, which was noteworthy considering that he felt fine now besides in the ankle, which throbbed something fierce. So I've been down for a while. Long enough to heal without magic.
Boldir slowly stood up and found that walking would still very much be an issue. Though luckily, his walking stick was leaning against the door. He grabbed it, and noticed that a note had been pinned next to it with a kitchen knife. Mila's handwriting. 
It read:

Boldir,

I doubt you will wake before I get back, but if you do, do not worry. I have not been gone long. I will be back early tonight. Went to Dewridge to get more medicine. It is a little village several hours west of here. Easy to find if you cross the creek and keep to high ground. I am telling you this in case something happens and you need to come. Otherwise please please please wait for me to return. These wilds are not safe to travel alone. Especially in your condition.

Mila

He frowned. 'These wilds are not safe to travel alone', she says, right before she goes out to travel them alone!
Boldir looked out the window, figuring that there were still a couple hours of daylight left. If Mila was right, she would be back before too long.
Using his walking stick, he limped over to a chair by the mantle and took a seat. She's been taking care of me. Gods be good, it's as if I'm some old man. There was a level of shame in that. For all his efforts to find and save Mila, it ended up being her who kept him alive. But greater than the shame was the pride, because he could not imagine the lengths she must have gone through to bring him in here and discover a village. A glance over at the table revealed that they even had food now!
She is strong, and too smart by half. She'll be fine another few hours without me slowing her down. 

All of that was true, so why did Boldir still feel so worried? It suddenly hit him. It's the dream. A great flame had been closing in on him, a flame that he only avoided by waking up. Vile woke me. I heard his voice.
But that had just been a dream. She would be on her way by now, and it would be awful if he missed her by setting off before she made it back, especially if he failed to find this Dewridge place. Have some faith in her, he told himself. Give her a little more time.

Boldir did exactly that, though it was hard. He waited until the sun went down, and then waited some more, well past what most would consider "early tonight". The longer he sat there, tapping his hands and thumbing through the dead farmer's journal, the more anxious he became, and the more his dream nagged at him.
"Snooze too long and the flames will reach you."
That was what Vile had said. Could daedra speak through dreams? Gods damn it! Boldir got up and crossed over to his armor. She had taken much too long. By Shor, he didn't even know if that letter had been written today! If something was going on, if Mila was in trouble, he would not sit here idly and wait for her to deal with it herself. It seemed that he'd done enough of that already.

After his half-ruined set of armor was on, Boldir grabbed his stick and made for the door, pausing only to grab the note she'd left for him. He thought about leaving a reply, but then decided that Mila would know where he'd gone if she found him and the letter missing. He stuffed it into his pouch and set off into the night.
 

***

Unable to sleep, Mila opened her eyes and climbed out of bed. The room she stayed in belonged to Tolvo's son, who the herbalist claimed was down in Chorrol to purchase supplies. Apparently, the path leading away from Dewridge met with a larger one some miles to the southeast, which then proceeded on all the way down to the Orange Road and a near straight shot to the city.
She was eager to put that information to use some day. But first Boldir needed to awaken and then spend some time healing and recuperating. Tolvo had already promised to introduce her to the innkeep, who he claimed was a generous soul, unlikely to turn them away even if they did not have the gold for a standard fee. It would be a suitable place for them to live these next few months. 
I wonder if the moons are out. Mila glanced down at her dagger. It had been cloudy the night before, and Masser and Secunda had hidden from her when she'd gone too greet them. But today the clouds had come and gone sporadically. She strapped on her dagger, put on her boots, and crept out to the main hall, where she found Tolvo sitting awake, staring out his window. 

"Hello Mila," the Colovian said. He motioned to a seat across from him. "Join me?"

She crossed over and sat down. It was then she noticed some sort of ornament in the herbalist's hands, made of twigs and twisted grass, shaped so strangely that she couldn't make out what it was meant to be. "What's that?"

"A totem. I made it for Shor."

"I didn't know Imperials worshipped Shor."

"Some do. They just don't know it. Recognize him by the name Shezzar instead. But out here we still keep to the old ways."

That made her feel oddly excited. Perhaps there was a chance for non-Nords to enter those Halls of Valor. "Does that mean you will go to Sovngarde, then?"

He cocked his head. "What was that?."

"Sovngarde." Mila was amazed by the look of puzzlement that Tolvo wore. "You mean to tell me that you worship Shor but you ain't heard of Sovngarde? It's his home. It's where the great Nord heroes go when they fall in battle, to drink and sing and fight forever." The Colovian shook his head, so she continued, "How can you worship Shor without meaning to go to Sovngarde?"

"Nords and Cyrods," Tolvo muttered. Guess we're more different than I thought. No, it is the mysteries of Aetherius that await me when I die, and all godly folk."

It was as if her excitement had been thrown off a cliff. Of course the Colovians don't know about Sovngarde! Stupid Imperials. Why would Shor let us in when most of us don't really know him?

"You alright, girl?"

"I'm fine. It doesn't matter anyway." And it didn't. Her soul would belong to Vile until Boldir's contract was fulfilled. Sovngarde wouldn't be an option even if Shor didn't deny her people entry. I'm moping about the wrong problem.
Mila straightened a bit and asked, "How long is it from here to Chorrol?"

The herbalist frowned and glanced out the window. "Few days. Depends on if you're walking or riding."

"What's the city like?"

"Big walls. Big buildings. Stone streets... Uh... big trees."

Aside perhaps from the trees, that sounded like most cities. "And what about around the city, the people who live outside it in their villages and esates? Do you know anything about them?"

"No," Tolvo said. That was all that he said. He looked out the window again, and stood up. "Excuse me, Mila. We have some guests."

It's the middle of the night. She shifted in her chair, suddenly uneasy. The Imperial who Tolvo let in was clad in dark leathers and wore a sword at his belt. When his gray eyes landed on Mila, she felt as though she were being stared at by a hungry wolf.

"Thank you for sending for us," he said, and then stepped aside to let in a big Nord clad in armor just like Boldir's. The armor of the Grim Ones. The Imperial looked from the Nord to Mila. "Is this her?"

Mila ran. Her chair clattered behind her as Tolvo tried to grab her by the arm. He missed, and Mila dashed into the son's bedroom, slamming the door shut behind her. They're gonna find Boldir, she realized. I've gotta get to him first. The window across the room was closed, but it slid open easily. She was halfway out when the door came crashing inward and the Grim One stepped inside. 

"Mila." The Nord raised his hands. "It's Thorald from Whiterun. Don't you recognize me?"

"Get back!" She slashed at him with her dagger. It's pale light flashed through the darkness like sparks from an anvil. And then Mila dropped outside and kept running. Around the house, she saw more armored Nords in the street, and a couple Imperials as well. Several of them saw her and gave chase. She quickly rounded the corner of another house, and then another, trying to lose her pursuers by breaking their line of sight. But this was not the Imperial City with its thousands of nooks and crannies. Every time she fled from one hiding place, there seemed to be another Nord or Imperial close enough to see her reach the next. Eventually, Mila came round a corner and found herself face-to-face with one of the Nords.

"She's over here!"

Mila spun and started to run back, but the Nord's hand grasped her by the collar. She snarled like some wild beast caught in a trap and sliced at the man's wrist. The dagger struck metal instead of flesh, but its magical light was enough to get him to recoil and let go. Quickly, she took off once more in the only direction that she could, which ended up with Mila out in the street with soldiers approaching from all sides. With them stood Tolvo, his face as flat and unreadable as the day she had met him. "Liar," she shouted, still turning, looking for a direction she could run. There wasn't one. "Traitor!"

"He is not a traitor." To Mila's right, the very first Imperial she'd seen came into view. His left hand rested on the hilt of his sword, and in his right, he held a fat bag that clinked with the sound of coins. "He did his duty as a citizen of the Empire." The man tossed Tolvo the bag. "There will be more when Boldir is in chains."

Mila could do nothing but stare at Tolvo in disgust. "Did you even help him?! Was that even medicine?!"

"It was," Tolvo said. "Mostly. I'm sorry for tricking you, but I know what your father did."

"You don't know shit!" Mila screamed. If not for all the soldiers, she'd have tried to kill him then and there. "None of you do!"

"I'm sure we know more than you think," said the dark-clothed Imperial. "That dagger, for instance. It was the weapon used to kill Sibbi Black-Briar, was it not?"

"Save your interrogations, Inspector," thundered the voice of Thorald Grey-Mane. The Grim One walked up and took a knee just outside striking range. "Mila... we know where Boldir is. Where is your mother?"

"Dead," Mila spat. "The Black-Briars killed her."

That seemed to surprise everyone. Thorald, most of all. The Nord hesitated for a few seconds and then nodded. "I believe you. But there is still much to explain. We are here to take you back to Baldur. We can sort everything out in Windhelm, but first I need you to hand me your dagger."

Not one of the men surrounding her had their weapons drawn, but Mila knew that could change in an instant. She glanced at Tolvo again and wondered if they would be fast enough to stop her from gutting him. Definitely.
Shaking from both fear and rage, Mila at last made up her mind and handed Thorald the weapon.

His expression softened just a bit. "Thank you."

"Eat shit."

The Nord frowned, stood, and handed her dagger to the Inspector, muttering some words to him that Mila could not understand. The Imperial nodded and turned to Tolvo. "You know how to reach Boldir, correct?"

The herbalist nodded. "Yes, I do. But it is a long from here, and the poison should keep him from waking until tomorrow."

"Poison? You made me poison him?!" Mila went after Tolvo at a dead sprint, but was immediately grabbed and pulled back by one of the Nords. "You bastard! You craven son of a bitch! This is why Shor hates Imperials!" Mila continued to let out a string of curses and obscenities, but the men ignored her.

"Nevertheless, you will take these men tonight," the Inspector said. He and Thorald gave a few orders. Mila's hands were tied, and the soldiers started off with Tolvo to gather their horses. All that remained were herself, the Inspector, two of the Imperials, and a Grim One, which was still far more than she could hope to escape from.

She was led to the village inn and forced to sit in a windowless corner. The Imperials waited by the entrance and spoke in hushed tones, but the Grim One took a seat across from her. He was big like all of them, with a square jaw and thick red sideburns running down his cheeks. His nose looked like it had very recently been broken.
"You might not feel like it," he said, "but you're actually lucky. Baldur Red-Snow himself ordered that no harm should come to you. Whatever your papa's done, you're still like family. I would wager that this ends well for you."

Mila glared at the Nord for a few seconds, and then asked, "Baldur said you're not to hurt me?"

"Aye, he was very clear about that."

"I see." Mila spat in the man's face, and enjoyed watching as it changed from friendly to furious. She would have done it again, had he not shoved his chair back and stood up. 

"You're real funny, girl. Just remember it's us that're gonna keep that Inspector from tossing you in some black dungeon."

Mila raised her bound hands. "How will I ever repay you?"

"You could start by not being an annoying bitch," he growled. In response, Mila spat on him again, though the famous armor of the Grim Ones held up against the spittle. He shook his head. "The Breton, the elf, and now this. Where in Oblivion does Baldur find you people?"

He started to walk away, but Mila called after him. "You haven't heard? It's Oblivion that I've come from." The Nord looked as confused as she'd expected. "Why do you think me'n Boldir are out here in the middle of nowhere?" She smiled, hoping it looked as sinister as she intended. "We're hunting for souls."

The Nord glared at her for a few seconds, blinked, and then walked away. He said a few words to the Imperials and then went over to the counter to order a drink. Shortly after, the Inspector himself approached Mila and took a seat where he'd been. "This is the first time I've seen someone get Luthmar to shut up," he said. It seemed like a joke, but the man's tone and expression came across as completely serious. "I haven't told you who I am yet. Do you want to know?"

"It'd be better than calling you Inspector Milk-Drinker."

The corner of his lip twitched upward, just a bit. "You people of Skyrim have a very consistent sense of humor. My name is Trevis Hayne. I'm an agent of the Penitus Oculatus."

Mila had heard that name during her time with the Thieves Guild. To her understanding, there were few groups in the Empire that were worse to have on your tail. Trevis might not have been as large or powerful as the Nords, but he also was under no orders not to harm her. And honestly, Mila could not tell if he intended to or not. In fact, she couldn't tell anything about the man at all, save that he was dangerous. His face gave nothing away.
"What are you going to do with us?"

"If the Nords had it their way, you would return to Skyrim and live happily ever after while Boldir gets his head cut off. That doesn't sound so bad to me, but I've got orders to find out exactly what happened in the Imperial City." Trevis produced Mila's dagger and held it up for her to see. "You didn't answer me earlier. Was this dagger used to kill Sibbi Black-Briar?"

"Aye." What was the point in lying? He already knew the answer. "He was an evil man and he deserved what he got."

"Maybe. Can't ask him now." His voice lowered, and his eyes left the dagger to lock with hers. "It wasn't Boldir, was it? It was you."

Mila didn't know what would be safest to say, so she remained silent.

"You want some advice?" Trevis asked, after a few moments, "Silence is always an option, but it's rarely a good one. If you'd lied and blamed someone else, I might've believed you. But silence only tells me that I'm right, that it was one of you and you're still deciding who makes more sense to blame. You don't want to be a bad daughter and pin it on Boldir, but with the slew of crimes he's committed, you're wondering if it would even make a difference if this one were added to the pile. Am I close?"

"Piss off."

"From what we know of the man, it seems likely that Boldir will take the blame for Sibbi no matter what you say, so your honest answer matters."

She knew he was right. Boldir would say that he was responsible for Sibbi or any other deaths she had caused or crimes she had committed. No matter how absurd it stood to look, he would take the blame for all of them. He would do anything for her.
 

***
 

The riders traveled single file atop the ridge. Every next man held a torch, which lit them up in the night like torchbugs, illuminating the gray Nordic armor that most of them wore. Boldir wasn't a fool. He knew what the armor meant. They've found me.
Well, they hadn't found him yet. He'd spotted the torches long before they could have possibly seen him, and scrambled for a place to hide as they approached. The Grim Ones were fifty yards away now, plodding over the hills on the backs of their shaggy Skyrim mounts. At their current pace it would take several hours to reach the farmhouse and discover that he wasn't there. Boldir had to pray that it would give him enough time to reach Dewridge and find Mila first. Did they find her? Is that why she did not return? If so, he could only hope that they didn't leave as many men to guard her as they had sent to capture him.

The horses drummed closer, their hooves flattening the same grass that Boldir had been walking on twenty minutes prior. He kept low, and watched them pass, and then waited a full two minutes before emerging from his hiding place. His bad ankle protested, but Boldir ignored it and started to hobble again at twice the speed he had before, forgetting caution as it was a luxury that neither he nor Mila could afford anymore. It caused him pain, but this was not nearly as severe as that which he'd felt after exiting Oblivion. Better still, his other wounds were all mostly scars and scabs now, and his bruising seemed to be gone. Combined with the drive to find Mila and escape this area, Boldir found it easier to travel now than he had in a very long time.

His path took him back to the higher ground, and onward in the direction that the riders had come from. It was a long way for a wounded man to travel, with nothing to see but the earth in front of him and the moons and stars above. He wasn't alone, though. Occasionally, a wolf would howl or an owl would hoot. Once Boldir even froze up at the sound of two trolls grunting at one another somewhere to his right. He never saw the beasts though, and he thanked the gods for that. But eventually, Boldir's efforts rewarded him with the distant sight of a dozen lantern lights. He tensed up briefly, knowing that there was a very good chance that there would soon be a fight. They don't know you're coming, he told himself. You have that advantage, at least.

Boldir limped the rest of the way to the village and climbed over the little stone wall that surrounded it. There were no guards, and it was so late that nobody was out in the streets. Most of the houses were dark, though there was one slightly larger building towards the center that had lit windows. Boldir made his way toward it, making sure to stick close to the shadows in case someone stepped outside. About halfway there, he heard a horse whinny somewhere to his right. He glanced around the house he stood by and spotted a three-walled stable with seven horses in it. Three of them were large and well-groomed and one was of the Skyrim breed. He figured that those must've belonged to the soldiers and that the rest were the villagers'. An idea formed in his head. Boldir started for the stable.

"Hello?"

Damnit. He turned and saw the shadow of a woman sanding outside her home. He cleared his throat. "Go back inside, lady. Haven't you heard that there's a killer in the area?"

"Oh yes, I'd thought you lot caught him already, what with all that ruckus earlier tonight."

"We'll have him soon. In the meantime, stay indoors and don't come out until morning. This man is dangerous."

"Alright, sir. Thank you, sir."

The woman returned to her home and Boldir breathed a sigh of relief. Had it been daytime, she probably would have screamed for help provided she knew what he looked like. 
Now the horses. 
He reached the stable. A few horses turned their heads and watched him blankly, but it was the one from Skyrim that he was interested in. They would need a sturdy mount to carry them through the hills while riding double. Boldir would have stolen a horse for himself and Mila, but they would be riding hard, and it would be safer if they stayed together. Fortunately, it was already saddled, so he just took the reins and guided the animal back out into the street. He led it down the hill and to the entrance of the village, where he tied its reins to a lantern post. The horse nuzzled him on the shoulder and he whispered. "I'll be right back."

Next, Boldir returned to the stable and the other horses. Four horses for four soldiers. He did not try to kid himself. Four was too many. And he was only armed with a stick and a dagger. I'll have to be smart about this.
He noted the bales of hay that were piled in one corner, and started to make his plan.
 

***

Trevis, Mila, and the entire population of of Dewridge were startled when the screaming started. In one moment, the town had been asleep, Luthmar had been mingling with the innkeep's daughter, the Imperials had been talking quietly, and Mila had been drowsily trying to hold her eyes open. In the next, the bloodcurdling cries of a half dozen horses pierced the night and drowned out all thoughts of rest or comfort. Children cried to their parents, who peered out their windows while gripping weapons and praying that the "man who'd burned down a city" had not come for them next. Meanwhile at the inn, Mila stood still, grinning like an idiot while the soldiers sprung to action.

"The stables," shouted Ruven, Trevis's chief tracker. "They're on fire!" 

The lead Inspector turned to his other man, Cadmir. "Stay with the girl. Do not let her leave this building."

Luthmar already had his shield and axe at the ready. His grin was made ugly by the broken nose. "I've been waiting a long time for this! You Milk-Drinkers with me?"

In answer, Trevis drew both his sword and the enchanted dagger. "Be on your guard."

He, Luthmar, and Ruven hurried outside, leaving Mila alone to be watched by a single agent. The man positioned himself so he could see both her and the door. "Try anything and you'll bleed for it, girl. I can't afford to take chances with you right now." Cadmir looked over at the frightened innkeep and his daughter. "You two, stand outside. Warn me if anyone comes this way."

The horses were still screaming. It grew shriller and more desperate by the second. By the time Trevis and the others had reached the stable, there was nothing they could do. The roof had partially collapsed and fire blazed within and without. At least three of the beasts were already dead, and Trevis' own trusty stallion was helplessly smashing its body against the walls as its hair burned. He had never seen a more frightened creature in his life.

"Damnit Boldir!" Luthmar screamed. He started off down the street. "You thrice-damned coward! Come out and face us!"

Trevis and Ruven turned to find a small gathering of frightened citizens rushing the stable with pales of water. "We can't let him use one as a hostage," the Inspector declared. He cleared his throat and barked, "Return to your homes! You are interfering with Imperial business!"

From down the street, Luthmar thundered, "Go back inside!"

The crowd broke up as people started running for their homes. Trevis nodded to the inn. "He's here for Mila. We should go back to her." Ruven agreed, and they started back. As they neared it, Luthmar glanced back at them and his eyes went wide. "Imp! Behind you!"

Trevis spun, sword ready just in time to see a giant of a man leap from the shadows and jam a blade into Ruven's neck. The agent didn't even have time to drop his sword before Boldir wrenched it from his hand and swung at Trevis in a motion so swift and smooth that it had to have been planned out. Trevis barely managed to raise his own blade in time to parry, but by then Boldir had whipped around a long stick and cracked it against his head.

The Inspector fell down next to his bleeding comrade, and Boldir quickly went after the Grim One while the fight's momentum was on his side. Unlike the Imperials, Luthmar had time to prepare, and had his shield up in time to easily catch Boldir's first swing. He followed up with a swipe from his axe that chopped the walking stick in two. Boldir staggered a bit on his bad foot but managed to stabilize himself. The Grim One smiled. "Wounded eh? Shame. I'd have preferred to face you whole."

As the two Nords clashed, Trevis regained himself and saw that Ruven was watching him with pleading eyes, trying to mouth the word "help" but failing on account of the blood in his throat. He crawled over and pressed his hands against his friend's wound. He mustered up a healing spell, but restoration had never been his specialty and the wound continued to bleed. "HEALER!" Trevis roared. "I NEED A HEALER!"

Inside the inn, Mila watched as Cadmir's face turned pale. They could hear the Inspector outside, screaming desperately for aid. The agent looked from Mila to the door, and then back to Mila, and finally to the innkeep and his daughter, who were wildly trying to tell him that his friend was bleeding on the ground. "He's bleedin' sir! And the big ones're fighting! He had a stick and a knife and a sword and a-"

"Shut up!" the agent barked. His fist was wrapped so tightly around the hilt of his sword that it was shaking. "Alright, you two watch the girl. I've got to help them!"

As he addressed the terrified citizens, Mila's hands darted for the dagger at his belt. The flabbergasted innkeep's cries mingled so much with the ones he'd already been giving that Cadmir failed to understand it until his own weapon was planted in the back of his spine. Now the daughter's scream was almost as loud as the horses' had been. Her father held her tightly as Mila cut her bindings and picked up the Imperial's sword. "Get back!" she shouted, approaching the door. They obeyed without question.

When Mila rushed outside, she saw three things: First was Trevis, desperately clutching Ruven's bloody neck as he shouted for a healer. Second were Boldir and Luthmar battling it out in the middle of the street. Boldir was clearly the stronger of the two, as each of his blows forced his foe to retreat, but with his bad leg he was also the slower and more haggard in his movements. He was struggling to keep his balance, and the skillful Grim One capitalized on that perfectly, whipping around Boldir, taking safe swipes that would clip his armor and throw him off even more.

The third thing Mila saw was her dagger, dropped not far from where the Imperials had fallen. Seeing it made her focus, it urged her to act. She ran over and picked it up, and then made a bee-line for the Nords.
Trevis saw her and tried to stop her, but just removing one hand from Ruven's neck was enough to allow more blood to push through. He watched as the girl sprinted behind Luthmar, leapt onto his back, and began stabbing him relentlessly. The Nord howled in pain as blood and smoke emerged from his neck in equal measures. He tried to throw Mila off, but Boldir forced him to the ground then picked up his axe.
"I'm sorry," he said, and then he finished off the Grim One with his own weapon. He took Mila's shaky hand and helped her up. The girl was covered in blood. "Come on!"

They raced for the horse Boldir had stowed away, leaving Trevis alone and in shock as he continued to call for help. After far too long, a few villagers approached him. "You told us to stay indoors-"

"I don't care," he shouted. "Where is a healer?!"

"We don't have a healer," a woman answered.

"A priest then!"

"No priests either. All we've got is an herbalist."
 

***
 

"Shor's bones..."
Thorald Gray-Mane and his men had been in no great hurry to reach the farmhouse, where they'd hoped to find Boldir fast asleep. But they damn sure hurried back. They pushed their horses as hard as they could, and even then only arrived an hour after dawn. The scene that awaited was the stuff of nightmares. Gray smoke billowed from a ruined stable, carrying with it the fresh smell of burnt horse. Outside the inn, a group of peasants had gathered and were arguing with a bloodstained Inspector Trevis over the bodies of Luthmar and Ruven.

Thorald dismounted and shoved them aside until he reached the body of his fallen shield brother. "What happened?" he snarled.

"What does it look like?" the Inspector asked. "They got away! Boldir wasn't in some shack. He was here."

The crowd began to disperse as the other soldiers pushed through their ranks. The mage, Bentrius stepped to the front. "Cadmir?"

"Dead too," Trevis replied. "His body is still inside." He looked Thorald in the eyes. "It was the girl. She killed Cadmir and dropped Luthmar."

"How does a child manage-"

"By jumping on his godsdamned back and stabbing him in the neck!" Trevis shouted. None of the Nords had ever seen him so angry. "Where is the herbalist?"

"I'm here." Tolvo pushed to the front of them, looking as shocked as anyone. "I swear, I didn't know that he-"

"You lied to us," Trevis said. "Got good men killed. You could've even been working with him."

The Colovian's eyes went wide. "Working with him? No sir, I was trying to help! I-"

"Because of you, Boldir now has a horse and could be anywhere, while two of the Empress's best are dead." He looked at Bentrius. "Find a rope and hang this man. The son too."

Tolvo started to plead, but Trevis wouldn't hear it. He walked over to where the crowd had reformed a little further back. "I don't know who or how, but your village has aided and harbored a traitor." He pointed to where the herbalist was being hauled off. "This is the price for treason. Remember that. Now go back to your homes."

As the Inspector started to walk, Thorald joined him. "You blame the herbalist, but you had Luthmar and two of your own to make sure that this did not happen."

"It wasn't enough," Trevis said. "I thought the girl might've been capable, I didn't expect her to be completely bloody deranged! I've seen soldiers struggle to take a life more than she did.... And Boldir ambushed us. Didn't give Ruven a chance to fight. I was too busy trying to keep him alive to try and stop the man. But even with a crippled leg he managed to hold off Luthmar until the girl arrived."

"Gods be good." Thorald shook his head. "I've fought with Boldir. I knew what he could do... but Mila... our mothers uses to run stalls in the Whiterun market not a stone's toss apart. I bought fruit from the girl many times. She was a sweet kid."

"Lots of killers were sweet kids once." Trevis knew that this changed things. Mila's other crimes might have fallen on her father's shoulders, but the deaths of two of his men had to be answered for. "We won't underestimate them again."

***

Neither Boldir nor Mila had ever ridden so hard in their lives. Every night, their sturdy Skyrim mount would graze for only a short while before laying down to sleep, not wasting a moment. But it was all worth it when the highlands became low, and the trees became thick. The Great Forest masked their travels for several days as they passed from village to uninterested village, never stopping or speaking to anyone. It was only when they came upon a small monetary of the Nine that they decided it would be worth the risk to take shelter. Weynon Priory, the monks called it. They said it was once the home of the legendary Blade named Jauffre. But more importantly now, it was home to several healers.

"Stendarr have mercy," declared the man who brought them into the chapel. "You two look like you tried to fight a troll. Don't worry, you're safe here. We'll do everything we can."

[Witchking of Angmar]

Daric/Maori

Windhelm

Just like that. Daric's whole world literally was flipped upside down in a matter of moments. From what he'd seen, what he'd endured, to where he'd been now, lying on a stone floor, cold and uncaring as the land he called home.

He should've been dead, he knew that. Maybe he was?

All he saw was a fuzzy light as his eyes adjusted. The dim light in the Palace of Kings was like the sun compared to much of Blackreach.

"Palace of Kings?"

As his focus came to, he took in the familiar surroundings. It was as he remembered alright. Except the Ulfricless throne, and the large crack on the ceiling, and a hole in the stone. If he didn't know any better, he'd say it was man shaped.

It was like waking up from a long dream. If it weren't for all the rubble surrounding him and the elf, now unconscious on the floor next to him, he'd have sworn it was nothing but.

"A nightmare more like. Where is everybody?" Daric's head swiveled left, then right. Then left again. "My blades. My blades! I... I couldn't have..." Daric's hands pushed away all the dirt and rock he could until his hands found a familiar grasp once again. But it was only one. Turning this way and that, Daric's eyes darted around the Palace. The dinner table, the empty throne, the door, the chamber halls, the door again with some funny looking old man in a white robe. Wait...

"Who the hell are you?"

His white knuckle hands lightly dripping with water on the palace floor that he hadn't stood on before not one second prior, whatever benevolent grandfatherly expression he bore months ago was washed away with a downtrodden jaw and suspicious eyes.

"Strange times indeed" He spoke out. "That men and elves appear within the palace of a potential Rí ruirech, I am Theudofrid emissary of Roscrea and among the Archdruids of our order. Either you are the worst assassins I've laid eyes on or your purpose here is..?"

"Ri... what? Nevermind, I don't have time for this. I..." Daric started to walk towards the exit with Maori on his shoulder until he buckled over in pain. Whatever adrenaline he had before was wearing off.

"...need a healer. We're not assassins. I'm Daric, Baldur's... I'm his boy. And this is his friend. We've got information about the Jarl of Markarth that he needs to be aware of, before the moot."

"Jarl Baldur never spoke of any sons, although baring in mind I see no reason he would share such information with myself." With that the elderly Archdruid made his way for the duo, Theudofrid being smaller in his elder years then Daric had to look slightly upwards when before them.

"Until proven otherwise by means of wordspeak or violence you word shall be taken at face value." Once again spoke Theudofrid. "In what manner do you require healing?"

"I need to be able to travel. Right now, I can barely walk... And the elf..."

"The elf is fine..." said Maori, finally beginning to stir. "Y'ffre's sack, I think I took a blow to the head. Hey, wasn't I carrying you not too long ago?"

Daric dropped Maori like a sack of rocks. "The speedier the recovery, the better. And have you seen my other blade?"

Maori, cursing the boy said, "You might've lost it in the battle, in Blackreach. It's gone boy. Let it me."

"****. That sword was a gift, and a twin to this one. No matter now I suppose." Daric drew his other blade, inspecting the edge. Skyforge steel was a wonder, truly. But even so, his battle with Brund managed to leave it dulled. Some of the edge was even chipped.

"Are you a Mage? You have the look of a Mage. And... I can kind of sense something about you. It's a tingling feel in my head sort of. Magicka right? I've been sending it more often since my training with my pa's book. My real pa I mean. It was especially apparent around Brund..."

"A wise man would be more truthful, this talk of Brund has an intensity to it, correct me if I am wrong but isn't Jarl Brund a political rival to Jarl Baldur's claimant for the throne as High King? If it is such I hesitate to involve myself further in Skyrim's political climate, as I speak with authority of all Roscrea we seek not to interfere with Nordic politics as gesture of good faith."

"Roscrea... Roscrea... I've heard mention of something about Roscreans once.. Ah right, in Solitude!" Said Maori. "The Bretons mentioned you lot. Aren't you Nords yourself? Atmorans even?"

"Bah! This coot reminds me more of the Bretons." Daric took a sniff. "Blech, smell like em too. Like flowers and milk."

"Stow your tongue, child," said Maori. "This Brund fellow' more than a mere political opponent. He's a monster, that thinks himself a god. Babbling a bunch of nonsense, him and that freak he has at his side. They have some powerful magic at their disposal, necromancy of some kind, I guess from his 'thu'um'".

"And to make matters worse, these two have been rivals since the first time I met them in person. Though for Brund I'd say it's more of a grudge. If you're invested in Baldur at all, you need to help if you can, old man," said Daric.

"I take no offense Daric, Son of Baldur. I have in fact flowers adorned to my very forehead." The ever so slightly smartass remark wouldn't fly over the young Daric's head. "We are bound as kinsmen to the children of Skyrim through Atmoran blood, though as the Nords are descendants from western men of Atmora we are of the east."

Setting his staff aside Theudofrid relaxed himself onto the wooden bench. "From the beginning on this experience with Jarl Brund, as my own experience with Chieftains whom are excellent administrators with horrible complexes I hesitate to involve our island. However I am considering all possibilities, this talk of necromancy and nonsense has my full attention. Bear in mind Son of Baldur and his esteemed Elven companion that Roscrea is of my heart, of further support in Baldur which I personally find an outwardly reasonable man will instill... Delusions of unification in his rivals it must stay my hand."

Daric thought to correct him... son of Baldur somehow just didn't sound right. But then, it did as well. It made him feel guilty though, Maric was his father. Could he have two, maybe? And, Daric was still pissed at him, and wanted his answers for what he'd done. He betrayed everything he though Baldur stood for. 

Still, he'd be damned if he was gonna let Brund make him answer for it with his life. 

"Listen here old man. If Baldur dies before I can kick his ass myself, and you could have done something to help us prevent his death, I'm taking it out on you, personally. After I kill Brund first. You don't know Brund like I do. He'll kill everyone in his way just to get to Baldur. He doesn't even likely care about being King, just so long as he gets his chance to prove he's strongest. I'm not asking you to pledge all of Roscrea to Baldur, I don't care about you or your island of flowerheads. If you know magic and you can aid us, that's all I need. The rest, we'll handle ourselves. So what say you?"

Maori was watching tentatively, eyes darting back and forth between the two short humans from an even shorter point of view. It was years ago, but if he winked a bit, pictured Daric's hair being blonde even, the boy maybe could pass for a little Baldur. Maybe. Gods know the Nord was pretty enough to pass for a Breton back then. 

Damn minstrels. Still, Red-Snow had some balls then. So does this kid. If they come from his real pa or not, who knows but I'd say the bard did an okay job with him. If only he didn't bitch so much, though. And wasn't so moody all the time.

"Please, ignore the threats," Maori said finally. "Kid is just bluffing. All bark and no bite. But, he's right about this Brund character. If he weren't so fixated on Baldur, I'd love to have him on our side against the Thalmor, but as it stands, Brund is going to tear Skyrim apart just to get his chance to kill him. No one has to know you helped us. But if they did, no one in Skyrim would say a bad word against you for helping one of their own."

"Well if this Brund is as terrible in person as bespoken of then perhaps, in we mortals present if I could aid in any way then please give forth your request."

"What? Can you please say that in Tamrielic?"

"He did, you idiot. I swear you've been spending way too much time around Nords," said Maori. Though he had to admit, the funny phrasing of these islanders was starting to remind him of the Altmer.

"Right, so. Healing? Can you do that first?" said Maori. "Whatever you can manage on short notice, we're both pretty banged up. Check that one's head, he almost got it popped like a grape. Mine too for that matter. And my ribs. Pretty sure one's broken."

"Your companion is somewhat correct, your Tamrielic language is foreign to me. Our native tongue is not easily translated nor does it help I think in it and must translate my thoughts before even speaking them, as such I do tend to slip back into our Druidic fashion of speaking."

Raising his lightly dripping hands to eye level with a slight twitch the water droplets turned to quickly passing steam. "Prior to your sudden arrival I was working about with cauldrons, enchanting Baldur's Grim Ones' equipment even still. Please lay down both of you and the healing shall be done."

"That requires water? I know exactly nothing about enchanting but I'm pretty sure it involves... crystals, soul gems. And... a troll's skull?" said Daric, trying to find a spot to lay down and eventually settling  for wherever didn't have rock and dirt sprawled over everything, which ended up being the dining table. Maori followed suit.

"You Tamrielic folk and your enchantment tables, it's no wonder how backwards the fields are without Hermetic knowledge. I personally enjoy enchanting using cauldrons as my base, transmutation is a wonderful thing lost to time here."

Theudofrid started tapping his finger against the wood thinking, once satisfied with whatever thoughts circled around that head of his he swiftly plucked a single hair from the duo much to the objections afterwards. With one strain in each hand using his thumb and index finger the Archdruid grounded them up with the help of a little magic, a very fine layer of dust now covered his two fingers to which Theudofrid placed on each side of their temples.

From there on the healing process was mostly conventional if not a bit more soothing.

Maori felt the slight burning tingling sensations of his cuts and bruises mending slowly, enough that he finally felt the milder sensations of bonebreak fever... though even this was slowly starting to fade, the symptoms at the least.

Smiling to himself, he imagined he was in a warm bath with women far more attractive than he'd ever get to bathe with. He was enjoying himself quite a bit until the boy piped up again.

"How much longer? Time is of the ess... estimated essentially..."

In Daric's throws into unconsciousness Theudofrid softly shushed him, whispering of an oasis of fruit to dream of. The Archdruid could have called another Druid that had accompanied him beyond the sea, yet thought better of it as most were helping about Windhelm after the devastation prior. As the hours rolled by of dreary healing Theudofrid pondered on the legitimacy of the boy's claims, among the administration present someone must know if this Daric is truly Baldur's son.

On one hand Jarl Baldur or perhaps the next time he is seen High King Baldur would be furious were his son wronged on Theudofrid's behalf, on the other hand if the two before the Archdruid are clever tricksters then they could be dealt with. There wasn't much harm in healing them anyhow, son or clever tongue the risk was too great in the face of Druidic sway to the old ways.

Yet as the elf stirred and mumbled incoherently after the hours of treatment it was Daric who only worsened, as his flesh was made anew his mind delved deeper into sleep and Theudofrid knew better then to awaken a man in such mindset. With gentle shakes of the shoulder proving too little for stirring the elf into consciousness the Archdruid smacked him upside the head.

"Grrr, what in Oblivion?" said Maori, clenching his teeth. He instinctively bit at the old man's hands fruitlessly, like a snappy poorly trained mongrel. 

Sitting up, he said, "I was having a really good dream. Ever had buttered Butter Elf on a spit?"

Reeling his hand back instinctively after the bites Theudofrid wasn't quite amused. "I have not, but there is a first time for everything. Including being bitten by an Elf, Gather your thoughts and listen. Daric is physically stable and in better health, where as his mind has slipped in upon itself and will not awaken for some time."

"Eh, really? Hmm.." Maori took a look at Daric, placing his hand at his cheek, then snatching it away. "Yeesh, he's sweating like a Sload... Poor kid. Don't know what Baldur was thinking sending us to spy on a guy like that. Perhaps he doesn't know just how brutal he is. He didn't seem all that concerned. Or, he expected that Nord he sent to take care of things. In any case, he miscalculated, fantastically."

"What exactly do you intend for future actions, perhaps if you finally would explain to me your encounter I could offer counsel." Theudofrid's lessening patience began to take shape.

"I don't need your counsel, human, what I need is this boy to be okay," said Maori, obviously losing patience himself.

"Well then friend of Daric perhaps you should make yourself useful for your lord, the son of Baldur shall be looked after. Indeed the already dreary times of empty throne rooms need not be worsened."

"Right, son of Baldur," said Maori, trying to sound as convincing as possible. "And how can I do that? Be useful. I don't know magic you know. Not the kind that would help here unless you wanna smell a bear up close."

"Well is it not obvious? Ride out, swift as the wind across the plains. I would not doubt that as of this very moment Jarl Brund is putting action to his plans, I suggest you do the same. Daric shall be taken care of."

Maori looked back at the kid, then to the old man. With a smirk on his face he realized he could hardly call him a kid anymore. He was more rough than Baldur was when he first met, even being Breton. In fact Daric was starting to remind him of Baldur after his change. When he'd finally been worthy of being called "warrior".

But, the boy soldier wasn't quite there yet. And he'd risked his life enough for Baldur or whoever it was he was fighting for.

"You speak true, uh... what was your name again?"

"Theudofrid, son of Ingolf. Born a Milhinn-Caspis of the Arzad-Kahbrii mountains."

"Alright... I'm gonna call you... Theo. Congratulations, you officially have a Tamrielic name. It's a strong name too, the name of a King I believe, in High Rock." Maori got up then, stretched his legs, cracked his neck, then grabbed his bow. 

"I'm gonna see what soldiers I can find to accompany me to Ivarstead. See that someone sharpens Daric's blade, I'm sure he'll want to try and catch up with me. I'm gonna see that he won't need to though. Take care of yourself."

"I cannot say that all the gods watch us, but I know one has his eyes set. Speak not of my aid to anyone, go with the god whom has his eyes filled with world sand. Go with the blessings of they who weave the webs and see beyond the burning fires."

Maori didn't know what I'm Oblivion he was saying, but he knew a blessing when he heard one, and somehow, he knew he would need it. Nodding, the elf took one last look at his sickly companion, then walked into the howling winds that now filled Windhelm.

The last time Maori was in Windhelm, there were Thalmor crowding the streets, ash and light in the air, Nord soldiers and rabble all dying the same... Now? It was almost like none of it happened.

Well, there was no getting around the damage, that was plain as day though it was clear there were workers working around the clock to repair it. All Maori could hear after all was bang bang bang, ting ting ting! Stupyyd lizard this, blasted elves that. Though every now and then he heard "Dumb Nord Oaf" or something along the lines of a curse he knew belonged to a Dark Elf. 

"Seems they developed some spine at last," he said, smiling as he made his way through the crowded streets of the ancient human city. It was strange to him, how these Nords despite everything could keep such a stiff upper lip. Their beloved king was murdered, by elves as far as they knew, and many of their own died. Sure the city wasn't filled with weeping women, and grovelling old men, but the faces of those that passed him by weren't of those who were heart broken, but instead, determined. The Snow Tower was an unwavering thing. 

He'd heard so much talk of the "Sleeping Bear", that Skyrim was like the Empire, blind and weak. Maybe once this was true, but the Thalmor has woken them finally. If only the same could be done for the Bosmer, he thought. Then the war wouldn't even be necessary.

Maori saw many Stormcloaks. In fact, he saw more than he had the last time he was here, or at least it felt like it. Some were even almost as short as he was. Well, almost, and likely close to Daric's age, but none would give him the time of day. He approached a Stormcloak woman with a kindly face covered in black paint smeared downwards beneath her eyes. and a bosom that was hard to hide even under her uniform. Not something one would give note to normally, but Maori was short, and saw this before he saw her face. Between the two, in Windhelm, the kindly face when looking at his ugly elven mug was more noteworthy.

Ah who the hell am I kidding, heh.

With a smile not even all her warpaint could hide, the blonde Nord soldier said, "Are ye lost, elf? You seem like it."

Maori had to admit, he often felt lost in these lands, but knew that wasn't what she meant. Though... "You know what? I am lost. You know the way to Ivarstead? I have business in High Hrothgar. Information for your Jarl that can't wait."

"Information for Baldur? Well, I certainly hope you're telling the truth, because to anyone else that sounds like an ambush waiting to happen. Especially since you'd need to go through the Rift. You have some sort of papers or anything official-like?"

Maori sighed. "If you really need to, you can go ask his unconscious adopted kid back in the palace. I'd go alone, believe me but I don't know the lands very well and have reason to believe that yes, there may be an ambush. Which is why I want some of his soldiers to accompany me to help their beloved Jarl."

"Now now, I don't know nothing about Baldur having a kid, and even if it was true, the kid is neither the Jarl, or a captain, or even a commander. I may be new but I'm not so daft as to trust an elf from gods know where, probably Valenwood from the look of you while walking through the Gods Damned Rift. Now I'm going to tell you what I tell my children. Run along now, I have important business to attend to."

Maori had to give her credit, even when she was dismissing him, she never let her smile waver. She was likely good with the children she mentioned, though what could make a woman abandon her kids for a life of war, he did not know. These Nords were obsessed with death. 

One thing she did say though was somewhat helpful. He'd need to speak to someone with authority if he was to ever get any sort of assistance.

He found just that as he walked through the markets, though he didn't know it. There were three large Nords he could only assume were Grim Ones due to the armor. But after watching them he was more likely to believe they were mercs or adventurers who stumbled upon the armor, maybe in the Rift, rather than actually being Grim Ones. These idiots couldn't possibly have passed the trials.

"Jjgmir, tell her! Tell her I'm not lying!"

"He's really not, and I can't stand him. Bolsh is a lot of things, but he ain't lyin lady. I am, in fact a Grim One."

"Not just a Grim One, he's the bee's knees! He's a commander amongst the Grim Ones!"

Now Maori knew they were full of shit. 

"No it's true! He got the white bear fur uniform to prove it!" said Bolsh. Bjorn to his credit was staying out of the swooning attempt altogether. He was too busy staring at the meats stand. And drooling, it seemed.

The woman in question was a young redheaded woman with a babe at her teet. Though the kid was no babe, probably at least five winters in, maybe even six. Too old to be on his mother's teet, that's for sure. "Milkdrinker. Hey, I finally get that insult," said Maori.

"I'm sure you're as strong as Ysgramor himself," said the woman, uninterested and trying to walk past. The two idiots kept following her.

"Here's how it happened. You see, Baldur was fighting the Thalmor, trying to save the city, but he was without his armor. In fact, he was fightin naked, as naked as a new babe, were that babe also covered from head to toe in paint and ash, and blood. Red-Snow was shiverin in between guttin and burnin folks up, and my commander here just nonchalantly walked off, killed a bear, skinned it, and gave it to him so he wouldn't freeze off his snowberries. Wouldn't do for the Jarl to turn into an elf while killing elves right?" said Bolsh, ignoring a Dunmer that told him to "Suck his mother's snowberries", for the remark.

Continuing without skipping a beat, Bolsh said, "Anyway, as it so happens, killing a frost bear is apparently the requirement for becomin a Commander anyway, so Baldur said, 'Jjgmir, you're one of the fiiiinest soldiers I've ever laid eyes on, next to my wife of course. And I want YOU, to fight by my side as a Commander in the Grim Ones. And that's how it happened."

"Aye, that's how it happened," said Jjgmir, arms crossed and standing heroically. "And I did fight at his side, killed over two dozen Thalmor soldiers myself."

"Pffft, please," said the woman and Maori at once.

"Um, pardon miss, but that parts true," said Bjorn, finally taking an interest. "See? We've got the ears to prove it." Sure enough, Bjorn reached in his satchel and pulled out a long string with a line of Aldmeri ears running all the way down the length. Now, Maori believed they were Grim Ones, though he didn't want to.

The woman's reaction was as one would have expected. The baby started crying, Maori was laughing, and the mother yelled in horror after slapping each of them across their dumb faces.

After storming off, Jjgmir said, "Now why in Stuhn's scrotum did you go n' do that for, dumb arse?" This was accompanied with a gauntleted closed fist to the temple. 

"Yea you dumb arse!" said Bolsh joining in. 

"You shut your trap, Bolsh!" said Jjgmir, grabbing the two by the neck and knocking their heads together. "That story was stupid. Why didn't you just tell her the truth?"

"Oww! Because, you'd done told it four times already and no one believes you outsmarted the Thalmor Grand Overseer!"

"Bollocks! But I DID outsmart the Grand Overseer! I AM a Grim One Commander! I am not an idiot just because I pal around, with two of the dumbest most idiotic numbskull skeever humpers, in the entirety of the godsdamned Stormcloak army! And goddamn it I deserve some respect! And some wenches!"

"Would you keep it down?" said Maori, finally approaching the trio. "By Shor I swear you three were on the teet longer than that kid. Wait? Did I just swear by Shor? By Y'ffre I've been around you Nords for far too long now."

"And just who in Dibella's ass are you?" said Jjgmir.

"Wait, I know him! That's Baldur's friend!" said Bjorn.

"Yea right, Baldur wouldn't have an elf friend, certainly not one that looks so.... elfy. And strange," said Bolsh.

"But it is! It is!" said Bjorn. "I've seen him and he matches the description in his book! See!" 

"Ha! Now you read?" said Jjgmir. Maori snatched the book away before Jjgmir could.

"Give me that! Baldur's writin stories about me now? What is this trite." Maori flipped through the pages, again and again. "What the? I don't sound this hopeless! Askin him for advice on women? I didn't do that! Wait, did I?"

"Was there something you wanted, elf?" said Jjgmir, getting increasingly annoyed.

"Bah, now I know what his woman was talking about. Gods, this book makes me look like a bleedin sidekick," said Maori, ignoring them as he walked off, reading what he could with them running after him. He didn't even need to ask them to follow him. The three idiots' curiosity was already stringing them along, right back towards the Rift where they came.

Between the three and their stupid ramblings and his reading the book, Maori did manage to notice the Stormcloak mother from earlier however. Turns out, there was indeed at least one dead Grim One killed in the Rift. Evidently, this was her husband. 

They stripped him of his armor, gave him a pyre, then placed the armor in her arms. Apparently, they were now hers.

"She passed the test? She told me she was new," said Maori. 

"Must've," said Jjgmir.

"Might not even need to do a refittin with breasts like that."

"Bolsh. Shut the **** up," said Jjgmir. "Now isn't the time, show some respect to our fallen comrade, or I'll let them know we have need of another pyre."

That was enough for them. Even Maori stood in silence. Anyone that would help fight the Thalmor was now family to him.

[Witchking of Angmar]

The elf, he's leaving you. Wake up, Daric... WAKE UP!

"Father!"

Daric bolted up, a sweaty mess of hair and bandages over his head. The room he was in was spinning, and dark, with the smell of incense and old potions. Old potions left a very distinct smell, like burned medicine and hair. In any case, he certainly wasn't in the throne room any longer. He got out of bed, not without effort, and stood to his feet, veins popping out of his skin from the strain. The sound of snow and wind at the windows filled the room, angry dogs barking to be let in.

"Ok, so, I am in Windhelm. That wasn't a dream. And father... I heard his voice but... there's no way he could be here. He's off somewhere in High Rock. Gods I miss him."

His memory made him look around the room in search of his book. Now it was somewhat clearer where he was. He found the enchanting table first. There was a star on some sort of board, a green orb with swirling green smoke, candles, and of course, "Ha, I knew there was a troll's skull involved. That's an enchanting table. Then, this must be the court mage's old room..."

Daric's eyes wandered over the many books of the room, hoping to find anything specifically on magic like the one his father gave him. Surprisingly, there weren't many here. Most of what he could pronounce was about "theory" of magic, and principles of magic. Very few actually sounded as though they taught magic. 

There was one book however that caught his eye... 

He couldn't even fully pull off the spell his father's book taught, so he doubted he could put this one to good use just yet. But, one never knew. 

And besides...

"I'm pretty close," said Daric, holding a swirl of flame in his hands that slowly formed into a orb of energy. "If I could just work out how to shoot this damn thing..."

"Not in here you're not." Echoed the familiar voice of Theudofrid, A single snap of the fingers being heard just outside the room along with the distinctive footsteps of an old man. Daric's flame died down even as magicka was poured into it.

With Daric's head now facing the old man he bore a hearty smile at the boy. "Fire even those of magic origins must have oxygen, create a void and poof the greatest pyromancers are pitiful." Waving his hand about the room the old man asked Daric. "Did you at all know my native predecessor at all? Didn't have the heart to discard what was left, albeit the enchantment table is well constructed and has it's uses from time.. to time. How is your health Daric, Son of Baldur?"

Daric sighed, both in frustration of his spell being snuffed out, and... "Look, just call me Daric. I'm not really Baldur's boy. More like, adopted. If you're going to use titles though, I am Daric, son of Maric, son of Baldur. And I'm fine."

"Ah so my boy without questions nor rudeness I learn the truth, strange thing subliminal prying is. Don't take it from a man across the sea but if you're to rule one day make sure to keep things like that in mind." Theudofrid eased himself comfortably into a humble chair looking as if made of dried vines.

"Daric I need not waste time, your companion has left for Jarl Baldur." Proclaimed the Archdruid, eyebrows raised.

"I.. he...what??" Daric walked up to the arch druid and grabbed him by the collar. "You know what? I don't like you. The elf, when did he leave, and where is my stuff?"

While Daric still clamped his hands around Theudofrid's robe the old Archdruid had that unmistakable'You cannot help them all' expression. "Daric, release me. I have shown only benevolence, do not tempt me otherwise."

"Fine..." Daric didn't like the druid's snide little remarks, that much was clear. But, the funny talking Roscrean was right. So far, he had been helpful. For the most part.

"Use your newfound freedom and tell me, how long have I been out? When did the elf leave? Please, I don't have time to waste, he might need me. And even if he doesn't, I'm not being left behind here."

"You have wisdom in you to compliment strength, I will need such inner strength for the roads ahead. For your roads the Elf left a few days prior, unless the hidden paths are taken I would say the little Bosmer is still traveling. As of the question prior your equipment is on suggestion from militarily focused minds are held in the palace's barracks."

Theudofrid had a good long look at Daric while the boy yet still was thinking. "Daric I do quite vividly recall similar looks, now while I doubt there are any Nords within this room I'll act as one now. Say your damn reasons for those dirty looks my boy."

Daric's cheeks began to turn a bright red. "No, there are no Nords in this room. That much is certainly apparent. I am Breton. And even so, I'm more Nord than you. I don't appreciate the way you kept saying 'son of Baldur, son of Baldur'. I get it, you're smart enough to see through it. I might not be his blood, but I am trying my best to follow in his footsteps... and to understand what steps he takes, and why. And I'm trying to do all that while following my real father's footsteps as well! I'm trying to find out who I am, really am, and I know the answer lies within Skyrim! I'm no Nord, but gods damnit, I'm going to show everyone that I'm as much a servant of Shor as they are! I'll knock down the gates of Sovngarde with my bare fists if I have to, but I will make Shor see me! And I'll make sure Baldur sees me too!"

By now, Daric's eyes were swimming in his frustration. He wiped the tears away, embarrassed, then said, "I don't have a problem with you, I guess old man. I guess the problem is me. Anyway, I don't have time to talk about it. I need to go, and fast. I need to find my stuff, a horse... so much to do..."

"I do think we should speak once more, in time. For now I do believe there is but one more thing to do in the service of Jarl Baldur, Daric would you be so kind.. As to help an old man carry four cauldrons to the river?" There was a dull twinkle in the old man's eyes that had been absent before, whether it be from the snake or the owl was left up in the air. 

Daric gave a heavy sigh... there was no hiding the annoyance. But, he was already behind as it was. The chances of catching up with Maori, and Baldur before the moot was done was slim. But at least Maori would reach him in time, assuming he was okay.

"Fine," he finally said, sounding defeated. His part in this little adventure was finally over, and he knew it. Whatever the old man wanted done, he didn't know, but he doubted it would magically teleport him up to High Hrothgar, so it didn't much matter.

It was then Daric once his equipment was donned he and Theudofrid gathered one by one the Archdruid's cauldrons, much to the surprise of Daric they were without engravings nor golden or of anything more then simply iron cauldrons, of which the old man explained was the point of things.

Strange looks were given about the streets of Windhelm every so often, at the very least the old man had become a familiar sight but never had the Archdruid carried his work outside the palace. Beyond the ancient bridge one by one the heavy cauldrons were setup far enough upstream to be away from city eyes.

Each of the four were set up just on the frozen banks arranged in a square of no more, no less then two and a quarter meters apart. Prior to disappearing into the wilderness for 'trodding paths seldom known' Theudofrid had Daric fill each cauldron to the very top with snow.

Surprisingly the old man wasn't gone for long, returning with ruffled hair and dirty robes whatever minor adventure to be had was kept to himself. Theudofrid dipped his right finger in the river, letting two droplets of water drip from his finger into each of the four that is before spitting in each of them as well. The old man looked damn focus and whatever to be done appeared on the cusp, Daric standing there watching the old man with a look of skepticism halted him.

"Daric, what do you wish for more then anything in this very moment?"

"In this very moment?" said Daric. By now he'd almost given up on the idea of catching up to Maori entirely. Even so, he humored the old man, knowing that "in this very moment" meant something pertaining to how he was feeling currently. And even so, that list was big.

"To be a Nord, to be older, to marry Magdela Bathory, to master destruction magic, to be with my father, and to be with Baldur. But, I'd settle for catching up with Maori and continuing on our quest to High Hrothgar for now."

"Well." The old man replied suppressing a grin. "I could help with at least half but for now, continuing with your quest the good Daric says?" Gesturing to his cauldrons Theudofrid need say one more thing. "It shall be done."

With a raise of his head and the widening of the eyes within those cauldrons the snow bubbled and boiled, unleashing an encompassing steam that nearly hid the Archdruid whom preformed his rites transmutations the likes of which would frighten masters...

***

"All I'm sayin is I think you're getting to be a bit too much like a ****, sir, that's all."

"Excuse me??"

"Bolsh, the phrase I believe is that the boss is starten to get 'too cocky'."

"Shut up, Bjorn, nobody asked you!"

"If anyone needs to shut up, it's you, Bolsh! I am not a ****, or cocky, but if you speak to me like that again, I'll show you just how much of a **** I can be."

"What?" said Bjorn and Bolsh simultaneously. 

"Uh, ah just never you mind what! Fact is, my being a commander means I'm on league with some of the greatest! Commander Bardok the Impaler, Bully the Bully, Falgrum, hell, even Boldir Iron-Brow!"

"Wait, didn't Mazoga the...Ominous Orc.. or... whatever her name is injure him in the trials? Gods, what's up with Baldur and those names anyway," said Bolsh.

"It wasn't Ominous, but for once I agree. Anyway, he got better," said Jjigmir.

"How does one get better from something like that, didn't she cripple him or something?" asked Bjorn.

"Bully said he's big boned. Maybe he got a good healer, I dunno. He's got a bad knee but he's carrying on anyway. Tough bastard."

"You lot know Bardok?" asked Maori.

"Why of course we know Bardok! He's only one of the toughest sons of ******* in the whole Stormcloak army. Like me!" said Jjigmir, ignoring the look Maori gave him. "Why, he even went toe to toe with Baldur I heard, and nearly won. Who knows, maybe he could give Boldir a run for his money too. I'm telling ya, last time I saw Boldir, he didn't look all that tough. Let alone like the guy that would burn Riften down to the ground."

"Seemed pretty tough to me," said Bjorn. "Kinda scary actually."

"Ah what would you know?" said Jjgmir. "You ain't a commander. Boy, it's startin to get a little warm huh? I think we're approachin the Rift now, speakin of."

"Wait wait wait," said Maori, standing in front of them. "You lot saw this Boldir fellow? Where?"

"In Riften, Mr. Maori," said Bjorn. "Saw his wife too. They seemed fine. It's like we told Baldur, they were okay. Boldir was even still wearin his armor. No sign of bandits or anythin."

"Man, I never seen Baldur so mad. His own brother and best friend, lyin to him like that. He had to be lyin, right? If they were fine, why'd they burn down the city?"

"I don't know, but if I see his lying traitorous face again, I'll show him just what got me the title of commander in the first place! Hell, maybe I'll even take Bardok's place at Baldur's side eh? Now wouldn't that be something."

"You might have a better chance, now that he's dead," said Maori as he continued walking. The road soon gave way to dirt, stone and dead leaves rather than ice stone and snow.

Now it was their turn to stop him.

"Wait wait, what? Dead?"

"How?" said Jjgmir.

Maori looked him in the eye and said, "Brund."

"Brund? The Jarl of Markarth? The guy that you're on the run from? The one you think's gonna try and kill Baldur?"

"The very one. Which is why I needed escorts. And why you lot should try and keep your traps closed and your eyes peeled while we're walking through this forest. We should have a pretty big head start on them, but Brund has men, and they could easily set up an ambush in these parts."

Surprisingly, that did shut them up. They got their ass kicked plenty by Bardok, personally during the trials. Enough to understand that anyone that could kill Bardok outright was not someone they wanted to meet, let alone be an enemy of.

In fact, they might've understood that danger more than Maori, had he not seen it in person already.

Maori and his ragtag band of misfit Grim Ones made their way through the Rift until dark, keeping away from the main roads once they got in deep enough to start worrying about Thalmor. There was a growing amount of travelers on the main roads however, some were even escorted by mercenaries with carts of goods on the roads leading to where Riften once stood.

It was a curious sight for an area still considered basically a war zone, but not curious enough to make the group stop and question. Well, Bjorn was curious and thought it important enough to ask about, but Jjgmir dragged him along, keeping them on their course to Ivarstead.

Maori did get a chance to see some of the Grim Ones' handiwork. It was a sight to turn the stomachs of even the most seasoned warriors. 

The bodies were all mutilated in one way or another, but all of them were missing their ears, even the ones whose heads were severed. No one buried their remains, or even cared to. The crows were fat with their flesh, so much that many slept next to the bodies, and were too full to fly. Easy prey for wolves and the like who also fell on the ones too glutenous and stupid to hold back their appetite. The ones that were not waited patiently in the trees, watching, waiting to fall on what remained.

If Maori didn't know any better, the way the elves were mangled, he'd say they were like that before the wolves got to them. Even he didn't see carnage like this, and his clan ate their enemies.

Now that he thought about it he wondered if the Nords had too. Not one corpse was left whole.

"This is... repulsive," said the elf. "This..."

"There's a reason for it though," said Jjgmir. "See the ones missing hands?"

Maori followed his gauntletted finger. There was indeed a few Justiciars without hands, merely one.

"Aye."

"We do that, so they'd lead us to where the rest are hiding. One hand to cast ain't much threat to us, and it let's them heal up so they won't die of infection outright. After that, scared and afraid, and in shock, they run back to their hideouts for help."

"Then, we follow 'em," said Bolsh.

"Like a hound on the scent," said Bjorn.

"You see the fur and leathers worked into the armor? It's a Skaal inspired design I hear, let's them hunt in silence while still having adequate protection. Won't hear us going clank clank clank as much," said Jjgmir.

"And the ears? The mutilated bodies?"

"Not all of it has a meaning," said Bjorn.

"Aye. Some's for fun, some's just payback. You saw what happened in Windhelm. All the ash... now that was fucked. We're just returning the favor. Let 'em know what they're in for in the future for screwing with Skyrim."

That did nothing to bring comfort to the elf. "These men, they deserve what they got, but the dominion soldiers, they're as much a victim as your people. They don't deserve... this. This is..."

"It's just war, elf. They started it, we're finishing it," said Jjgmir.

"Ancient foes sow their woe, for this we fight them still, our wrath they'll feel, wrought with steel, long after the kill, wicked men we must be, methods mad and Grim, and all will sing, and scream, proclaim, saviors of Skyrim."

The trio had said this all in unison, sounding almost like some cult rather than soldiers. It gave Maori chills down his spine, or would have if Bolsh didn't pipe up.

"And then the wenches will all say we're walking Ysgramors, and all of Skyrim will drown us in poon from busty whores. Maids and ladies from shore to shore will open all their doors, then spread their legs, on their knees beg for **** n ask for more!"

...

Silence was all the others gave in response.

Finally Jjgmir sighed, and said, "Godsdamnit, Bolsh."

***

It was an odd feeling, having to travel back the way he came once again, without having to travel in reverse to get here. He wondered how they'd gotten back and forgot to ask... so much happened at once.

Perhaps the Queen left some magic scrolls in the palace? What did they call it... recall. Or was it the old coot. 

"I mean 'Arch Druid'," said Daric to himself, paying the man some respect for the first time since. He had to admit, the druid's magic was useful. Strange, but useful. 

He only wished he asked him to magic away the cold weather while he was at it. The cold of Kyne's Watch's waters was terrible to be sure, and while that was far worse, the damage it had done to him left a mark on his mind.

Even a slight chill brought back memories he'd rather forget. Not to mention, the feel of cold in his two non existing toes. Every now and then he could still feel his own blade sinking in his flesh, and bone. They refused him the help of any healers, so he even had to stop the bleeding himself.

And the best way to do that...

Daric looked away from the fire he made, eyes closed as if that would block his thoughts. His horse shook its head, freeing its mane of the snow that now caked Daric's. 

"At the very least, we won't be here long, thanks to Theo," said Daric to the horse. 

"Theo. I wonder, what his family thought when he decided to become king. The Breton one I mean. Think they liked it? Wonder if my father liked it. He still serves him and does so faithfully. Or perhaps he feels honorbound. I certainly don't feel that, not anymore."

The horse who Daric still hadn't thought of a name for, and probably wouldn't blew air from his nose, which Daric took as a response.

"What do you mean why? How can I feel honorbound to serve a man without honor?" 

The horse didn't blow its nose, neigh or do anything else, but Daric continued anyway.

"Well yes, Ulfric did kill Torygg, but that was different. Torygg was a milkdrinker that had it coming. Ulfric wasn't that... what reason..."

Daric tried his best to think of an answer that made sense. He knew Baldur well enough to know he didn't desire to be king. He played back conversations in his head all night, pacing back and forth again and again. His thoughts continued racing as he rested, until one moment did come to mind, only on the very edge of sleep when his mind began to slip away from the warmth of the fire under the furs of his tent.

It was a night just like this one, with the sky lights shining brilliantly, slithering in shades of purple and blue. Masser and Secunda both were out watching him as Baldur's ship rolled in from Windhelm. He hadn't said much then. Been like that between them ever since Baldur almost killed him in the trials.

Eventually though after Baldur went home to his wife and child, he wandered out to Daric's dusty spacious cabin, mead in hand and wasabi for the horker Daric killed a few days prior.

He ate, lots as usual, then drank lots as well. When he finally started feeling the mead, he said, "Ulfric said something to me."

Daric hadn't said anything, waiting for him to continue. When he didn't after a long awkward pause, Daric opened his mouth to ask what, only to be interrupted.

"I love my family more than anything in this world, you know that. I'd move mountains for them. When that child was put in my arms for the first time, I realized truly what love was. It wasn't what I felt for Rebec in our early days. That was obsession. Love is a terrifying thing, Daric. Love will make you consider doing things you thought yourself never capable of. Ulfric told me that. Then he said, 'I see through you now what Arngeir tried so hard to tell me all those years ago. And because of what I see, I wish I never taught you this thu'um.'"

Baldur began laughing then... it wasn't his typical warm hearty laugh, but empty and dry. 

"Perhaps he's right to regret it. What I'd do for the people I love terrifies me more than any monster or nightmare. A nightmare I can wake up from, but I'll have to live with my deeds forever. But you know something Daric? I'm okay with that. The only thing I fear more than what I'd do to save my family, is what I'd do to avenge it."

That conversation kept playing over, and over, until he remembered then how Baldur fell asleep at his chair. He remembered how the bottle fell out of his big hands, and the spittle collecting in his beard. How that day, in his drunken stupor Baldur said the most understandable thing he'd heard him say in months.

If Baldur somehow convinced himself this was for his family though...

"Daric... you know I'd do anything for you. Don't you?"

That's what he said to him just when he thought Baldur was fast asleep. His affection was a heavy burden to bear, if it came with murder, but somehow a part of him welcomed the warmth of it. The love of it. Or was that blood.

Wake, you who seek to be my child. Wake.

"Wake up, lass! Ah, there you go. Rise and shine. That's it..." Daric's eyes parted slowly, letting in the pale light of morning as well as the sight of a scraggly grey Nord with his own blade at his throat. He smiled at the young breton boy, exposing his yellowed teeth in a crooked grin, the smell of troll fat heavy on his breath. "Now, got anything else worth taking I should know about, aside from your life?"

***

The sun was down and the trio, now a quartet put the scene of mutilated elves far behind them. 

But the memory, the memory remains.

The worst of it was the lone survivor. An altmer strung up in a tree above the entirety of the scene like, some savage totem of a god. His ribs were broken, opened up from inside his body and spread out like tiny bloody wings, wrapped and holding his lungs.

The wailing he made was so unlike any suffering he'd heard before. Jjgmir explained to him that they made such victims consume healing potion until their stomachs were fit to burst, to prolong the fate for days on end. They'd die of infection first before they died of their wounds, once the flies finally found them especially.

They sounded proud. 

Maori ended it all, with one swift arrow. 

But the memory, the memory remains.

That was days ago now, and Maori still hadn't parted words with the Nords. They continued with their stupid banter as always as he remained silent. They thought him asleep in his tent, but Maori's ears were always listening. Unfortunately.

Now they were having an argument about... who the **** cares.

Now they weren't listening. Not always listening after all. Now he was drinking. Never did like the humans' grape made wine or any of their other swill. But something had to be done about the vile things he saw.

These were Baldur's men? They were trained and taught by him, right? Would these barbaric acts be set upon his own people as well?

"Y'ffre what have I done. Is it all even worth it anymore. Is this too much..."

"I could absolutely take on Bardok! He's not so tough," said Jjgmir.

"Sir, I distinctly recall Bardok beatin the stuffin out of all three of us," said Bjorn.

"For once, I'm on Bjorn's side," said Bolsh.

"Bah, that was then. I'm a Commander now."

"A commander with no men to command."

"Aye, more like an honorary commander really. Jarl probably did it just to get some peace frome ye," said Bolsh.

Now Jjgmir was really getting upset. Red in the face, he said, "I command you sorry wastes of seed, don't I? Now you lot don't understand, because you ain't a commander, but I simply haven't been given an official duty as commander yet because Baldur is busy. And with Bardok missing, Falgrum's the only one that can give me my duties along with the other commanders. So instead, I'm stuck, babysitting you fuckers until Baldur's done chit chatting with the other Jarls. Now I won't tolerate this talk any longer. I'm a commander of the Grim Ones! I can take on any man alive." 

"Except Bardok."

"And Baldur. Or Brund. Boldir. Hell, probably not even Mazoga. Certainly not Falgrim Blood-Rim. Or even Bully. Or-"

Jjgmir ended the list with a swift hit to Bolsh's temple. Looking at Bjorn, he said, "Now see here. I can take on ANY motherfucker that thinks he can look down on me. ANYONE. I promise before the gods and every ancestor I have, I will not be bested, I will not lose to any Nord alive. Got that?"

Bjorn stared at him blankly.

"DO YOU GOT THAT?"

Bjorn still said nothing. 

"What in the god's name are you looking... who the **** are you?" said Jjgmir. An odd man approached them and their fire, his face clearly amused. The air around him smelled unnatural, altered. Like that of an alchemist lab's contents spilled together before them. And there was the hint of something else as well, thick and sweet, and foul.

Smiling so much that even his bloodshot eyes seemed to be smiling as well, a tall old Nord with strange wild painted hair stepped closer to the two, looking down over Jjgmir and said, "How about a Nord that's not alive, hmm?"

His eyes wandered between the two, waiting for an answer.

"Oh, no response? Well, then tell me this instead."

The priests hands slowly raised above his head. Suddenly the ground began to burst around them. Thalmor and bandits crawled from the ground, moaning and hissing as they stood. 

"Where is the Breton?"

Maori stumbled out of the tent, four, five bottles rolling out with him.

"Everybody be fuckin quiet, I'm tryna *hck* I'm tryna fackin sleep! Hey, unhand me godsdammit, what's goin on?"

"Time to get the **** outta here's what's goin on. I think your weirdo priest just found us," said Jjgmir. Hoisted up over his shoulders, Maori thrashed about while the Nord grabbed his bow and arrows from the ground. After that, Jjgmir was running fast enough to give a Redguard or Khajiit a run for their money. Bjorn wasn't as swift.

Dragging Bolsh by his leg, he said, "Commander, don't leave us! Wait!"

"HahahaHA! You can't run for long!" said the Priest. Holding two bottles as he stared at the moon, he downed them both, licking the inside of the top as it slid down his tongue. Feeling the skooma coursing through his veins, his breathing quickened as much as his blood flow.

"Who's that ugly lot behind us? My my, that one's really fast," said Maori.

"Say what? Oh by the gods! What the **** is he on? Run faster boys! For ****'s sake, RUN!"

***

"Well boy? Speak up, I know what you're capable of... Daric."

The boy's startled expression said everything. He didn't have time to react further before he heard the familiar crunch of snow around him. 

Two, three... four. Four men total.

"What, khajiit got yer tongue? Well, I suppose there's that. Could wear it around my neck, or perhaps..." The old Nord's grin and pause made him shiver more than any Northern cold ever could. 

"Not in your life," said Daric. "I'd rather die the most painful death imaginable than go out like that."

That's when another of the Nords covered in furs stepped into view, holding his pack and eating his food.

"Ever seen what a woman stripped to nothing and left to freeze would do for a little warmth? For the promise of nothing but a fur pelt to stave off the cold? Why, we strung up a Breton lass last Winter, had a grand ol' time! You're no lass, but you'll make do."

"Aye! It'll be like Whiterun all over again!" said the Nord holding Daric's blade.

"Whiterun..." said Daric. "You. You're Stormcloaks... that's how you knew my name."

"Look at that, the boy's got a brain," said the greyed Nord.

"Aye, I do," said Daric. "And I'll wager you're Brund's men. Only he'd surround himself with those so craven and base as you."

"Aye, correct again. And we're going to show you just how base we can be. We're to bring you to the Priest, but there's no need to rush..."

Daric immediately turned to run, find a weapon, anything, but before any such chance would present itself, he was already surrounded, hands grabbing at him, ripping at his cloak and binding his hands. The large Nords' fists quickly beat whatever fight he could muster out of him, leaving him bound and sitting on the cold snow.

Daric was rabid, frantic and desperate. Tears in his eyes not from fear or the shame, but anger and fury at his fate flowed free on the snow beneath him. 

The grey one put a boot on his back and downed a bottle of skooma, dropping the empty bottle next to Daric's face, adding the crunching sound of it being cracked to the crunch of snow beneath his boot.

He lifted Daric then like he was nothing, dragging him to his own tent from earlier where he figured he could do what he would away from the harsh winds. 

He never got the chance.

Daric's binds were alive with flame, burning his wrists only slightly as his hands broke free. Before he could do anything, the greyed Nord, literally caught with his pants down only watched in agony driven horror as Daric kicked his sword up off the ground and to his familiar hands before slicing diagonally at the man's groin. 

The screams barely left his mouth before Daric's blade severed his vocal chords, spurting blood across his face and neck. Daric stood there, taking in the sight of it... with his tongue extended.

His eyes were still watering, mingling with the dark crimson and giving the impression that his tears were blood. 

His movements were at first frantic, but then something inside him clicked. He didn't know what the feeling was... his senses seemed to be dulling... he couldn't hear the sound of anything but his own heartbeat pounding so hard it threatened to break through his chest. But it wasn't fear this time...

This feeling, it was familiar to him. He began to lose control of his actions, his sight turned red, and the sound, the sound of his cries made even the seasoned warriors before him pause.

One of them, the one that spoke of Whiterun's invasion came at him first, and soon found Daric's blade in his chest before he took three paces. He charged the last two, who ran as Daric yanked his blade free. 

One, a man with long red wavy hair... no, a woman... she was quick and managed to get away, but the Nord behind her hadn't. He felt a sharp horizontal cut just at the back of his foot before he collapsed face down, then the point of Daric's blade at his neck. He began to exert pressure.

"As far as I'm concerned, you and your lot are traitors to Skyrim's new and only true King. And traitors to Skyrim deserve death. But I'll let you live."

"**** you kid! I'm no coward! I'm a Stormcloak!"

"Says the milk-drinker that just ran." Daric pressed his blade tip in further, until it touched bone. At the man's screams he said, "You moan at my sword tip like a spring whore. Can't take what you dish out? Huh?!?"

"I-I'll never give in! I.."

The Nord's defiance was interrupted by a lonesome cry in the distance. The snow blowing in made it hard to see anything too far out, and yet the sound grew nearer. And nearer. 

And nearer. 

Now Daric and the Nord was sure it came from right in front of them, but all they could see was a strange shimmer before them, and three glowing orbs in the air. Daric sliced at the air before him, blood spouting free from the cut, seemingly out of thin air beneath what was now clearly three glowing eyes. And just as the creature's open hand collided with Daric's skull, whatever trickery kept it shrouded from view gave away to the full form of some troll-like thing, complete with the horns of a dremora, and the beard of a giant.

Daric's vision was even more blurry than it had been in his fury, but he could still make out the head of the woman that had ran earlier, but nothing else.

in the other was the Nord he was torturing. The thing was sniffing at him... his mouth to be specific. The Nord was kicking, scratching, grasping for air as its ice hard grip kept him suspended by his bleeding neck.

As if smelling something that offensive on his breath, the thing's... face scrunched up, showing as much expression as a man. Pulling him close, the thing bellowed and growled what seemed to resemble words... It sounded like... "Uuuu....deeeeeeer....fryyyyyyyyykte!"

The thing put the woman's head in its mouth, crushing it in his powerful jaws before turning to the man. Before he could get the chance, Daric was already on him, tackling the thing and fighting it blade to claw. It got the upper hand however, tossing Daric aside like a sack of flour, before grabbing him the same way the Greyed Nord had before.

Except now instead of trying to bed him, the thing held him high before its gullet, ready to consume him. Whole. Daric's blade was at the thing's feet. The Stormcloak was gone, leaving a trail of blood in his wake. And Daric's face was close enough to this thing's mouth to smell blood and foulness on its breath.

***

The times, they're changing. The seasons will end. The sun keeps on rising, the backs of men bend.

The snowfall is here, mournful and cold. Northern men battle on this land of old.

Our mothers weep as their children sleep, our fathers they sharpen their blades. And through it all, we answer their call. And never through death will we fade.

Wives, they're taken. Families forsaken. Brothers and sisters, they fight. Our blood soaks our fields, axe and sword we'll wield, reaping through day and the night.

Our mothers weep as their children sleep, our fathers they sharpen their blades. And through it all, we answer their call. And never through death will we fade.

We are the ones, daughters and sons. The ones that walk whilst dead and grim. And when Shor appears at his hall, we'll answer his call, we'll fight and we'll die for Skyrim.

***

"Bolsh. Bjorn."

"Jjgmir," said the two, their voices stern and low. Jjgmir nodded, satisfied they were serious.

"Maori," said Jjgmir. The elf was still a bit out of it, but he nodded all the same, trying to hold his bow steady. 

"Everyone's good then? We know the stakes? We live tonight. We fight together as one, and we live. No matter what, on our honor as soldiers of Skyrim, we will kill this son of a bitch for the Jarl and make it to High Hrothgar. Agreed?"

"Sir yes sir!" said the two enthusiastically. 

"Bolsh, hows that head?"

"Sir! Ready to smash in some draugr, sir!"

"Bjorn! Hows your sword arm?"

"Fit to fist a troll lass, sir!"

"Maori!"

"Lets kill some undead bastards already!"

"That's the spirit! Lets show them what we learned in the Grim Trials! YOL TOOR SHUL!"

"YOL TOOR SHUL!" 

No flame came from their mouths, but their spirits were ablaze with the flame of true sons and daughters of Skyrim. Even the elf couldn't help but be swept beneath its wake as the three Grim Ones began batting and swatting away the undead soldiers at the man known only as the Priest's command.

Maori was seeing double, but he had two arrows for each of them, which worked only because so many crowded in for their chance to tear at their foes. He had only one arrow left, however, which he always saved. 

He'd have to fight like the rest of them now, in the dark forest of the Rift as the wretched things clawed, bit and slashed at the Grim Ones. Maori used them as cover, stabbing any that broke through the trio's defense. 

Bolsh's blade sent bones and decaying limbs flying, but Jjgmir could tell he was slowing down. His senses weren't as sharp as they used to be, probably from the wallop he gave him, and he didn't see one of the undead elves leap at his neck from the left, clamping down hard until warm red blood flowed, covering the fur of his armor.

Before he could be felled, Maori stuck his dagger deep in its skull, ending its gnawing. The body fell to pieces, but the elf's skull stayed attached to his neck even as he continued to fight. 

Amongst the chaos, the Priest watched, arms twitching at the anticipation of the right moment. The moment where their defenses gave away and he could fall on them like the executioner's blade beneath the moonlit skies.

The time was coming soon. The one with the big mouth was being dragged away from the others. 

The time was now. 

The Priest made his slow march towards the remaining men, undead soldiers parting and bowing their heads. 

"You stand in opposition to the will of Shor. The strong lead. Brund is the strongest Nord alive in this era. By right of might, he is the rightful king of Skyrim. I have waited eras to see his return. I missed the coming of the Last Dragonborn, but I have arrived in time to see Brund fall on your Ash-King and his family. As you three lie there, dying, remember my words. Brund will be king. I will see that realized."

The Priest finally was before the three, smiling down at them as they charged desperately to defend their Commander. The Priest under the influence of the skooma moved like smoke. They just couldn't land a blow on him, but all day his blades made contact with them. If not for their armor they'd have been long dead. 

A swift boot to Bolsh's chest sent him flying into Bjorn, then Jjgmir.

"I will bring terror to every last man woman and child that stands in the way of greatness for our people in Shor's eyes! I-"

"Talk too much," said a familiar voice. The Priest turned, only to see the shimmer of skyforge steel at his neck. The moaning and screeching of the undead was so deafening that he couldn't make out the sounds of a galloping horse behind him. Its fur was so dark, as was the cloak of its rider, that all he could see was the blade he held. But that's all that he needed to see to know who wielded it.

Even as his head left his body, he watched the chaos unfold before him. The pained cries of the creatures he summoned as many of them began to collapse into dust. Some remained, however, for the Priest's body still twitched with life. 

His head soared through the air, but it never touched the ground. Daric pulled his hood away, lifting the Priest's head to his face. 

"I... yet... live...." said the Priest, grinning at the boy's efforts. "You.... will..... die." 

"You first," said Daric, tossing the Priest's head into the air. It rotated once, twice, seeing what remained of his undead army still clawing at the survivors, holding them back just long enough for him to arrive. 

By the third time his head spun, his vision was overcome with the sight of a ball of fire, soaring straight for him. When it collided, all that remained of the Priest's skull was burning bits of flesh and bone.

As Bolsh and Bjorn lifted Jjgmir, the three began to sing, "We are the ones, daughters and sons. The ones that walk whilst dead and grim."

Daric atop his horse began putting the rest of the undead things to the sword, singing in turn what he remembered of Baldur's song.

"And when Shor appears at his hall, we'll answer his call, we'll fight and we'll die for Skyrim."

Maori saw it but he couldn't believe it. The same boy he met in Windhelm managed to kill a man powerful enough to come back from the dead and turn the tide of battle for them. He saved their lives. Or was he still drunk?

It certainly seemed that way, because although the Priest no longer had a head, the body was still stubbornly holding on to life somehow, its chest now glowing something fierce. It mesmerized not only the group of misfits, but the dead around them. In fact, it felt like the power coming from it was somehow growing more intense. 

Maori always saved his last arrow. And it was for moments just like this. The ground began to shake as though something, or things were moving beneath their feet. They all knew what that meant. As the Priest's chest glowed, the leaves around them began to whither and die, rotted masses falling as numerously as the dead had on them before. 

His chest glowed so powerfully that it illuminated the area bright enough to see the trees dying. Right up until Maori's last arrow found its way in the old Priest's chest cavity. The magic that had gathered there was dense and heavy, so much that the Priest's body exploded from the magic being released all at once. 

"Lets see you get back from that, you rotted *****!"

"Ohoho! Nice shot, elf!" said Bjorn as he and Jjgmir tended to Bolsh, yanking the elf jaw free from his neck and shoving their remaining healing potion down his throat.

"You'll be okay, you're too stubborn to die on me just yet. Boy! How'd you catch us? Even on horseback we had a pretty good head start."

Daric looked down to his horse's shoes. "It's.. a very long story," he said finally. 

Maori eyed the head of some bizarre looking creature dangling from his horse's saddle. "Aye, it must be. I'm glad you made it though boy. It seems you found yourself somewhere on your path."

Daric only gave him a smile and a nod, with the expression of a man that was confident in himself. It was the expression of a killer. A warrior.

Daric's mind wandered back to that frozen hell. To the moment he stared death in the eyes, and straight down its throat...

***

Daric cried out, thrashed, did anything he could but nothing seemed to work as his head descended past the creature's lips. His world was darkness and stink. Decay. Death. 

This moment seemed to stretch on forever. He had time to contemplate everything. Thoughts of his mother and father. Of Baldur.

The conversation with him he had the very next day of Baldur's drunken stupor for instance. It was quite different from the day before. Baldur apparently remembered very well what he'd told Daric and grabbed his harm with a terrible grip that showed on his skin hours later.

"Never repeat any of what I told you, Daric. Ever. Do you understand?"

"I understand perfectly, Baldur."

"Good. Now, your brothers and sisters are waiting for you by the dock. Be careful out there, please boy. And remember, you've got family waiting for you when you return."

Daric fought the urge to smile and simply nodded to his general, then started out the door. Before he did, he turned back one last time and said, "Do you still consider Boldir family? After what he's done?"

That seemed to catch Baldur off guard.

"Daric... I don't know the circumstances of what Boldir's done. It hurt like hell thinking he's been lying to me, all this time. Even more to hear that Skyrim's branded him a traitor. Perhaps even rightfully. But you don't just stop being family. That's why they're family."

"Then what will you do when Ulfric catches him?" said Daric. "Last night... you said,"

"I know what I said," said Baldur. "I don't know what I'll do... Boldir no matter what people say he's done, he deserves a chance to explain himself. He was the reason the Imperials were so desperate when they came through Pale Pass. While I was busy being tortured, Boldir was taking care of business in my absence. The man's a hero. Ulfric must see that. I'll make him see it. And if not..."

Baldur trailed off a time, an uncomfortably long time. Daric thought then that Baldur might do something, maybe let Boldir escape perhaps. It was only now that Daric realized without Ulfric around, the only person whose judgement mattered was his.

"Family's the only thing you have in this world, Daric. That's what gives me my strength. Not Shor, not the gods, not my Nord blood. I don't care what the gods say, being a Nord isn't about how you're born, its about how you live your life. And I can't look Shor in the eye when I die knowing I didn't do everything in my power to do right by my family. I live my life with no regrets. Whatever I do, whatever I say, remember that I work to serve my family. You do the same, Daric, and I promise you'll not fall until the day Shor calls to you."

Daric did smile at that, but his face grew serious soon after. "I don't think Shor would call on me despite your speech."

"Well then Daric, **** Shor," said Baldur. Daric's eyes grew wide at that, as Baldur grabbed him by his collar. "With that attitude, you're right. Don't wonder if you will see him, know it! You may have elven blood in you, but so too is the blood of a Nord! Live your life for your family, fight hard and with cruelty for those that would harm them, and your sword will sing so loudly that the stubborn old man will have no choice but to hear it! Do as I said and remember my words. Now go with your brothers, and do Skyrim proud!"

 

"I am Daric! Son of Maric! Son of Baldur! And I will not die here! Yeeeaaaahhhhhhh!!!"

Daric's cry pierced the creature's ears with such force that it hesitated for a moment. One precious moment. Its grip loosened as well, just enough for Daric to get a hand free and cast a fire bolt into the creature's throat.

As it dropped Daric to the ground, crying out in pain, Daric grabbed his blade and stood to his feet screaming, "I did it! I cast my father's spell!" It wasn't nearly as challenging as he thought it was. He had to gather the magicka in his hands first. That much was simple. What wasn't simple was the act of letting that power go, when everything in your core wanted to hold onto it, let it consume you, with the feeling of safety from its warmth and strength.

But that was not the desire of a warrior, of one who sought to live life by flirting with death. He cast all thoughts of safety and security into the wind, or more specifically the monster's throat. And in its place was the desire to kill, destroy. And that's why he got to live.

"I can't die here freak, I've got a mission to see through! For my family, for Skyrim!"

The creature was not amused, nor did it care for whatever mission the boy barked about. It cloaked itself once again, leaving only a shimmer where its body once was. Daric's reaction to panic though was no longer there. Instead he embraced the dulled senses. His vision blurred, hearing was drowned out by his heartbeat, but he focused until even that was quiet. 

The snow, the wind, all of it began to fade into nothing... until...

Crunch. 

To the left of him, the creature attempted to grab him, but Daric reacted just in time. His fire bolt caught the creature's fur, panicking it as it attempted to smother the flame before it spread. While distracted, Daric's blade found its two bottom eyes. Enraged by the agony it was now forced to endure, it swung its arms in every direction it could, and when Daric saw an opening, he pounced on its chest, burying his sword deep. So deep, he had to work long and hard to remove it later from the thing's thick flesh.

Giving up on that now, Daric roared at the monster as the light in its eyes literally began to grow dim. Daric was finally truly awake.

It was some time before Daric set off after the remaining Nord. He had to make another fire, gather what he could find of his food, and his horse. Luckily the horse was not too far away. Windhelm breeds were hardy things. Not milkdrinking steed afraid of the smell of blood or the cry of wolves. Mounting it, Daric searched for the Nord by the trail of blood he left. It was enough that even with the snowfall he could follow it well enough, though this much blood also meant he'd be dead soon.

Thanks to Theudofrid though, he caught up to the Nord with haste, his enchanted horse shoes granting the horse such speed that it felt as though its feet hovered over the ground beneath them, for however long the strange magic would last.

Which was why he needed to make haste. After dismounting, Daric approached the nord, with the Uderfrykte's head along with him. He dropped it before him, enjoying the look of fear he saw in the man's eyes.

"You're not a normal kid," he said.

"You're damned right. I survived the Grim Trials and am the apprentice of Baldur Red-Snow. I'll let you live, just so you can pass that on. If you even can with all this lost blood. Now, before I change my mind, where is the Priest? Is he after Maori? And while you're at it, how did you find me?"

"Heh, fine. I'll tell you. The Priest is about to ambush the elf and a group of Grim Ones he's travelling with. They're a bunch of idiots, they should be easy enough to kill. And we found you thanks to an elf."

"What? What elf?"

"Thalmor of course. Turns out, we're not the only ones looking for you. Some elf's been tracking Maori and somehow knew you'd be coming this way. We captured him rather easily. Was just wandering the roads of the Rift like it was an everyday stroll. And after he told us where to find you, he disappeared. Bindings and all. We didn't understand it, was gonna string him up too. But, we didn't look a gift horse in the mouth. Decided to check it out for ourselves. And there you were, sleepin like a babe."

Daric heard everything he needed to hear. 

"You better kill me now, boy. I'll find you some day. I'll find you, and I'll **** you. Then, I'll kill you. You and everyone you love. I swear it!"

Daric stopped hard in his tracks, turned around and faced the Nord one last time. "You're right, I can't just let a traitor go freely like this. You must be punished. But, not with death. Scum like you shouldn't get to go to Sovngarde. I may have sent your friends there already... but not you."

"What are you... no wait, stop!" 

It was too late. In truth the man simply knew that his failure meant his death by the hands of either Brund, or the Priest. But once Daric got going, he'd wished he simply killed him instead. By the time he was done, Daric made sure that there'd be no way he would ever **** anyone from that day on. And he made sure he would never lift a sword from that day on. And, thanks to his father's spell, at the very least he wouldn't bleed out from his wounds. And if he did manage to live, he wouldn't be a threat to anyone, ever again. Not even to himself.

***

"I'd gone through quite a bit to catch up to you, elf. Hell in fact. You owe me an explanation," said Daric.

"I got one, lass, I got one! I'm guessing that he didn't want people comparing his height to that of a child, and since you are a child and still taller than him, he thought he'd leave you behind. Bad form, elf. Bad form."

"Bolsh, not now," said Jjgmir.

"What, I'm just sayin. Any shorter and a giant might use him to wipe its arse like a pinecone."

"Bolsh, I'm serious."

"Oh what is it now? We just got done kicking that weird freak's ass! Can't you get off my back and laugh at my stupid jokes just this once?"

"Bolsh."

"Yea?"

"The leaves. They're still falling."

Bolsh looked around, but he could barely see shit anymore without the glow of the Priests chest. Daric produced a flame in his hands, and sure enough the leaves were still falling, dying around them as though the Priests magic were still active.

"Yea, so what? You're not gonna tell me that thing might still be alive after what happened to him!"

"I have no idea, but what I do know is until we get to Baldur, we're not safe. We... where's Maori?"

As the Nords darted around, a few things happened at once. One, Daric's newfound confidence seemed to have evaporated. Two, the ground beneath them exploded, sending earth flying up in every direction. 

Daric was the first up, and the first to realize they'd all stumbled into a trap, the real trap.

"Not bad, boy. Not bad at all. I must admit, Baldur's trained you exceedingly well. But, your growth, your development. It all ends, here. Just like the life of this elf will. But you, I'll end yours quickly. You deserve the death of a true Nord!"

Daric did not plan to die, however. In fact, he planned to save Maori and bring Baldur Brund's head, once and for all. But it wasn't to be. 

"Run, boy! You must live! RUN!"

Daric ignored his cries, and that was his downfall. Before Daric could even get close, Brund's hammer-fang met his chest, sending the boy flying down a hill in a spray of blood. Some sort of light flashed at that moment as well. Perhaps an enchantment from Brund's cruel spiked weapon. Maori knew not. All he knew was that no matter how tough the boy was, no one could survive that blow. 

"Baldur... I'm so so so sorry."

"You will be, elf, you will be." 

"No he won't, you big bastard! Lets get em, boys!"

"Fus Gol Strunmah!" cried Brund, sending earth and rock hurtling towards the trio, knocking them from his path. "You are dust in the wind. Come elf, lets have a little chat, shall we? Lets start with... Ulfric. Did you know that at the time of his death, some soldiers reported seeing Ulfric take an arrow from an elf on a rooftop before he was dragged to the palace?"

Maori kept his silence. That is until Brund began to choke the life from his body. "AANSWERR MEEE!!!"

"NO!"

"FINE! I'll go on. Now everyone else might not have been paying attention, but I sure have. You showed up on the scene right after Ulfric died, working for Baldur against me. You and those pesky ******* arrows. Now, I don't know how, I don't know why, but I KNOW you had something to do with Ulfric's death. And believe me, I don't need a reason to kill you, more than you being an elf. But this?? Oho.. I'm going to do things to you I haven't done to ANYONE before. And then, I'll tell Baldur about it, every last detail as I kill him the same. Exact. Way. Pray to whatever gods you have now, because you and I are gonna have a little fun!"

Maori's last thoughts as Brund enacted his revenge for Skyrim's king was, at the very least he got to die amongst Y'ffre's creation. And die Maori did. Long. Slow.

When the trio finally came to, they saw Maori in the trees. His ribs torn open and his lungs put on display around them like wings.

Even Bolsh was as silent as death itself. They didn't set off to High Hrothgar. Instead they searched for the body of Baldur's son, keeping their thoughts not on their failure but of their task.

But the memory of what happened to one of Baldur's closest friends under their care... the memory... the memory remains.

[Witchking of Angmar]

Rebec sat staring morosely at the bare trees before her, on a hillside overlooking Kyne’s Watch and the sea. On a moss patch nearby, Ragna was watching Stuhnir chase his tail, her bright baby laughter like clear music. She had Baldur’s pipes, that was for sure.

It was not this noise that had distracted her from her practice, however, rather the puffing and cursing of a lone figure on the rocks below. The path up to this remote place was well marked, but obviously not to elf eyes. Finally, after what seemed like an hour, the short, fat figure stumbled into her clearing.

“Sweet Y’ffre's bosom,” he wheezed, bent over and leaning on his fryse hag staff. The elf looked past Rebec to the mountainside covered with scarred, barren trees, and his eyes widened. “Taken up lumberjacking?”

“In a manner of speaking. What do you want, Menel?”

The Bosmer held up a finger to tell her to wait, gasping for more oxygen. Finally he managed, “Veleda sent me. We’re going to this meet... moot... thing, and she wants an audience with you and Baldur before it begins.”

“An 'audience'? Then you’ve got another climb ahead of you. Baldur’s in High Hrothgar, last I heard. Tell the quee... tell Veleda she’d better climb up and set you some of that recall nonsense at the top. You and mountains don’t seem to get along.”

“You have no idea.” Menel held up his injured hand and wiggled the remaining fingers on it. He had lost the others to frostbite on a climb over the Jeralls, fleeing Thalmor pursuit. “You aren’t going? We just assumed. You’re likely to be queen now, after all.”

Rebec’s face reddened more than usual, her scowl deepening. “That’s not settled far as I know, and anyway it doesn’t matter. Baldur can prance around as king if he wants to. Has nothing to do with me.”

Menel scratched at his sweat-plastered temple. “Who wouldn’t want to be queen? I'm in dire need of a foot massage right now, but as queen you could just order me to give you one."

“Would you?”

“No. That is..." He'd always been a fan of a lovely pair of feet. An image of Baldur's face appeared in his mind. "No. Not a chance."

“There you have it.” Rebec sighed and stretched her legs out. Meanwhile Ragna crawled  towards the Bosmer. He was about to pick her up when a thought seized Rebec, and she stood to quickly grab the baby up in her own arms. “If that’s all, you can climb back down now. I need to practice.”

“Practice what?”

Rebec walked away and dropped Ragna back on her moss pad with her snow fox babysitter. Turning back to Menel, she said, “I’ll show you.” She strode out to the ledge front, her back to him.

“Fus...Ro DAH!” A shock wave reverberated out, blasting at the already flattened tangle of trees and bending the ones that still stood. Moments later an unearthly mimicry resounded back, shearing off branches in its wake, the power of the thu’um strong enough to do damage even in an echo. Ragna giggled and pointed, more delighted by her mother’s shout than even her beloved fox.

When the echoes had settled, Rebec reached down for a small stone, tossed it into the air and hit it with a quick and potent FUS. The stone shot forward, splitting a sapling in two and landing with a loud “thock” in a larger trunk behind it.

“Impressive! Your thu'um appears to be more powerful than any telekinesis I've seen. Can you launch larger projectiles? A boulder, say?"

“Stand out here at the end of this shelf and we'll try it on you.”

Menel chuckled nervously. “No, thank you. I’ll take your word for it.”

“You saw what Ulfric could do when he wanted to cut a path. Bodies of men flying through the air like they were Ragna’s dolls. They say he could break city walls.”

The mention of Skyrim’s late king dropped like lead. Both were silent a moment.

“Yes, well. I suppose I’ll leave you to it. Any message to send to Veleda? Or to Baldur, for that matter, since I guess we’ll be seeing him before you do.”

“You tell Veleda, it’s best she not come around. That’s all.”

The Bosmer was finally at a loss for words, not expecting that. He glanced at Ragna, an expression of sadness passing over his face, then turned to go.

“Wait! I do want to send Baldur a message.”

After she'd passed on her message, Menel disappeared in a puff of magic dust, and Rebec went to her daughter. Ragna lay on her back, her legs straight up in the air, grabbing at her fur boots.

“Oh no you don’t, sweet cheeks. I know you’re trying to get those off and even for a Nordling it’s too cold up here to run around in toeses.” She stood Ragna up, holding her upright on wobbly legs and inspecting her. It worried Rebec when she remembered that Baldur had put an Orkey amulet on her during the birth. No Nord in her right mind would let Old Knocker attend a birth. The stamina enchantment had probably saved both their lives, Rebec couldn’t deny that, but at what price? Though Ysana disagreed, Rebec worried that Ragna shoulder be taller by now. What if she stayed a baby her whole life and never grew?

That wouldn’t be so bad. Rebec shook off that thought. It wasn’t right, and now there was all this business about Baldur being an Ash King. Wulfharth’s was a terrible fate, and no Nord should be so familiar with fire. It could lead to nothing good. The fact that her own father had perished in fire during the same battle that put Baldur on this path seemed proof of that fact, and a terrible omen besides. Then there was the news that Boldir had burned Riften to the ground. Boldir! Lately she had started having nightmares of the Harpy burning again. Nothing made sense any longer. What have you gotten us into, Baldur? Are you going somewhere we can’t follow?

Ragna burbled happily and reached for Rebec’s chest. A chip off the Red Snow block there, too. “Alright, little bard. About time we got you off the teat, but that can wait a little longer. After your lunch, we’ll go home and see what ships have docked today.”

***

"You've gotten better at staying quiet. Alas, I wish that was not the case. I do so miss our two sided conversations," said Paarthurnax.

"This reminds me of the time I thought Jurgen had frozen to death. I was giving my lesson on the fundamental difference between the thu'um, and magic of man and elf. A topic I am most passionate about. You see, technically, the two are not that different at all. Man use their hands more than anything. Elves too, though not always. But their hands, the bond between a mortal and their tools, it has always been that their power lies there. They shape reality rigidly, with their hands. We of the Dov have no such appendage, as I'm sure you're aware. We merely have our mouths, and we shape reality with it. With our voice. The fundamental difference here is, that the voice comes from within our very spirit and reverberates through the air, the ground, all of reality. Magic of mortals comes indirectly from within. It must first exit through your hands, and so you do not as easily connect with the power from within yourself."

Baldur looked to his hands, opening and closing them as though contemplating the dragon's words. Or was he simply humoring him? In any case Paarthurnax continued, not at all discouraged.

"However, the power that you can manifest, is more easily manipulated, because of your two hands. You are the stream that can go left, right, south, and even into another stream. We are the source. The Ocean, the snow atop the mountain. Our possibilities are numerous while yours are limited both by your being and your imaginings. That is my theory, anyway. Ah, but I am getting ahead of myself here. Jurgen, he fell over in a slump, while sitting just as you are. I thought him dead. But after the careful application of Las Yah Nir, I was able to see that he was not frozen to death, but merely sleeping. Amusing, no?"

By now Baldur learned to tune out the old Dov and focus his mind on his own thoughts. Paarthurnax was a wealth of information, but the damned dragon always had something to say, and was far more interested in speaking than teaching him anything.

Even with tuning out the old dragon however, Baldur still could not concentrate. His thoughts wandered home, to his child. He wondered how big she was now in the time he was away from her, and how much more time this war would rob from him. Being atop this mountain, Baldur could almost see the appeal of staying there, away from the world's affairs. If he thought it possible, he might've attempted the same feat. Maybe he and Rebec could have found some far away island to settle, maybe stumble across the only bit of hospitable land left in Atmora that there was, if there was any. Or the strange lands of Roscrea even. 

Somewhere far away where he wouldn't have to hear Ulfric's name anymore. Or feel the pain of his deed. If he could have any wish, right now, it would be to speak to Ulfric just one more time. Surely, if his father could reach him here, drag him into Oblivion itself, the gods could manage to let his spirit visit him. Assuming that this wasn't just a dream he had after all. Paarthurnax hadn't even recalled seeing Ulrin.

If he could hear Ulfric now.. Just once, even if just to hear him yell, curse him. Threaten, anything. Even if but in anger, all he wanted was to hear him call his name once more...

Baldur sighed deeply, covered in snowflakes and frost as he sat on his knees.

"Baldur."

Baldur turned his head in bewilderment. He was so deep in thought that he heard Ulfric's voice, when in reality it was his widow.

Veleda.

The once-queen stood with a fire spell alight in one hand. She regarded Baldur, and the flame bloomed slightly, and shook. There was a long moment where the air was charged as before a duel.

The moment finally broke, and Veleda's eyes lifted to the dragon. Her mouth opens, but otherwise her reaction is carefully controlled. "Drem yol lok," she says finally, calling up a phrase that had become more well known since the dragonborn appeared.

The old Dov regarded her with a burst of flame above his head, stretching his wings with delight.

"Dream Yol Lok! Greetings! So many visitors as of late, it seems. And I feel power resonating from your tongue. Have you come seeking my tutelage as well? What is your name?"

"Veleda," said Baldur. "Rek Bo Wah Tinvaak Voth Zu'u."

Paarthurnax's brows sunk, and his wings fell a bit as well. "Zu'u Koraav. I understand. He is under my training at the moment. If you wish to speak with him, you'll need a translator. I am at your service."

Baldur stood to his feet, brushing the snow from his robes. He didn't have much to say to Veleda at the moment anyway, but would hear her out regardless.

Her mouth registered a grim smile, briefly. "Tutelage. Or hiding?"

The confusion on his face was plain. He didn't know the word for explain but luckily didn't need to. Puzzled, Paarthurnax butted in. "Hiding?"

Veleda turned to the dragon. "Honored dov, you might not know me, but I know of you. My husband spoke of you to me with affection and respect. I see you keep other sorts of company now. I won't trouble you long. What I would say to Baldur is not for other ears, even yours."

Paarthurnax bowed his head, looked between the two mortals, then took flight. "I'll go stretch my wings. I hope to speak more with you someday, and of the husband of which you speak."

The rush of wind from the dragon's winds tore at Veleda's dark hair beneath her gold and amber circlet. As she regarded Baldur, the words she mentioned seemed not to come. Finally she said, "Well? Are you really bound somehow to draconic?"

Baldur's eyes shifted downwards, then met with hers again, but said nothing.

She uttered a small, harsh laugh. "I see. Then let me speak. I saw Rebec recently, or rather Menel did. She warned me to stay away, and wouldn't let him near your daughter. I had wondered if you told her. Now I have my answer." The color was rising in her cheeks, and it wasn't just the piercing cold. "How do you live with yourselves?"

There was another silence. Finally Veleda said, "I, too, have a daughter. One who now cries out in her sleep because she's dreaming that she'll be orphaned and a beggar again. Of all the reasons I have to hate you, Baldur, for this I will never forgive you. But there is more."

Beneath her heavy sable cloak, Veleda wore an ebony chain shirt. As she parted the cloak's folds, not even the mail could obscure the rise in her stomach.

Baldur's gaze turned from solemn, to fierce instantly. There was no hiding the realization. Neither the pregnancy, or that somehow, she knew. That wasn't nearly as much of a surprise as her pregnancy was, however.

He looked into her eyes once more. 

"You're with child."

"Yes. We were trying, in case he died in battle. How naive we were, worried only about battle wounds or Thalmor assassins."

Veleda was nearly shaking now, only her legion training keeping her face impassive. "I came here to remind you that I once was an assassin, too. Rebec is not the only one who will protect her baby. If you make one move to harm me or my children, you'll learn what I can do."

"Do you have any idea why I did what I did? Or, why I haven't made a move to kill you?" asked Baldur, sidestepping the warning, but not out of bravado.

Baldur took a step closer to her. Her words cut deeper than the coldest of High Hrothgar's winds, and it showed. "I'm aware nothing I have to say will change your mind about me or what I've done. I won't give an excuse. You deserve better than that. I did what I did in pure selfishness, but I did not do it for the sake of the throne. Your child will be as safe as mine is. I loved Ulfric. I love you. And I love that child in your belly."

Veleda's composure broke slightly, her eyes swimming as she caught a sudden breath. But she took a step away and held out a hand at her side to stop him. Looking out over the mountainside shrouded in killing fog and the expanse of Skyrim below them, she spoke in a quieter tone, though still bitter. "I don't care why. The end is still the same. You want to be my king, so advise me. What do I do now? I have no family, no home. I'm not even a soldier any longer. How do I bear this child when all my thoughts are of death and vengeance? I keep thinking of the story of Dalk, who cut his way out of his mother's womb. Perhaps that will be Ulfric's legacy."

Baldur's own eyes began to swim, but he didnt hide it. The tears fell slow over his ice battered cheeks, slow enough that they almost froze before meeting his beard.

"His legacy, thanks to you will be far more pleasant. And I swear on my own child's life, this won't be for nothing. You know why we hand picked you out of the hundreds of other possible candidates? You really think the others wanted to give a Mage a chance at first? No, that was my doing. And they agreed, we picked you because we could see your strength of character, of will. That's all we ever heard about when we asked about you. That and your compassion to those around you that you lead. You were described as the perfect Skyrim mother, without ever having seen the example. You are the perfect Queen."

Baldur stepped closer again, and said, "I have no illusions. I am not half the man Ulfric was, whatever others might say. They are grieved and in fear, so they imagine what they will of me to fill his shoes for this war. Skyrim needs the Stormcloaks. They were meant to rule, the only ones who should ever rule. I do not know if what I've done was right. Regardless of my intent. I speak now, because I understand enough of this thu'um that Arngeir's tricks no longer hold my tongue, but I will not speak during this moot. If the gods wish me to be king, then I will be king without saying a word. But if not, then you must be Queen. I meant it when I said I'll step down and make way for you, but I MUST have my way in Valenwood. And if Brund wins...."

Baldur's fists clenched so hard that the frost covering them audibly crunched.

"He can't be allowed to rule. You ask me what I advise. Survive. Live. Be patient, and see that this child is strong. Take the throne when the time comes, and one day, if I live long enough to see the child's 18th winter, I'll tell them personally what I've done."

"So you would force the gods' hands by robbing Skyrim of a great king, then call it their judgment. I am supposed to trust you that you don't intend to clear out other obstacles to your plan? Ulfric trusted you, and we see where that got him."

Veleda let out a frustrated sigh. After a pause, she went on, "Are you working together with Boldir Iron Brow? Was Riften part of this plan of yours?"

Baldur's expression turned hard again. "I haven't spoken to Boldir since we were in Whiterun. Not directly. I don't know what happened with Riften. That wasn't my doing. But you're right, this is my doing. This moot, Ulfric's death. Not the gods. Not the Daedra..."

Baldur took a glance down at his hand.

"Just mine. My wife, she had nothing to do with this. In fact, she may even hate me for what I did. I don't blame her. But she doesn't need to understand, or love me. So long as she and that child live, and Skyrim can have peace, I'm willing to sacrifice anything."

"And you think only you can bring that peace?" Veleda gave a harsh laugh. "By the gods, you do have some stones." She shook her head, and after a moment said, "You are right about one thing, this Brund is dangerous. When I was on the run after Ulfric's death, in the Reach, Menel got close once. He describes an unnatural air around the man, something magical. The elf is flighty, but I trust his judgment in magical matters. Elisif thinks she can tame him, I hear. Wouldn't she be delighted to know that it was not the Thalmor but a Stormcloak who killed Ulfric and seeks to usurp his throne?"

"I don't care what that girl thinks. What she's doing now is the equivalent of a lame animal that refuses to die. It's pathetic. And as for this peace, well, if you have any ideas other than an all out slug fest with the Dominion, then you should have shared them with us all sooner, and spared me the sin."

Baldur turned from her, exposing his back. "I won't deny the arrogance. But arrogance doesn't prove me wrong. No one has any big plans to bring down the Thalmor. And I'm not going to wait around for someone to think of something different. I don't care about being right or wrong. I know I'm a bastard. All I care about now, is winning. Brund is something else but at the very least, that's something even he understands."

"I take it that Ulfric disagreed with your plan, and so he had to die. Just like that. Now you've taken on the mantle of Wulfharth to convince people you're the gods' chosen. It's a good show, Baldur. You must not be too confident of its success, though, since you dragged the girl empress all the way up here to support your claim."

"Would you believe me if I told you that wasn't entirely intentional? Nevermind, I'm sure I know the answer," said Baldur. 

"I killed my friend and king, just like that, as you put it, for the mere chance to run things my way. You really think I'd leave anything else to half measures? Yes, I took advantage of a strange situation. The Dragonborn is missing, Ulfric is dead, but now our people will have their Wulfharth. And yes, I dragged the Empress here, but not just her. The King of Hammerfell and High Rock too. Even Ulfric didn't trust the likes of Skald the Elder, or the late Law-Bringer to make the right choice. I won't make that mistake either."

He paused a moment, turning back to face her again. Reflecting. "I guess I don't completely trust the gods either, when I think about it, or I wouldn't have tried to stack things in my favor in such a way. My silence at the moot still serves a purpose though. Sometimes the best way to make a man see the light, is to let it dawn on them on their own accord. If I wasn't confident enough in this, I would have simply denied your accusation when I don't even know how you know what you know. And I wouldn't have killed my King. Though, even so, you did deserve to know the truth. I can't deny you that. I owe you that much."

"At the very least." Her expression is still hateful, the rings under her eyes making it more pronounced. She had aged in the previous months, more lines etched into her face. It was obvious that not only Sofie had not slept well. "Ulfric didn't trust the jarls, but he didn't ask the emperor's leave to be king, either. We fought for freedom from the empire's say-so at the moot, and now what have you done? But perhaps your ambition goes further than just Skyrim, and the empress ought to fear for her position, too."

"You're a smart woman, Veleda. You know that there's a difference here. Skyrim's at the center of Tamriel's circle of influence. They aren't here to pick a King, they're here to pick a general for the most important war of our time. Skyrim's freedom is assured. The more important Skyrim is to Tamriel, the more safe we are. This moot is just getting them used to us again, to the idea of Skyrim taking an important role in everyone's future again, like the old days. That is what Ulfric wanted, to see Skyrim at the head of this war. As for Dales Draconis, she has nothing to worry about from me. I don't need to be Emperor to have my way in this war, and I couldn't be if I wanted to, which I don't. I can just imagine Rebec's reaction now. No, as long as Cyrodiil keeps its focus on the South, she is safe."

"A moot is for the jarls. For Skyrim. Hammerfell, Cyrodiil, they have no say in who will be king and should not be involved. Of course I am not a jarl myself. I wouldn't be here at all except Galmar insisted. Still, the jarls should know that Ulfric's blood lives on. You do what you must, Baldur. He would have died for his people gladly, instead his death was meaningless. It's up to you to make it worth something."

She turned back down the path, snow crunching under feet. Turning back, she said, "Rebec sent a message for you." Veleda paused, trying to remember the exact words. "'Tell Baldur that after he's done with his gods-blasted moot nonsense, to pick up some juniper berries on his way home. For the mead.' Apparently Ivarstead's got the best since Helgen was destroyed." The once-queen gave a grim little smile, perhaps remembering better times.

"Home." Baldur let his lips fold into a smile despite it all. Somehow it was good to hear her call it such. That it was still home for him. That he was welcome.

He gave Veleda a soft nod and refrained from thanking her. He knew it wouldn't be appropriate or well received.

"I know you don't think it, but I'll respect Ulfric's wishes for this land. And if I don't, you'll be able to set things straight yourself. I won't fail. Even if I have to come back into this world bloodied and beaten, I'll claw myself back into Tamriel and send the Thalmor out the same way. Bet."

Veleda only nodded once. "Look to Brund and to Galmar. Kingslaying has a way of coming back around, Baldur." The fire spell bloomed in her hand again, fog swirling around her as she used it to warm the air on her descent.

"Goodbye," he said to himself, mostly. He didn't know what she meant about looking to Brund, and Galmar. Brund was Brund. Somehow, someway Baldur knew he was going to try something. He didn't know how, surely he didn't think himself strong enough to pull off a coup in the presence of the Greybeards. And Galmar... Baldur hadn't seen Galmar since before Ulfric's death. Somehow he didn't expect him to stick around to advise.

In any event, one thing was certain. What she said about Kingslaying certainly was true. He only need look to Ulfric to know that.

Some time had passed since Baldur heard Veleda's footsteps fade away in the hard winds of High Hrothgar. As Baldur sat...

"She's a wise woman, that one. You'd do well to listen to her, Baldur."

This time it was Arngeir who would wake him from his thoughts.

"There's no need to keep up pretenses. I heard the conversation. I know well that you can now speak. Well done. But our terms are the same. You will not speak until the moot is finished. Until someone is crowned king. Or, queen."

Arngeir smiled at this.

Baldur frowned. Both from his having eavesdropped somehow, and the implication of his smile.

"You'd like that, wouldn't you old man. So much for staying out of our affairs."

"It was you who brought this to us, Ash-King. You want my support, it will come with terms."

"But why?" asked Baldur. "Why hinder me so? Why not just deny me any support at all if you hate me so?"

"Because, Baldur. If the world is to have the thu'um once more, we would see that they are not lead down the same path again. Not by you, not by Brund. Which reminds me, I must warn you, violence within High Hrothgar will not be tolerated."

Baldur's frown turned into a scowl. Was that a threat.. or perhaps, something else...

"What direction the world turns is not the business of one who hides from it!" said Baldur. "How I choose to use my gift is none of your concern."

"Oh but it is! For it was our student who taught you, who you killed maliciously! The thu'um is for-"

"The worship of the gods? Hah!"

"Tread carefully, 'Wulfharth'. You of all people should know to speak with more reverence for the gods, especially in this place."

"My. Name. Is. Baldur. And hear me, **** the gods."

Arngeir's eyes bulged, and his tongue failed him. At least for a time. His brow folded with more layers than a horker loaf.

"How dare you!"

"Sod off!"

"Do not raise your voice to ME!"

Both Nords stubborn in their ways shouted the words at the same time...

"Tinvaak Onikaan Uth!" The air was heavy with their rage and dangerous intent.

"Baldur Red-Snow!"

"Ahh, so you DO know my name! Good! Now know this as well, old man. I did what I did out of LOVE. For my wife, for my children. For my brother. And I will not sit here listening to you questioning my decision when you could NEVER understand my motives. Have you ever even been with a woman? Have you ever even killed with another? Understood the bond that blood can make between two strangers? The gods did not give us this gift to sit atop a mountain and hide from the world. Yelling at the skies in their name."

"Oh, so now you speak for the gods?" said Arngeir.

"Do you? Because that is what you do when you tell me how to use my gift. It is not your place to tell me."

Arngeir settled some, taking a breath. His eyes looked down, falling with his head. It was the first time Baldur ever thought Arngeir looked defeated. But the moment was brief.

"In the little time that humanity has had the thu'um, it has been used for war, murder. Betrayal. You tell me that this is the will of the gods?" Arngeir shook his head in disgust. "You say you did this out of love. Did you not love Ulfric? Was he not your brother as well? I have not had a wife, though I have laid with a woman, long ago. Too long to remember what love for one felt like. And not long enough to have had children of my own. But Ulfric, as much of a disappointment as his leaving us was, was the closest thing to a son that I've ever had. And you, you killed him."

And now it was Baldur's turn to have his voice fail him. 

The look in his eyes was pure agony. It was an entirely different look from what he was used to seeing in Baldur's eyes. Arrogance, rebelliousness, defiance. Now all he saw was pain and self doubt. 

On a whim, Arngeir grabbed Baldur's arm, pushing back the cloak to reveal his skin. "Yol." The flames danced over it like light shining through a newly disturbed surface of water.

Baldur seemed uninterested at first but soon pulled his arm away. He'd almost forgotten what the sensation felt like entirely, but Arngeir's thu'um brought him back to those agonizing moments after the Thalmor attack. When his skin began to attack him with the sensation of burning all at once.

"Your thu'um. It is intriguing. It feeds off of your internal struggles, your conflict. Your power waxes and wanes depending on whatever emotion you are feeling at the time. Your self doubt, I can almost taste it as my thu'um raked across your skin. It's clear your feelings about Ulfric and the decision you made, are genuine."

"I don't give a damn whether you believed me or not," said Baldur. As he spoke, the burns got worse.

Seeing him flinch, Arngeir said, "You're lying. You might not care what I think, but you need someone to believe your words. Perhaps because even you doubt them. You've broken the hold my thu'um had over you, which could only happen when you were ready to have broken it. It only had a hold on you because you allowed it to. That this has changed shows me that you've given yourself truthfully to our teachings, or at least attempted to. So, I do believe that your intentions were out of a misguided feeling of love. Or perhaps, fear of loss. It doesn't make up for what you did, but at least I know your tongue is not forked. Entirely."

Arngeir spoke quickly before Baldur could interrupt him. "You've sat atop High Hrothgar a while now. Surely you've sensed it..."

"Brund you mean," said Baldur. "Aye, I've sensed it. His thu'um. It's like... a storm coming for us. It feels wrong somehow. Heavy with... hatred. But it's... specific somehow. As though I have felt it before. In his eyes."

Arngeir frowned. "What in the blazes did you do to him?"

Baldur shrugged. "I promoted him."

Arngeir's face twisted. "I don't understand."

"In truth, I do not really understand Brund. I know he seeks power, and what I granted him was not enough. He craves more, but to what end, I have no idea. I don't even know if my assessment is true. All I know is that when I last felt his thu'um, it felt like he was nearly in front of me. Like I could feel his gaze on me. And I saw hatred in his eyes, then remembered I saw that look before."

"Well Red-Snow, you better search deep and long inside yourself and find the answer soon. Because Brund soon will be in front of you. He is in the Rift."

"So close," said Baldur. "Already? But Daric and Maori... they've not reached me yet. Surely they would have before him."

"I don't know of whom you speak, but if they were close to you, I hope that they didn't come in contact with him."

"Brund knows Daric," said Baldur. "I sent him to see what Brund was up to. He's a boy and knows the land well. I'm sure he's fine."

"Baldur, I hope for your sake that isn't the case. If what you said about him is true... that his hatred could be pointed to you..."

Baldur interrupted him. "I said I saw hatred in his eyes. I don't know that it was pointed to me. Why should it be? I've not dealt him any great slight. And now he's on equal ground with me. Perhaps he would kill me if I stood in the way of his becoming king, but..."

"Are you sure that's all this is Baldur? Think, and think fast. The time soon approaches when you'll face him, and if your thu'um is clouded with self doubt and pain, I fear you will not be ready for what might come in the near future. And like it or not, it seems the gods have decided to lay the path of humanity and the thu'um on the shoulders of Ulfric's possible predecessors."

Arngeir strained to speak after that, though it certainly wasn't the strain of his shout. Both Baldur and his respective thu'ums had settled. It was clear that Arngeir's had opened another train of thought in Baldur's mind, but Arngeir was surprised to see that he was opened to his as well. 

"Baldur. You felt it too, didn't you. His thu'um, his bloodlust. What it might mean.... and his power. It's greater than I'd expected. Your tongue is sharper now but if it is dulled by your self doubt and inner conflict, you cannot hope to stand against him."

"I cannot hope to stand against him at all, seeing how you've forbidden me from taking action if need be. And it's more likely that Brund came across Thalmor in the Rift. That's all."

"Forbidden? I was unaware that it was within my power to forbid you of anything. I made it very clear. There will be no violence, in High Hrothgar. Make of that what you will."

Arngeir began to walk away, leaving Baldur with his puzzled expression and his fearful thoughts. He stopped, then turned around once more.

"This Brund. I refuse to believe that he is who the gods intend to lead humanity's rejoining with Kyne's gift. At least with you I feel something. Pain, remorse, guilt. A conscience. From Brund, I feel nothing but cold emptiness as dark as the void. You created this problem, gave him this opportunity. Correct your mistake, Baldur."

"How am I to do that when I cannot even speak in my defense at this moot?"

"There are other ways to speak without using your tongue. If you are intended by the gods to walk this path, then I know your actions will have others speak for you. After that, well. It's not for a man retired from the world to say how to use your thu'um. But be well prepared. The Jarls are coming, and soon."

Baldur didn't know what to say to that. It's not at all what he'd expected of Arngeir. It worried him, that Brund could leave the Greybeards so worried. And if they were worried...

***

Brund stood beneath the foot of the Throat of the World for what seemed to be an age. He heard Baldur's thu'um... felt it... Brund was sure of it. 

"So Baldur. This is it. Are you ready for me? Because I'm damn sure ready for you..."

Brund rested a hand on his gut, looking at his newly bloodied hammer-fang. 

"I'm almost sorry it has to end this way, you know. You're a worthy adversary. But alas, you're the son of Ulrin Red-Snow. And so, you will die, like your boy. Hmm? Of course I won't spare him. I'm not that sentimental. And once I'm done with him, I'm gonna put a baby in his wife, just to show how little I care for him, you watch. Doubt me do you? Well I'll show you, Priest. Hmm? You say someone's nearby?"

Brund's eyes darted around the forest, sniffing the air like a dog.

"That smell... is it... yes... it's elf..."

If he could see his grin, the elf in question would have grown sick from the sight of it. As it happened though, the Thalmor Overseer could see nothing as he clung to his treebranch of choice, cloaked spell wearing off by the second. And with each step Brund took, sniffing him out, the earth shook, compromising his grip...

Just when it seemed that he could hold on no longer, Brund finally gave up his search. "I've got bigger concerns. Death will soon find you, coward, believe me. I've felt your presence before. I know you're spying on me... Don't let me find you, or what the Valenwood rat got will look like the soft gentle fricking of a virgin's weak ****."

And with that, Brund dismissed the mysterious elf entirely. "Time to claim my crown."

When Brund was finally gone, disappearing on the path to Ivarstead, the High Overseer allowed his spell to dissipate fully, lowering himself to the ground with his magic.

Only when his feet met the ground did he also lower his load. He was carrying something in a sack, a sack that dripped slightly with dark crimson. He cast a spell of muffle on the sack before having it follow behind him. Or floating more like. On his belt he carried a Nordic blade of fine make, with the intended owner's name carved into the blade, and two books, one of which he was actively reading. The first, a book on the fundamentals of casting fire bolts. The other, "The Advantages and Practicality of Alteration: Armor Spells".

"That was a close call. Of all the Nords I've seen, that man is by far the most deranged. Guess we'll have to wait and see how things play out with the Nords and their silly moot before I can claim him and return to Alinor. For the sake of my mission and Tamriel, I truly hope it's you that wins, Baldur Red-Snow."

[Witchking of Angmar]

 

Maggie and Krojun
Skyrim

Maggie awoke in her bed in Volkihar Castle, to find that the scroll which had transported her to a vision of ancient Skyrim had re-written itself into a recall scroll. The avatar of Skjari had told her that she would most likely find him at his retreat in the afternoons, before twilight.

For the time being, however, she had more pressing matters. A nightblade servant had delivered letters, and she urgently needed to feed. For the latter, she crossed over to the mainland. The young Stormcloak she had dallied with was nowhere to be found, so she had to content herself with a drunken merchant who had taken a room in the inn. She left him sleeping far more peacefully than he otherwise would have.

Back in the castle, Maggie opened a letter from her husband, Count Rufus Imbrex of Skingrad. Matters in the south were deteriorating. Rufus requested a meeting to plan their next moves, and to solidify an exit strategy if the county fell. She teleported to her family estate in Colovia and had to wait a day and a half for him to arrive. This was the house in which he had bedded her as a child, at her father’s behest. When she saw him walk through the door, Maggie suppressed an urge to slash his throat. They convened in the parlor and planned through the night, then towards dawn he made a clumsy attempt to fondle her. Maggie pushed him away and went off to summon a maid to serve as his bedwarmer. He had seen the last of her in that way, those many years ago.

The manor had a laboratory, where Maggie spent the next morning searching her dreamsleeve nets for any sign of her old spy network still operating. Other than static, the network was dead. The Thalmor were no fools.

She had already taken her leave of Serana and sent most of her belongings on to Cyrodiil. Before she returned home, however, there was the matter of Skjari’s invitation. In the palace, there would be prying eyes and ears. The best chance she had to talk openly with him would be there. And, after the extraordinary vision of his long-gone home, Maggie wanted to see the real wizard once more. After Rufus was gone from the place, Maggie dressed herself, set a recall mark in her chamber, then opened the dragon box and cast the spell on the scroll.

She felt how her body for less than a second felt floating and her vision went black. The laboratory was replaced with the large dome shaped room of the ancient throne room. Before Maggie was the throne with the statue of a dragon standing behind it with outstretched wings. 

Pausing before the throne, Maggie looked it over, then turned to make her way into the inner rooms. She had been here before but remembered little, as if it had been a dream. The master bedroom and study were easy enough to find, and she remembered the library. There, she had uncovered some diagrams of sunbirds, which she had copied and sent on to the admirals of Skyrim and Cyrodiil. Perhaps she could find the book again. The ancient Nords had battled ancient elves for ages unrecorded. "Having an empire made us dull of wits," she thought wryly.

Skjari was nowhere to be found. Then she remembered the dragon. Visiting him alone would be dangerous, but her curiosity got the better of her, and she made her way towards the hall leading out to the mountain caverns.

It didn't take long to reach the great stone twin doors leading out from the old Nord's home. When Maggie touched the doors with her hands there was a low rumbling and they began to slowly open. From outside she felt the cold air seep in between the doors. When the door had opened enough for Maggie to step outside she saw a familiar figure sitting at the edge of the cave, looking out over the seemingly unending icy wastes that lied beyond and below the cave's entrance. 

"A Nord in his element." Maggie stepped forward, smiling. Her own attire was suitable for Skyrim, a rich, soft cloak of dark blue over a white silk collared dress. Her glamor spells automatically adapted to put a bit of pink in her cheeks, even though she herself didn't feel the cold.

Taking the wizard's hand in her own gloved one, she appraised him a moment, then curtsied formally. "My emperor."

He glanced up at her for a second with curious and inquisitive eyes before returning his gaze to the icy wastes and pulling his hand back from her. "What brings you here?" he said in a calm voice.

"You invited me. Or rather, your shade did. If I'm unwelcome, then I'll return home."

"You are welcome. I am however curious to why you accepted the invitation."

"Your gift was marvelous. I wanted to thank you. And... I missed you."

Skjari kept looking out at the wastes. Though Maggie saw a small smile from the side but it was gone almost as soon as it had appeared. It was followed by a moment of silence before he looked back up at Maggie. "Want to sit?"

Maggie nodded once and sat, stretching her legs out with ankles crossed. Folding her hands in her lap, she contemplated the barren landscape. "Peaceful. Where is.. Vullokein, was it?"

"Probably either hunting bruniikke or talking with some other dragons in hiding."

"I can see why you come up here, considering the glorious mess of the Imperial City. How is our fair empress?"

"Not well. I get the sense she's drowning herself in paperwork and skips sleep to an unhealthy degree."

Maggie's brow raised. "Paperwork? She might keep fewer maids and more clerks."

"She says she has to do it herself. I'm guessing she's afraid to delegate."

"There were some attempts on her life, yes?"

"A few months ago, yes."

"Then mistrust could finish the job they started. But, how are you, Skjari? Or shall I call you Krojun now?"

There was another brief moment of silence before he answered, "Krojun works. And it's been a bit frustrating at times, but I manage."

"It was your coronation name before, too. I heard your retainer call you that in the vision. What about Draconus?"

"I've read it or something similar before. I also know it's related to an old Imperial name for dragon. So I picked it to make my first name sound more Imperial, given that it's not Nordic. Now the Colovians believe my first name is Nibenese and Nibenese thinks it's Colovian."

"Funny, our earlier emperors tried hard to make people believe they were Nords, or had Nord virtues. But times have changed, I suppose. Now a Breton and a Nord rule us. It's hard to remember what Cyrodiil was, or think what we will be, after all this. If there is a Cyrodiil."

"Hmm," was all Skjari mumbled thoughtfully. There was then another moment of silence as he looked up on the clear and calm sky. "What do you want?" he then asked with a curious tone as he turned his gaze to glance at her.

Maggie glanced at him. "My mother has died. It's time for me to return to Skingrad. We will be at war any day now, and I wish to be useful. My old spy networks in the south are dead, however. Unless you have something else for me to do, I'll help Rufus prepare the county for the inevitable."

"Are you good with economics?"

"It's more my sister Sofia's area. Why?"

"Thinking appointing a Master of the Treasury. So far I've been thinking on the bankers in the Motierre family."

"The Order has an extensive banking network, but you can hardly imagine me as a treasury official, can you? Sofia is dreary enough that she might serve. She will also do anything I tell her to do, since I've granted her children freedom from my father's demands."

"The Order?"

"My family. Extended family, you might call them. If you've not heard of us, so much the better. We prefer to blend."

"Hmm," he said, sounding slightly disgruntled. 

Maggie laughed. "Ruling is so dreary, isn't it? If the Crown needs cash, I will talk to Sofia. We have certainly loaned the emperor before. Now we must all pull together or there will be no gold left to count. I'm sure the Thalmor won't make the mistake of allying with us again, if they become our rulers. Nor the Motierres, either."

"It's not that. I just don't have much positive experiences with extended vampire families from my time."

"We have served you well thus far, have we not? My associates are not the Skyrim clans. We have been a part of the empire since its founding, behind the scenes, funding the arts and the legion and yes, the emperor. There is value in having ancient and not just transitory powers at work. You yourself are an example of that. Others might believe that a teenage empress could save Cyrodiil, but you and I know how far that will go."

"Just promise me to not start any daedric invasion," he said half jokingly.

"My dear Skjari- Krojun- we try to keep a healthy distance between ourselves and our lords, I assure you." She laughed again and regarded him. "I can send you a list of some candidates for Master Treasurer. That isn't my role, however. Besides, it would be more complicated now for me to be at White Gold, given our history. You're a married man now."

He looked back out across the wastes. "True. And it's easier to forget that history if you're not around." He didn't sound happy. 

"I'm sure you've found other distractions. The Quentas woman, wasn't it? Or has the empress had a turn of interests?"

Skjari looked thoughtful and irritated for a second, before turning to grab Maggie's face with both his hands and placing a long, passionate kiss on her lips. "I haven't found a woman that can compare to you for thousands of years."

She laughed, breathless from the kiss. "Ah Skjari. You certainly know how to charm a girl." Standing, she reached out a hand. "If you're done brooding, come inside. I'll remind you."

With a curious and inquisitive look but also a slightly mischievous, little smile he took her hand. "I hope you don't expect me to settle for only a reminder."

"Greedy." She smiled and beckoned for him to stand. With a last look around for the dragon, Maggie led the wizard back through the cave and into the keep. As they passed the library, she glanced in. Later.

Once in the bedroom, she kissed him again, then abruptly pushed him onto the bed but didn't follow herself. Unhurriedly Maggie shed her cloak, then loosened the ties to her long dress of white silk so that bits of lace could be glimpsed underneath. More than a glimpse was visible when she stepped a foot up on the bedside chair and began to pull on the laces of her high boot, glancing at Skjari with a smile as she did so.

After a while at this game, when only the little wisps of lace and silk remained, she finally climbed astride him on the bed. Tracing the lines of his face with one finger, Maggie said, "I see the burdens you carry, Skjari. I also see that your eyes burn for war. All of that can wait a little longer."

It was indeed a reminder of their games in the palace, but different this time, for her. No Darius, no demands of courtesanship. Her lonely months of vigil over her mother were also behind her. There was freedom, but it had left an ache behind. Leaning down, Maggie began to kiss him again, testing how it felt. The ache grew, and she gave herself over to it.

***
Both were too tired to move. Maggie lay partially atop the wizard and his arms held her in a tired embrace. She could feel his heartbeats and deep breaths through his chest. Above the illusory sky was dark and filled with stars. 

After some time- it was impossible to tell if day or night- Maggie rose and went to the liquor cabinet. This too was more habit than want. She examined the oddly shaped bottles of exotic drinks, wondering how ancient some of them were, and poured from one whose label was scribed by hand in draconic. The first taste burned like the fires of Dagon. She had to brace herself, then laugh.

Glancing back, she saw that the wizard was awake. Still holding the glass, she said, "You have succeeded in surprising me, and this is your greatest charm. One of them, anyway." Maggie laughed suggestively, then went on, "The illusion scroll you sent me. How much magicka did that consume? Were you missing your ancient home, that you wished to re-create a small part of it?"

"I created it because you've previously shown an interest in the history of where I am from. I figured it would be a gift you'd appreciate more than any piece of jewelry I could send."

"And I did. I'm flattered that you thought of me at all. As I told your shade, I'll have to write about it. I'm thinking of an historical fantasy about a cataclysmic conflict between ancient man and elf, a sequel to the other book I wrote about you. I've never written a sequel, but the time for this is right. It will be a way to write about the present without the dreariness of being real."

"And I can give you too many memories of such conflict," he said with a weary tone.

"I know. The best stories don't come from calm and happiness. It's why people like them, to take their minds off their own trouble. Are we going to win?"

He sat up in the bed. "Given how Cyrodiil was once elven land I would say it's only a matter of time. Provided people don't bend like the two previous emperors."

Maggie perched on the edge of the bed, bracing the arm holding her liquor glass on one knee. "Shezzar does seem to be on the rise. Good for mankind, if true. And what will you do if the Dominion wins?"

"They wont win as long as I'm alive."

"You plan to go down with the ship, as it were?" Maggie appeared shocked.

"No. I'll simply have to restart elsewhere."

"Ah. Yes, that's what I thought. I also intend to survive regardless, but the Aldmeri may have magics that would make that difficult even for beings such as you and I."

"They're not gods. Whatever magic they got it can be defeated with the right tools."

"They would beg to differ about not being gods," she said, laughing. "The problem is that it's difficult to know exactly what they're capable of. Their ability to manipulate the dreamsleeve means they can emerge anywhere, at any time, and survey magical anomalies with precision. Theoretically. And unlike the Ayleids, we don't yet know of any rifts in their alliance that we can exploit. Can our side claim to be as united? I find it remarkable that the nobility have accepted you and Dales as readily as they have. At least I haven't heard of any treasons of late, other than the ravings of that dimwitted Albecias Plebo."

"I don't feel myself that accepted by some of the nobility. I feel the Elder Council wants me to be weak and lenient with them."

"That's simply human nature. Everyone is out for their own advantage at the end of the day. Have you determined who tried to kill Dales? Was it Thalmor?"

"The information so far points to the Thalmor being behind both assassination attempts."

"Well. I suppose that's encouraging in its own way. But the fact remains that our allies are scattered and distrustful of one another. Have you heard much of this Theodore Adrard?"

"Dales calls him a fat pig. Other than that I know he's sly and reports say he's trying to unite High Rock, for good and ill."

Maggie laughed. "I take it she was disappointed that another chick flew the nest. Dales might learn from this 'fat pig,' considering the success he's had. Does your Lady Quentas have any agents at his court?"

"I expect she has. But I've also asked that she places one directly as a handmaid of the crown prince's wife. I'm hoping she'll be close enough to catch some good stuff, but far away that the royal family wont be suspicious at a new handmaid."

Maggie made a thoughtful noise. "I have some contacts there as well. I lived there for a time, while I was training as courtesan, though the 'fat pig' may have had a few of those for supper." She laughed, then went on, "Reunion Press, my publishing house, would give me cover for a visit, though perhaps not to get close to new royalty. There are those of my kind I might contact. The Bretons' magic could be a potent tool in this war. I'm curious how the Direnni are taking all of this. The Thalmor had nothing good to say about them."

"I think you'll do a better job remaining in Cyrodiil, as a countess, making sure Skingrad supports me," he said as he inched closer until he sat besides her. 

Maggie brushed his cheek with her fingertips. "Skingrad is true, no need to worry about that. I would worry more about Chorrol and Kvatch in the hands of rather unstable sorts, and Leyawiin and Bravil on the front. It's true that if our vineyards are destroyed, it will be years before we can recover, and we pay a great deal of taxes. Please keep that in mind when you make plans for the legion."

"Don't worry, I'll make sure the legions protect you." Skjari carefully picked up Maggie by the waist and placed her on his lap. "But maybe you could find some possible friends for me. High Rock's departure left a few seats on the Council empty."

"I'll draw up a list. There are those to whom I owe favors, and those I'd like to make indebted to me. Darius' death has left my position in business and society weaker than it was. Not that I would trade that for independence."

"Independence from what?" he said with a curious expression. 

"From my father's control. He ruled my life. A few years of that one can endure, but the prospect of hundreds..."

"And what do you want to do now?"

"Run my business. Write, and encourage the arts, including my library foundation in the Imperial City. It is wartime, but there must be something to fight for. The empire, if it is to be an empire again, must offer something more than a boot on the neck."

"Something like culture and trade?"

"Art, sex, gold, fun. Life." Maggie gave a teasing kiss on his nose and trailed her lips along his cheek. "The same things that you and I cling to life for. It cannot all be death and revenge." She pulled back a little to gauge his reaction, perhaps not sure that he was motivated by those things as she was.

For a moment he only looked thoughtful and his gaze grew distant. Slowly a slightly troubled look began to appear on his face.
"What is it, Skjari?"

"I want you. But I also don't want to share you with anyone," he said a slightly weary tone as he looked her in the eyes. The look in his eyes were firm, almost determined, but there was also a sincerity she had never really seen in him. 

"You know why I married Rufus. For the same reason you married Dales."

"He can be castrated."

She laughed brightly. "The thought has crossed my own mind, but not recommended." Maggie extricated herself and stood, refilling her glass. "This jealousy is flattering, Skjari, but unnecessary. Do you picture me ever being like one of those silly women you showed me in your vision? I doubt even you really want that."

"No. I was hoping you'd be better."

"Am I not?"

He simply stared at her in silence with inquisitive eyes before saying, "Was this night a mistake?"

"Not to my mind. You're obviously unhappy with something, however. I'm not sure what you expect, Skjari. Do you wish me to be celibate? To be your 'official' courtesan again? The latter is unwise. The former..." She laughed and shook her head.

"I guess I was expecting something different. Especially with this place where distance and secrecy is not an issue."

"We can meet from time to time. You understand that what you ask me to give up is not merely a lifestyle, but my means of survival?"

"Would they kill you if you stopped?"

"'They'? You mean my family. Discretion is our only rule. But play with men is how I get what I need, primarily. It is safer and kinder than any other means I know, and..." She shrugged. "It's what I'm good at. Do you mean to give up the lovely spymaster and all your maids?" Maggie laughed and shook her head. "I would never ask it."

"Why not?"

She stopped short, staring at him. "You're serious?"

He only stared back silently and unflinchingly. Maggie could see no insincerity, regret or doubt in his eyes that could suggest anything but seriousness. His calm, grey eyes looked at her, as if waiting for an answer. 

Maggie regarded him silently, then walked over to the liquor stand and set her drink down. "My kind is not known for monogamy. I would say it is so rare as to be unheard of. With good reason. It is difficult enough for mortals to sustain in their short lifetimes. Have you ever been exclusive with anyone, even with her whose memory still haunts you so?"

"Yes."

"With her, or others as well?"

"There were a couple more. One fell short of expectations. The other died saving me." He paused for a second. "What about you?"

"Expectations, yes." Maggie returned slowly to the bed, stepping into his legs with her arm draped on his shoulder. "That is the word, isn't it? I cannot do what you ask. I won't be leashed again, not so soon after earning my freedom, especially not while I am in the public eye. It is too dangerous for me. Mortals are easily lured, but powerful men who are used to female attention, they must believe they can earn my favors if I am to influence them. The less true the illusion, the harder it is to maintain. Of course I won't lie, I do enjoy the game, and the sense of many possibilities." She caressed his cheek, then stepped back. "So what now? Can you be content to meet as we have been? I'm here by choice, Skjari. You have other women in memory, but for my short lifetime there has never been any quite like you. Is that enough?"

"So you'd rather choose to give up all this?" He made a sweeping gesture. 

"I would rather that you not make such a demand, which you did not even make when I was your courtesan."

"No I did not. At first I thought you'd be as fleeting as the other women. Then I thought I had no standing to make such a demand." He straightened his back. "Too much old Nordic pride in me. Every other man is an insult and a challenge. That has to be washed away with blood. But that's not how things work now. So instead I deluded myself to turn a blind eye. But I can only do that for so long. When you left I thought it was time to forget, as the other option would likely lead to wrath." He got up from the bed and placed his hands on Maggie's shoulders. "I like you. For that I don't want you to have to see my wrath."

"Your wrath." Maggie smiled wryly. "It always comes back to that. You are not insulted by the men, you're insulted by my freedom, as my father was. It is not enough that I come to you by choice, that I enjoy our time together and the friendship and alliance we've made. You don't own me, Skjari. You never will. If you didn't understand that when I first came here, hear it now."

"If I wanted to own you, we wouldn't be having this argument. You're free to choose what you want."

"You do understand that seduction is not entanglement, and that I needn't actually sleep with mortal men to get what I want from them? I have no interest in it, in fact. But that I would have to answer to you or anyone for what I do or don't do, that I cannot abide. If you're not content to let things go as they have been, let us part as friends and allies."

"We are always beholden to others by our actions. Whether we like it or not," he said solemnly. 

"So show me that you understand that what you are asking is for me to give up my influence, my independence and possibly my life. Influence I have used for your power. Did I put any conditions on that, other than not to betray me? Do I ask of you to give up... however you maintain your existence? Now you threaten me."

"You're the countess of one of the wealthiest counties in Cyrodiil. You got the power to turn people into thralls. Is your existance really built on luring men into the bedchamber?"

"That practice is barbaric, and draws attention. Have you seen the creature who used to follow Jem around? The dungeons of Skingrad are already infamous with the legend left by my forebears. In my dormancy I will likely be forced to use willing servants, but I need not wear them out now. And I will not have a leash, in any case."

Maggie placed her hands on his waist, then rubbed his back, gazing up at him. She was thoughtful a moment, studying his eyes. Finally she smiled a little and said, "Let us not quarrel any longer, Skjari. We both have enemies enough without turning friends into one. I will take my leave now."

His eyes looked sad and weary as he returned a halfhearted smile. "Maybe that is for the best. I refuse to share these lips," he traced his index finger slowly along her lips, "with anything other than another man's neck. But it seems clear that will not happen. And don't worry, whatever you choose we'll still be friends and allies."

Maggie smiled again, took his hand, kissed it gently and pressed it to her cheek. "If you have to look a thousand years to find a woman like me, maybe by then things will be different. If we win." Releasing him, she gathered her things and glanced once towards the hall. The ancient library would keep its secrets, from her, at least.

With a last smile, Maggie mumbled the recall spell and returned to her mark in the bedroom of her Colovian estate. It was mid-morning, she judged, though she could not tell if one or more days had passed. Downstairs she heard Rufus'  banter with the servants. He could be irritatingly cheerful, though it was an improvement on Darius and Jem.

Maggie put on a light shift and sat at her dressing table. As she began to put on her rings, a peculiar sensation nagged at her. Brushing a finger across one cheek, she brought away a clear droplet that beaded on her fingertip. Maggie stared at it uncomprehendingly. There was another like it pooling on her eyelashes, and her throat felt thick.

She stared at the mirror, then stirred and shook her head. It's nothing, she told herself. The time had come to return to Cyrodiil and leave the cold of Skyrim behind.

[Witchking of Angmar]

 

 

Morning

Krojun awoke to the feeling Lilly's body closely pressed up against his. She was sleeping peacefully and Krojun thought about doing the same. But looking up towards the window he saw that the rays of sunlight peeking forth around the sides from behind the curtains were too strong. It was morning already and he couldn't dawdle too much, even though it felt like the soft bed and Lilly begged him to stay for a little longer. 

Slowly and carefully Krojun crept out of bed as to not wake Lilly. He got dressed in some simple clothing (for a monarch) that was both comfortable and easy to move in. As he went back to pick up Nahkriin from besides the bed he looked back at Lilly lying in the bed, her upper half partially exposed. With both Maggie and Raine gone she was now the only woman that remained by his side.

It hadn't taken much thought to figure out that Lilly was somehow behind Raine's disappearance, nor had it taken much pressure before Lilly told him the truth. Part of Krojun admired Lilly's ambition and ability to act, but part of him was displeased that she had gotten rid of Raine behind his back. But it didn't matter as much as her promise that she would be with no man besides him.

Lilly's bosom was also the best place to drown out his memories of Maggie. Memories that more often than not led to him wondering what she was up to that in turn led to thoughts that filled him with wrath. It was better to forget. Despite it all he still liked and missed Maggie. But she was gone and Lilly remained, promising what Maggie had not. Though Krojun had his doubts about Lilly keeping her promise. Doubts he hoped he would figure out a way to dispell.

He pulled the cover up for Lilly and gave her a kiss on the cheek before taking his sword and strapping it to his belt. Right before he was about to open the door and leave he remembered Karsh. Quietly he walked across the room and slunk in behind the curtains and opened the window just enough for the raven that was waiting outside to get in. Karsh had nothing interesting to report on, so Krojun left the room while Karsh stayed to keep an eye on Lilly, both for own safety (especially after what had happened Lilly in the Waterfront) and for her promise. 

After having eaten breakfast in his office and reading a few simple letters from a few nobles Krojun steered his way towards the High General's office. The invasion was about to start and Gracchus had said he'd be heading out soon. Krojun wanted to see make sure everything was in order for the departure and settle some matters before the general left. 

Krojun entered Gracchus' office to see the High General seated behind his desk, pouring over reports while dictating a letter to a scribe. The General wore his gold chestplate with the red dragon in the center, while a red cape hung from his shoulders. A golden full helm with a red plume sat on the desk beside him, next to his saber. He finished dictating the letter as Krojun entered, signed it, then ordered the scribe away and offered the Emperor a seat. 

"Your majesty," Gracchus said, rising briefly from his seat to bow his head. 

"How are things going?" asked Krojun before taking the seat opposite of Gracchus. 

"Busy," Gracchus said. "That letter is going to General Bical's Third Legion. Since the Nords took care of the Thalmor in Skyrim, I'm moving one of the recruit legions, General Fork-Beard's Eighth, to guard Bruma. That frees up the Third to head south to the border. The recruit legions can continue to train and keep an eye on our flanks in Bruma and Cheydinhal."

"Anything the Legion needs?"

"For the Nords and Redguards and Bretons to hurry. Once the raiding starts, it won't be long until the Khajiit or the Thalmor try and meet us in open battle. Our defenses in Valenwood will hold, but I worry about an army raiding along the Niben."

"You should be able to move your Legion to intercept such an army. Should the scouts do their work. And if we take or destroy Riverhold and Rimmen they wont have a jumping off point for a counter attack into our lands."

"General K'avar and Renoit are capable, but by all reports the Dominion improved the walls of Rimmen and Riverhold. We can keep any army from leaving the cities, but I'm not sure we'll be able to take them with one legion apiece."

"We got war machines. Throw shit and rot or fire over the walls and I'm sure the cities will crumble."

"We will. But our legions amassing at the border has not gone unnoticed. The cities will undoubtedly have full food stores so that we have to waste men besieging them or taking them. Not to mention we don't yet have a good idea about how many mages the Dominion might have stationed in the cities to help resist our bombardment. The cities will eventually fall, of course. But it's hard to say how long they'll hold."

"True. Just make sure to keep a constant pressure with the war machines. Day and night. Especially night. We both know how easy it is to cast magic when one hasn't slept."

"I will make sure the generals know," Gracchus said. "Is there anything else you want me to relay to them?"

"Pillaged valuables shall be sent back to the Imperial City. Each soldier with more than three years of service will then get an equal share of half of the spoils."

"I'll get that message sent to the generals to tell their men," Gracchus said. "That reminds me. We have enough wagons for our initial operations, but we might need to invest in making or buying some more. We don't have much intelligence on the state of the roads in Elsweyr, and if the Dominion has damaged them, we'll likely need replacement wheels. Not to mention we'll have breakdowns once we move into the badlands and deserts of the interior. Having a steady supply will keep our armies moving and prevent any breakdowns in supplies. Animals to pull the wagons will also be necessary."

"I'll do what I can. Maybe the Legion engineers can help with that." Krojun paused for a second. "Speaking of which: I was thinking of gathering up the best of the Legion engineers to start an academy."

"That's a good idea. I can recommend some of the engineers that built our war machines. Though we need to be careful not to pull them all off the front lines. We'll need some of them to rebuild and reinforce as our armies push forward."

"Then we'll have them train more. With a bit of luck they'll maybe also come up with some invention that'll make things easier as well."

"We can hope. Magically, they'll always outclass us, but I do think we can secure a technological advantage. Where should I send these engineers?"

"To the city. There's some abandoned parts in the Talos Plaza and Market District I think should have suitable buildings for an academy."

"They'll be here by the end of the week. I'll lend the academy my chief engineer to help get it set up, but I'll also warn him to keep his things packed. If Rimmen or Riverhold falls, or an army enters our lands, I'll need him to help direct repairs."

"Of course. Though you said the first two will take time and I expect you to make sure the last one doesn't happen."

"I want to leave room for the unexpected, or in the case I'm wrong about the strength of the cities' defenses. But you're right, in that I shouldn't need him for a while." Gracchus wrote a few notes down on a scroll and looked back up when he finished. "If you don't mind my asking, what do you personally plan to do once the war starts? You don't strike me as the type to stay here in the city."

"Go where I'm needed the most. Though truth be told I am not yet sure where that might be or what it may entail."

"Your magic will be useful wherever you go, I'm sure. And a leader making an appearance on the battlefield always has a morale lifting effect, which might be a more important contribution than any magic you use. Not doubting your skills, of course."

"Sadly I doubt my magic will help much with getting the governing and bureaucratic elements in order."

"Have you had any trouble with the counts, countesses, or Elder Councilors?"

"Just the Elder Council taking some liberties." Krojun said the last word with a slight annoyance. He especially remembered how they had tried to fill one of the currently empty seats with the imbecile that was the chancellors cousin without his approval. The decision had been vetoed almost instantly when he had found out.

"Anything I should be concerned about?"

"They did try to sneak a decision past me about them gaining the power to elect Legion officers."

"That would've caused some problems," Gracchus said. "I would've thought with the Bretons kicked off the council it'd be more favorable to throne. Though I suppose the Colovians and Nibenese can unite in wanting more control over the Legion."

"I get the sense they want a little more control over almost everything. So I'm going to stay here till I can be sure nothing bad will happen should I leave for too long."

"When you are ready to visit the front lines, let me know and I'll make the necessary preparations need my end."

"I'll keep that in mind. Also when will you depart?"

"I had planned on this afternoon, but only if I get these orders sent. And I'm expecting an update on the Third Legion's location, so I won't leave until that arrives, though I should receive it today. Any further delay and I'd have questions for General Bical."

"You can have the message redirected. You'll depart the latest tomorrow morning," said Krojun before getting up from the chair.

"As you wish," Gracchus said. He rose as well and dipped his head again. "Good luck here in the city, Emperor Draconus."

Krojun gave a small nod before leaving the room. Next visit was to High Admiral Tacitus, whom he expected to be at the docks. But he still made a quick stop by his office to make sure. The Grand Admiral's office seemed oddly neat and tidy, like if it had been cleaned and not used, which wasn't that surprising at all. 

Leaving the palace in official capacity was always a hassle as an entourage of guards had to be arranged. At least the guards were quick on their feet and it didn't take long before a company of ten heavily armored guards were ready to accompany the Emperor. Their company was more for show and to make sure the common folk would give way to the Emperor. Krojun didn't expect them to be useful in a defense against an attack that would pose a threat. But they could still be useful as meat shields that could serve as a (hopefully) useful delaying tactic. 

The walk to the Waterfront was rather uneventful. The docks were always a buzz with ships, sailors and dock workers going around. But despite all the commotion it was clear when one looked to the rather scarce and empty edges of the docks that the place had once been a much more busy and lively place. Which was understandable as few merchant ships could even reach Leyawiin from the other friendly provinces. 

It didn't take long to find the Admiral's flagship as it was the grandest ship at the docks as well as the one with the most soldiers around it. He approached the guards at the gangway to the ship and asked for the High Admiral. 

They directed him to the hold, where Krojun found the High Admiral busy coordinating the final loading of some supplies. The hold was dark and muggy, the few lanterns not providing much light. The High Admiral was easily identifiable, though, as the Dwarven metal fist that served as his left hand slightly glowed in the near darkness. 

Tacitus turned towards the new entrants into the hold but only glanced momentarily in their direction before barking out a few more orders to the sailors tying down barrels and crates. That took a few minutes and only after it was done did he turn to face the Emperor. He nodded in his version of a bow and said, "Emperor."

"How are things going?" said Krojun. 

"The Western Fleet is scouting as close to Falinesti as it can, and ensuring nothing slips through to Anvil," Tacitus said. "The Eastern Fleet in Leyawiin is preparing for the raid on Senchal. Once we get to Leyawiin, we'll be setting course for there a couple days later."

"I trust you've kept the target of the raid a relative secret."

"The few who know anything think we'll be capturing Corsair's Refuge to serve as a base to lock down the Topal Sea," Tacitus said. He grinned and added, "I don't want a loose-lipped captain spoiling this."

"Good." Krojun made a gesture with his hand as he conjured forth the scroll for changing the weather from his home. "Here. It will take about six hours to reach full effect and will after that last about a whole day and night."

Tacitus grabbed it, but he had an obvious wary look on his face. "What'll it do?"

Krojun couldn't believe Tacitus had already forgotten and did his best to hide a frustrated look. "It will conjure a thick mist that will cover the area around you in about twenty miles radius. Should also follow whoever activated the scroll, albeit slowly."

"Good. I was worried it'd conjure up a storm, which would only be a pain in the ass," Tacitus said. "You think this will protect us from a sunbird attack?"

"No. It'll only make it much harder to find and hit anything. Magic can still be used to detect lifeforms. But not tell if it's friend or foe. And such magic becomes more draining when looking at further distances. So keep your distance or try hiding among the cats."

"You got any other last minute instructions?"

"Not for surviving the raid. Though feel free to kidnap any important people and hold them for ransom."

"Ransom? You want to give back the important prisoners we take?"

"Wars aren't cheap. Ransoms can be a good alternative income for funding."

"And giving the enemy back their leaders can only help them," Tacitus said. "And I'm not in the business of helping the Thalmor. I say we kill them and be done with it. See if the Thalmor can replace their leader."

"If they are incompetent or misinformed giving them back may be a good move. But I said you are free to kidnap important people, and that includes enemy nobles, for ransom, not that you are required to."

"What about the city itself? How far should we go?"

"Pillage as much and as far as you can. But make sure to not get caught up too much for too long."

"We won't. I wouldn't want to miss the rest of the war."

"I bet the Dominion wants that though," said Krojun half jokingly. "Also don't forget to steal any good ships you can find."

"We'll try not to burn them all," Tacitus said with his crooked-toothed smile. "Though, sinking a few in the harbor and closing it off would hamper their navy going forward. Something I'll have to consider." 

"You do that. Anything else you might need from me?"

"This scroll should be enough."

"Good. I'll leave you to it then," said Krojun before turning to leave. 

The journey back to the palace was quite uneventful the first half of the way. That was until the Emperor and his entourage saw a bunch of wagons blocking the main street ahead. At first Krojun figured some merchants or transporters had messed up somehow. But the streets were rather empty and there were no merchants of laborers around to explain the wagons. Krojun grew weary and suspicious of an ambush. So he poured more power into the wards he always had placed around him and began to glance to the side for anything suspicious. The guards were visibly also getting a little suspicious about the situation but they didn't say anything yet.

Krojun then cast a detection spell and began to look around. As if on cue when he saw them through the walls, the windows on the second floors of several buildings around them burst open. Arrows and magic missiles began flying towards them, most aimed directly at Krojun. Their attack however had little effect though as the magic was blocked and the arrows deflected by his wards. 

The palace guards quickly formed a circle and managed to survive the onslaught thanks to their thick shields and armor. Though one guard got unlucky when an arrow found its mark in his neck. Then one guard shouted something that Krojun couldn't quite make out as a fireball dissipated right before reaching his head. He only needed to make a quick look around though to see that about a dozen other attackers had appeared behind them from the alleys. They were wearing some kind of full plate, silver like armor with swords in one hand and spells in the other. 

They royal entourage was clearly outnumbered and outmaneuvered. Krojun quickly cast an armor spell just in case. But it was hard to focus on anything when arrows and bolts of magic kept pestering him too close for his liking. He put his hands together to charge a shield spell and when he released a half spherical bubble with an icy tint formed around him and his guards. The spells and arrows from the attackers bounced harmlessly off the shield, but that didn't seem dissuade them from continuing their attacks in attempt to break through. Instead their attacks became more and more fierce. 

The spellswords on the street charged. The magical barrier didn't even slow them down and only managed to cover their armor with a thin layer of harmless frost. The guards around Krojun went from forming a full circle to an arch to better face the new attackers. 

Krojun drew his sword and prepared himself to face the attackers when he heard a woman call out from behind him. He turned to see a young and rather pretty, blonde Imperial woman standing by an open door further down the street and closer to the blockade. She was waving and shouting "Your Highness! Your Highness!" in a frantic voice and waving at him to come as if to have him seek shelter in her house. 

Despite her probably only wanting to help she was only an annoying distraction and Krojun instead returned to face the attackers that were assailing his guards. One spellsword had managed to wound a guard and rushed through the breach to attack the Emperor. At that moment something snapped inside of him. He disregarded his rule of being conservative with his magicka and raised his left hand towards the spellsword. With a powerful spell he took control of the metal in the attacker's armor and the spellsword stopped as if frozen. Turning his hand upwards like he was holding a bowl he then quickly closed the hand into a fist. The armor of the spellsword imploded and the body under it burst like a ripe melon. The burst of blood and sight of the mangled corpse falling to the already blood soaked ground was oddly satisfying. 

Krojung then turned his attention to the attackers in the houses. He charged and cast a firespell that blew away the wall on the second floor of one of the buildings, scorching the attackers to cinder as well as half of the rest of the room that was now laid bare to the outside. The next building on the other side of the street he cast a spell upon that created a spreading ice that formed sharp ice spears that quickly searched its way along the wall to the buildings next to it and in through the windows to impale the attackers. 

Then he heard the woman's voice call out to him again, but this time she was closer. Krojun turned to see her jogging towards him with a worried look. "Your Highness! You should take cover," she said as she approached him. 

She was annoying and Krojun wanted to shout at her to get back in her house. When she got close enough he instead reached to push her away and yelled, "Begone!" in a stern voice. Very lucky that he did though as when she got close she quickly drew a dagger from her sleeve and proceeded to try to stab Krojun in the chest. But due to his attempt to push her back she instead cut right into his left arm. The dagger somehow ignored his armor spell like it didn't exist and cut open a large and deep wound along almost the whole arm. 

Reacting almost only on instinct Krojun raised his sword and stabbed her in the chest in retaliation, sending a large ice spike into her that sent her flying several feet backwards. She landed on her back, motionless and with the large ice spike sticking out from her chest. 

The pain was great but Krojun somehow barely felt it. Blood was flowing forth at a disturbing rate and he dropped Nahkriin so he could heal the wound with his his functional hand. The blood stopped flowing forth and instead some of it began to flow back into the wound.

The sound of fighting disappeared so suddenly it felt as jarring as running at high speed right into a stone wall. Glancing around Krojun saw that the battle had ended. His guards were still standing in a curved line formation, turning their heads as they frantically looked for another ambush. Only one other guard had died to the spellswords but also one spellsword had been slain by the guards. At least they served the function as meat shield admirably. 

"You alright your Highness?" said the captain. He looked a little worried but also a bit scared when he looked at Krojun. 

Krojun didn't say anything and simply returned an annoyed glare before returning his focus to healing his arm. Even though the major damage was quickly healed it took a little while to get the spasms to stop and to get back full control over the limb. When he was done he picked up Nahkriin but didn't sheath it. 

"We'll hurry back to the palace. Inform some guards on the way to clean up the corpses and bring them to Lady Quentas for examining. Also pick up that dagger and give it to her as well," Krojun ordered the men and pointed at the dead blonde woman with the ice spike in her chest. He also noticed his voice was sterner and angrier than usual. 

The captain simply nodded and said, "Yes, sir," before barking at a man to pick up the dagger. After that Krojun blasted away one of the wagons in the blockade and they made haste for the safety of the palace. 

 

 

[Witchking of Angmar]

 

Part 2, 
Two Hours later,

“The deeper we get, the stranger this...sensation is.”The Empress muttered, the dreary haze of sleep returning. This is so...otherworldly. The dark blue lights. The pale stone. The strange noises coming from the depths.  Something about this place...felt wrong. The duo had found the small exit lead up back to the other side of the bridge, and allowed them to proceed deeper into the ruin. As most his kind, the Dremora Dregas rarely spoke, his terrifying oni-mask remaining stone faced as he walked forward methodically, taking point. Dales neglected to inform him, her normal power, even when amplified by Krojun’s considerable magic shouldn’t be strong enough to summon him (As she didn’t want to reenact A Tragedy in Black). She kept that little detail to herself, as the lapiz-lazuli hallways endlessly went forward, the Ayleid ruin refusing to diminish in the slightest. Dales's wounds ached, and festered under the wholesome blue light, but she continued onward, undaunted, and unhelped by her summoned bodyguard. 

After facing over a dozen of other traps with her minion, the Empress was beginning to wonder something foul. What was the reason purpose of this place? Was it guarding something? What did this place function as to the heartland elves? 

Dales banished those thoughts from her mind, as she feverishly squinted her eyes, analyzing the path for any signs of traps. She had done well to get herself to that accursed bog, but she glad to have the company. Even if he was usually as silent as a statue.

Dales suddenly stopped, as the heavily armored Daedra lifted his hand into the sky, yelling, "Halt meatbag." The Empress freezed. A chill lay on her spine. Well....on a normal day she wouldn't be afraid of door, but she hadn't seen a door for essentially two hours. Meaning this lead somewhere important. And in a dungeon, important usually meant a nasty trap room. The injured Empress swallowed hard, as she lagged behind the plate-clad Dremora, who had brought up his legendary glaive into a fighting stance, right as he slammed open the stone door with a kick. Among the dust...revealed another large room. 

This one wasn’t too big in width. But it was really long, and the corridor itself was strange in that, several, large gates lay beyond, intersected. Made from rusty gold, they glimmered among the Welkynd stones, giving the normally rusted color a radiant color. Strangely, they faced the other way, and Dales and Drevos came up, from the door, behind them. Small ramparts lay above the first gate, a set of stairs leading up to them, seemingly allowing warriors and archers to man them in defense. Strange, brassy scorpions lay on the mini battlements, thought there were no ballista bolts scattered about.  Dales went closer, as the Dremora, nonchalantly readied his weapon, using his time to look for anything dangerous. This is...certainly strange. The room was unlike anything she had seen before, being more like a fortified gatehouse, then the hallway of an ancient ruin.  Her Dremora guardian spoke, his voice raspy and raw, “Something...is just beyond this fortification. Something...ancient, and very powerful.”

The presence Dales felt… was the same power she drew from in her darkest hour, and it lay behind these golden gates. Whoever had summoned her, here, lay beyond through the darkness. 

Dales strode forward, onward, undaunted.

You face shadow and death…. The gibbering voice from before, suddenly entered her mind, as Dales jumped in surprise at a loud, clanking noise behind her. She turned around, drawing her wraith dagger, to reveal her dark-plate clad Dremora guarding against something monstrous, which had seemingly appeared out of thin air. A being of shadow and death.

This...thing was a Minotaur. A minotaur of unimaginable horror. It was...undead. While every other minotaur the Empress had seen bore itself with a wild, yet pure pride, a chosen son of Kynareth, this...abomination slouched walking with a hunch, and carried its body in loathing disgust. Rotten flesh clung at it's decayed grey skeletal frame, the remains of black armor, covered in nameless runes,  stuck on it's shoulder and stomach, made from some Obsidian metal, with jagged spikes jutting from its massive pauldrons. The Bovian monster itself was massive, even for a minotaur, measuring out to be about ten or eleven feet tall. The remains of it's runeplate, which were disgustingly well-crafted, we’re littered with baubles, charms, and iconography made from the bones of various animals. Skulls, ancient trophies of forgotten kills, lingered on the jagged spikes on it's shoulder pads, having been impaled in place. That small bits of rotten fur that clung to its remaining flesh we’re a sickly grey, and patchy. The minotaurs hooves we’re blackened soot stained, and reinforced with crudely made metal plating, with its right leg being so decayed it was practically stripped to the bone, and devoid of all flesh. It’s claws, giant and meaty, held two massive handaxes, which we’re practically the size of human great axes,  and made from dark iron, having jagged spikes behind the large blood-soaked black blades. On his back, he carried an even larger greataxe, the size of a small tree, scattered upon the blade we’re dozens of shadowy runes. The Minotaur's head...had only half its face covered in rotting flesh, the other half in which held nothing but bones. A bull’s skull. A metal helm was grated around it's half ripped up face, made from dark iron. Massive fangs stood outside it's mouth, like boar tusks, and inside it's mouth lined dozens of dagger sized teeth, perfect for ripping apart red flesh.  For eyes it had glowing blue orbs that hung in its otherwise empty eye sockets, which starred inside the Empress’s soul. Upon it's head, massive bull-esque hoods stood, cable of skewering and impaling any man that tried to resist it's charge. A thick fog of shadow hung on it's back, almost as if the horror was producing an aura of darkness. 

It breathed out a miasma of pure darkness, snorting like a bull, roaring an earsplitting noise of utter fury, as it prepared to charge, bringing up it's dual war axes. The Dremora Lord held his ground, as he brought up his crescent blade in a primal war stance, the blade suddenly bursting in black fire, just in time to catch the Minotaurs war axes with his greatblade. The Dremora's teeth clenched underneath his oni-war mask, as he broke his blade lock, and brought up his flaming greatsword to strike the undead Minotaur side, only to be thrown to the side, by the strength of the Minotaur's second blow. Crashing into the white wall of the Ayleid ruin, The Lord quickly picked himself up out of a pile of rubble, just having barely enough time too, as he deflected another strike, holding his blade in a downward block. The thing moved deceptively fast for its massive size, being practically a blur amongst the shadows. Sweat formed underneath his black war mask, as the minotaurs glowing blue orbs nonchalantly stared into the Dremora's black eyes, gazing at them. It showed no signs of tiring, as it snorted, just as it lifted its second axe into the air, bringing it downward in an extreme display of force, intent on cutting the Dremora in half. Lord Dregas abandoned his position, throwing himself backwards, as he unleashed a torrent of black fire with his gauntleted hand of black daedric armor. The war-axe landed with a heavy thunk, the strength used behind the swing causing a brief shockwave to erupted around the landing zone. The black fire coarsed forward, but did little to injure the now enraged beast, the darkness around it seemingly consuming the flames.  The Minotaur silently pressed forward, it’s huge body illuminated by the lapis light,  going down the dark hallway, with nothing but the lapis lazuli Welkynd stones to illuminate these two warriors deadly duel. Dregas tried slashing to the left, but the Minotaur simply brought up it's colossal axe, before countering with another strike. It was a practically a dance, and the speeds these two warriors thought at made them practically invisible to the naked eye. The Dremora felt a euphoria he had never felt before. He felt...truly alive in this moment. As as the fear stabbed into him, this was one of the most glorious moments of his life. A worthy opponent. He was taken back to the present, when he noticed the small girl just beyond him, who was staring at the horror before them with pure terror visible in her cold eyes. He’d forgotten he had a charge with him.  The Daedra screamed in his raspy roar, taking a moment to glance at Dales, “Flee this foe is beyond you!”

That was a near-fatal mistake. The Undead minotaur had sharp eyes, as it saw Dregas moment of distraction. It switched to a sideslash midway, and the axe’s blade nearly bite into the Dremora’s flesh, his great glaive blocking the strike at the last second, holding it downward from the Dremora’s temple. A mere human, or any of the mortal races really, would be crushed by the mere size of the axe, but the Dremora was inhumanly strong, and wielded a magical, timeless blade forged in the fiery pits of the Deadlands. It would not bend, even to the abominable strength of this monster.

“We killed a ******* hydra! How can this overgrown cow compare?!”  Dales called out, just as she conjured a ball of ice magic in her small fist.  Even as she said those words, a pit of horror had grown inside her stomach. Dales screamed, terror plainly present in her curt voice. Dales felt afraid. So afraid. Even more afraid of this...thing, then her father when he beat her. She shivered, as memories filled her head, in the form of plastered, crimson images depicting the worst minutes of her life. What is this? What is this darkness? The floor around the Bovian abomination darkened, as it became infested with shadowy miasma. Tendrils of pure shadow formed, and began to hug the Empresses leg, filling her with pure dread and terror. It was now clear to the Empress, the horror before her controlled terrible black magic

Struggling to avoid being crushed by its axes, The Dremora fought against the juggernaut, with a flashing display of inhuman swordsmanship and close range flame spells raining blow after blow, but...the abomination countered with much greater strength, speed, and...even skill. To the Dremora’s horror, this thing knew how to fight. It wielded it's axes with extreme dexterity, and skill, being clearly a master with the axe. Every strike it made, has equal pure force, and conscious intent behind it. It’s bestial power only gave it more opportunities to do just that. Behind its veneer of savagery, a clever, animalistic mind laid beneath.The Dremora slashed, and stabbed, as if he was in a dance, but for his finesse was being countered by a more basic, yet no one less effective fighting style. “This thing is...cursed. Cursed by ancient, dark magic! No...not cursed...” Underneath his war-mask, the Dremora spat, “It’s using it! It’s bringing this darkness upon itself! Some kind of black magic!” The Dremora lord ducked to the left, avoiding a downward slash from the Minotaur axes, struggling against its advance. "Run Meat Bag! Run!"

Dales fled in terror at her guardians urging, turning heel, and running deeper down the long hallway. She didn’t care if she triggered another trap, she knew she couldn’t face this...thing.  Metaphoric tendrils, along with literal tendrils, hung on her, trying to drag her into an inner darkness she couldn’t escape from. She couldn’t fight in this condition. She was as helpless now, as she was...when he beat her.

Reaching the first gate, the Empress, almost out of breath already, plunged forward reaching the lever. She hesitated for a moment, as she turned to face her companion who was struggling to hold this wrecking ball of nature back. That hesitation left her, when she realised even if her companion lost, he would simply return to the Deadlands, after being slain in the mortal realm. That mere fact caused any guilt to be swept away,  and she pushed the lever forward without remorse, causing the rusty metal gate to come crashing forward with a heavy thud, and the rattling of chains. Separating Dales and the two clashing demons from each other. Being safe for a moment the Empress relaxed, turning around to glance at the ensuring battle and the thing chasing after her. Only for her horror to grow. She would had fled deeper into the hallway, beyond the gate, but her body was completely paralyzed by fear.

The thing...hauntingly stared at her, his blue orbs gazing into her blue fear filled eyes. It snort shady breaths of darkness, as the pale blue light illuminated their surroundings, the two warriors looked at each other. Inside his great claws, he lifted the severed head of Dremora Lord, the ancient oni-mask starring hauntingly at her. The Dremora's body had already began to dissipate, spectral lines of purple magic materializing all around the Dremora's body, fading in and out of existence. He was returning to the waters of Oblivion. With a roar, the Bovian beast slowly advanced, rearing it’s hind legs,  this time, his target the young Empress. 

Dales launched a roaring bolt of ice forward, towards the brass contraption, causing enough force to knock the level back, causing the gate to slam back down with the reeling of chains. Dales was safe for the moment. 

The cursed Minotaur strode forward, lifting it's massive arm into the air, revealing bare muscle and sinewy flesh, and struck the metal gate with one of it's battle axes. A large dent formed as the metal axe collided into the reinforced gate, the screeching, cold sound of iron crushing steel echoing all across the room. Then another formed as the Minotaur repeated the same strike, this time with his other axe. And then again. And then again. And then again. 

The golden gate would soon fall to the Minotaurs strikes.

Dales panicked, screaming, "Shit! ****! Crap! Holy tomatoes!" The young Breton girl ran as fast as her tiny feet could carry her. Just as she pushed the next lever, the golden gate fell. Dales quickly ran through it. As she turned around to cast it down once more, she quickly began to pick up pace. Dales barely managed to get the gate to fall, before the Minotaur was upon her. It was fast. Faster then that dog Lorgar. Angrily snarling, and spitting out giant droplets of spit, it salivated, hungrily gazing at the Empress, almost as if it wanted to devour her. It began to strike the gate once more. 

Dales, her body feeling like she was going to have a heart attack from fear, ran like a mad woman, getting through the various gates, trying to finish this dreadful gauntlet as soon as possible, the Bovian nightmare just behind her, and getting closer to passing through the gate before Dales could conjure magic, every second. This chase continued for another five, gates, until...she came upon a platinum one. The gate itself gleamed silver, and like the walls in the grand entrance of the ruin, below that decrepit crypt, it was covered in glowing blue runes. A bright...blue light lay shone beyond it. Something...something drew her towards it, piercing through the overhearing darkness that came within the...shadow cow. 

But to Dales horror, no lever lay within her sight. She frantically searched around for any kind of brass object, but to her terror, she found none. In desperation, at being so close to an escape, Daes gripped the plantium bars tightly, and began to scream, "Help! Help! Help! HELPPPPP!" She tried to force them upon, channeling all of her magicka reserves into an alternation strength spell, but did nothing. Her enhanced strength was nothing to the gate, and it's magic runes. Tears formed within her eyes, as she felt heavy breathing behind her. Mustering her inner courage, the young Empress turned around. Only to see the Dark Minotaur a few feet away. His blue orbs however, held something this time. 

Fear. 

The creature refused to approach the gate, feverishly, reeving its horn, and hind legs, as it roared just by the second to last gate, which he had just breached. Dales tears dried, as she catched herself on the gate, breathing heavily. The only thing keeping her from falling down was her adrenaline, and the magic that coursed through her. 

The beast of Shadow, threw down one of it's axes, pushing forward its dark claws, and....began to make strange gestures. It pulled through the stale underground air. Was it...beckoning to the Empress? Asking her to come to it? 

For the first time it spoke, a hoarse voice, like the grinding of steel. It vibrated with a hint of power "Ari indz yerekha ... petk’ e veradarrnas yerazneri tiruyt’nerits’: Minch’ gazany kul e talis dzez!"

Dales in her delirium, heard nothing, for whatever language it spoke was ancient, and long dead. The young Empress leaned on the silvery gate, and sat down. Inhaling a large mouthful the Empress closed her eyes...

"You are close. Let Lord Auriel wreath you in light...''' The voice from before.

Dales opened her blue eyes, expecting to see the Bolvian horror from before. She found herself...beyond the silver gate. Half unbelieving, Dales turned around to gaze beyond the gate. The Minotaur looked....sad. As it sulked, it's skeletal, rotting face downcast. Shaking it's head, the beast body...dissipated. A cloud of pure shadow formed around it, like a sinister miasma, and the physical flesh and skeleton of the undead abomination...vanished. Not even a trace of its bleeding shadow remained. 

Dales, without looking back advanced forward, and towards the blue light, going down the corridor, refusing to looking back at that strange hallway. Her surroundings became...weirder. The walls of white-stone turning...pure blue. As if she was walking down a corridor of the ocean. A figure stood, in the middle of the room. She squinted her eyes, who had just gotten adjusted to the blue light. 

What awaited her was...a knight.

The knight, or what she assumed was a knight, just stood there, holding his bronze bastard sword by it's pommel, pointing the blade toward the ground. She almost thought him to be a statue, but his perfect watch was marred by slight movement. Inscribed on the sword's pommel itself was the drawing of a bright phoenix, and the hilt was adorned with a single white gem, along with gold, feathery wings. The sword’s blade faintly, a weak silvery light. He sat in the middle of the wonderful, blue hallway. The runes carved on his armor was indecipherable, and foreign, the Empress could only guess what they meant.  The armor itself was so...alien. She had seen images of the former Imperial province of Morrowind, and the intense feeling of unfamiliarity, and downright fantasy she received we’re just like back then. Highly ornate, it vaguely looked like the plate that Thalmor Justicars wore, gold armor made from moonstone, but something...was off about it. [[http://www.nexusmods.com/Images/110/1123080-1407311990.jpg For one thing, the helmet looked like somewhat similar to a locust’s head, with bright blue gems covering the eye sockets,  and a visor of glass]]. Behind the helmet, a ponytail of braided white hair, stuck out. The material itself seemed to be gold moonstone, but it was adorned with deep green glass.  His gauntlets ended in gold talons, razor sharp, and tipped with diamonds. Similar claws we’re present on his armored boots, like wolf paws.  A crimson red tabard, dyed the sanguine of blood, sat on his lower half, like an apron.

Was this a fabled heartland elf? An Ayleid in the flesh? 

He was also covered head to toe in layers and layers of dust, almost as if he was part of the ancient ruins that dotted this passage. Dales might have mistaken him as a statue, if she didn't see him breathing in and out.  He had clearly been standing still there for centuries. A stalwart guardian. 
As Dales approached the silent watcher, she noticed her surroundings in more detail. Carved on the white-stone, we’re bas reliefs, depicting  bloodshed, magic, ancient battles, and unknowable monstrosities. The vibrant, almost ear burning, blue light emerging behind the massive stone door, drew her closer and closer, almost as if it was magical, unlike the braisers of blue flame which lit the dark tunnel. The pillars that held up the hallway were of excellent craftsmanship, quite similar to the imperial palace, but embroidered with silvery vines, taking a more naturalistic look. [[https://vncg.org/f16538.jpg The entire wall was made of whatever substance was found in Wekyland stones actually adorned the walls, all of breath-taking blue colors, shining like the deep ocean, a backdrop of watery gems.]] It went down, in an lengthy tunnel, all the way to a gate of shimmering, pure, blue ight.

“Halt.”

A deep voice, almost a growl erupted from the figure, heavily starling Dales who had just gotten used to the pure silence. In an instant, the dust on him had blown off, as he moved for the first time in centuries. The voice was...really deep for an elf. If he was an elf, which the Empress could only assume. His accent, however, was the strangest part. It was so distinct, yet the Empress had never heard anything like it before. His hand reached for his blade, as he prepared to draw it. His claw gauntlet lingered there, as he growled, “What Nede dares approach the Well?” Quick and straight to the point then. Refreshing. Dales thought.

Clearing her voice, the Empress of Tamriel spoke with both pride and conviction, “I am Dales Draconus. Empress of Tamriel, holder of the Ruby Throne, and Guardian of Cyrodiil.” Dales voice rose, a symphony in the darkened ruins, “I was summoned here. And I am no Nede.” She stopped herself, before she uttered, with both purpose, and truth in her tongue, “I am an Imperial.” 

“By that thing. Yes, I see.” He paused. His helmet up this close, was really unsettling. Upon closer analysis, Dales now thought, instead of locust-like, it was more avian. Like the face of a hawk. The figure’s hand has softened, but he still gripped the hilt of his sword, 

Following a hunch, Dales brought up her sigit ring, showing the silvery bull ring she wore on her index finger to him.

“You are a follower of Lady Alessia then.” The Ayeleid Knight said, as he leaned in to get a close look at Dales sigit ring. After taking her features in, the Knight let out a throaty chuckle, 

“You are short for a dragon, milady.” He finally fully sheathed his blade. 

“I am no ones lady, knight.” Dales said, with little amusement in her voice, “Who are you?”

“My name would mean nothing to you, but if you must call me something, call me Averdani, the Lord of Mazes. And to answer your question, human, I am no guardian. More like a warden. This tomb is...a prison, and I am it’s prison-keeper. Well one of them.” He paused for a second, “It seems you’ve already met my compatriot. And lived to tell the tale. Impressive.” He saluted her with a flourish of his blade. It...cut through her vision, a faint purplish outline carving through the space. As if it passed through the fabric of reality itself...The Knight stepped aside, as he motioned for the young girl to pass, "You remind me of her." His stone voice became warm, like the summer itself. Underneath his strange helmet, the figure frowned, "You seek the spring then..."

Dales nodded her small head, the many bruises and cuts showing the man how difficult it had been to come this far. Averdani sighed, "Normally, I would be honorbound to cut you down we're you stand, Dales Draconus. Most people cannot pass this point. For there own good..." He sadly sad, muttering underneath his breath. " But you bear Lady Alessia's ring. You are not just another thrall that...thing has enslaved. You we're meant to be here." He stepped aside, letting the Empress pass. His hands began to glow bright white, and the grand gate, he guarded, slowly...faded away. After a few seconds, it had completely disappeared, the blue light fully unleashed on the dark tunnel. He spoke, "As warden of the spring, I grant thee permission to enter, Dales Draconous."

Nodding to him, the Empress stepped forward, and went down the hallway. She was, however, stopped, by an armored clad hand, grabbing her shoulder. The avian-masked elf spoke, “Beware. That...thing deceives with half truths, and flattery." Dales nodded, acknowledging the warning, as she pressed forward. She went through the bright, blue light, passing beyond the guardians hallway.

The vision she had experienced before prepared her for nothing.

“Dales Motierre, Empress of Cyrodiil, I welcome thee to the Spring.” A soft voice echoed across the cavern.

The place was....massive. The walls we're of the same quality as the Lord of Mazes hallway, being the same glowing blue mineral that was lost to the ages., and unkown to the Empress. Carved onto them, we're thousands if not tens of thousands of the same runes that scattered the ruin, glowing deep shades of blue. Most of the cavern was submerged in low water, which glowed the same faint light as the cavern walls. As if it was a legendary blue palace that lurked underneath the watery depths of the ocean. In the midst of underground spring was a large, monolithic monument. On it's top, on the left side, a single stone wing jutted out. Dales approached the strange waters edge, before she submerged herself into it.

...

...

....

In a single instant, the dozens of wounds on her flesh healed, becoming whole once more. The fiery pain on her stomach had dissipated, the Hyrdra's wounds leaving as if they had never happened at all. She felt...a euphoria. She...had never been exposed to this much power. Her mind reeled, and the Empress began to drool like a child. Such power...was imitating through the waves. This kind of power...would give her the strength to set entire armies ablaze, move entire mountains of stone. It was vast, infinite. Dales, with her ragged leather armor, tried to push herself through the glowing, shallow water, but she could barely stay at conscious, at this exposure of energy. By now, the water was deep enough to got to Dales waist, but she continued through the vast spring How has this place remained hidden? 

"The runes on the walls our of ancient, forbidden rites, my lady. They mask the magical presence of this place, which is deep, deep underneath the grounds of the Imperial City itself." The same voice that had been whispering to her, all the way back from her dream, to the gate hallway spoke. A tall figure stood, in the middle of the water, a good way away from Dales.

“Approach.” Her corpse-like skin barely betrayed a sense of life, as her purse purple lips curved into a savage snarl, A dark, whispery voice, wrapped with ardous wraith, loathsome hate, and envious longing. Like an angelic trumpet, mixed with the gnashing of teeth. While Dales had very unhealthy skin, which she felt, from her own feelings, was a side effect of her mentors magic, it at least looked semi-alive. The woman's parlor was deathly, the skin damp and lifeless, as if she had been submerged in a lake for a long period of time. She had the look of a fresh corpse.  Dales could scarcely contain the way she felt about her. Despite the deathly look she was...beautiful. And so horrible at the same time. Her magnificent brown hair, the color of an ancient oak tree, was done in a complex pattern, as if she was a well-groomed highborn lady of Court. Her startling eyes. Oh her eyes. They we’re….terrifying to gaze into it, so inhuman, and otherworldly. Magnificent piercing gold stood on the outside, while black, shadowy orbs, sat on the inside, both surrounded by a circle of gorgeous amber. In shape, the only way to describe them we’re owl-like. The dark craters around her eyes, however, we’re pitch black, as if she used soot for eyeshadow. Her teeth we’re pitch white, with not a single blemish of yellow to stain them. For clothing, she wore a grand dress of white, which went from the upper half of her neck, which had a large choker of fabric, all the way down to her feet. The only skin Dales could see was the skin on her face, the rest of her body was covered up, including her hands and feet, which we’re wrapped up in thick , padded, cloth. It looked like a cross between a wedding dress, and the wrappings of a corpse. It was tight, tighter than a corset, going by how thickly the cloth was holding against the skin. It must have been agony to wear it. Now that she could see it more clearly, it sort of reminded her of an asylum straightjacket. The pale white dress was decked out in the same blue elvish ruins that lingered all over the walls of the previous parts of the ruins, but these ones disappeared, and reappeared at will, as if they were constantly being phased in and out of existence. The woman left the strange statue or idol, before her feet landed into the glowing, lapis lazuli water, her facial expression unchanged as she approached the Empress, moving menacingly forward. Something was...odd. It was as if her face was…”jerking?” The Empress couldn’t find the right word for it. It was like she was having constant spasms every few seconds, but the Empress could catch barely a glimpse of it. Maybe her eyes we’re just playing tricks on her. She was striking. Beautiful. And horrifying all at once. “It is customary to kneel.”

“I kneel for no one,.” The Empresses voice resounded with power, and conviction. It was swift, and no other words needed to be spoken,.

The cur snarl, twisted into a disturbing grin, as the woman spoke once more, “Indeed you don’t, my Lady Motierre.” The she-elf placed her left hand to her right shoulder, and vice versa, in a strange gesture before lowering her legs, and submerging her body halfway into the glowing, watery depths of the spring. Her perfect hair, despite being done in a white bow, was still so long part of it got drenched in the water. The woman knelt before Dales, her yellow eyes staring directly into her soul. She said nothing more. At a complete lost for words, Dales managed to stutter out, “Who are you?” 

The horrific grin, soon melted, replaced by a warm smile, “Who are you?” The she-elf repeated Dales question to her.

Dales frowned, annoyance filling inside her. The only one who talked back to her was Krojun, “I am Empress Dales Draconus.” 

“Are you now?” She looked amused, she spoke coyly, “Are you not Dales Motierre, daughter of Emperor Amaund Motierre, first of his name.”

She practically spat in defiance to her father's name, "I no longer go by that name. I left it."

“Did you now?” The she-elf muttered, her bored expression unchanged.  “You always refer to yourself as Dales Motierre, not Dales Draconus, in your mind. I’m afraid changing your name, won't change who you are Lady Motierre. You are you’re father's daughter, both in body and mind. You may decry you’re family name, but you know it to be true. You even wear his signet ring, why?”

“To remind me of what I shall never be!” The Empress yelled, her voice trembling with rage. She yelled, with fury, changing the subject, “I answered you’re question, mer, now answer mine! 

“Dunmaor. High priestess of Auriel.”

Dunmaor? 

"You are...a high priestess of Auriel?" Dales blue eyes narrowed, as she practically spat the name, "What presumption does a high priestess of Auriel summon the holder of the Ruby Throne with? What does your lord want with me?" 

"To give you a gift." She said simply, smiling. Lifting her bound hand into the air, the one known as Dunmaor, began to draw, magical lines into the air, that sparkled bright gold. After a few seconds, the thing she drew in the underground sky was clear to the Empress.

She drew the symbol of ultimate imperial power. The Red Dragon of the Septims. 

Dales eyes became manic, as she shouted, "That should be impossible!"

"Time has no meaning here, in the Spring, Lady Motierre. Time does not flow in the same way as it does on the outside. The covenant of Akatosh, whose breaking, denies the use of this symbol, is not held here." 

Dales remained silent, still not believing it. She let the she-elf speak.

“ Hear me, young lady. Though I am infinite, and have an eternity to spend, you must be on you're way to Skyrim at the dawn. You have little time, and I shall waste no more of it with pleasantries, and frizzle amusement. The abomination you know as Krojun is powerful. More powerful than my...keeper, who was known in his time as the “Ruination of Cities". You would need both a weapon, and a symbol to be free of him. If you do not free yourself from his control, you will be his pet for all eternity. A favored pet, but a pet nonetheless. You have always been a broken bird in a gilded cage, Lady Motierre, but Skyrim is your chance to break free. You must go to the peaks of High Hrothgar. You will find both a way to break the icy chains that wrap around your soul, and a weapon of unimaginable power.” Dales blinked, and in a single instant, Dunmaor now stood infront of her. The piercing, eyes of amber starring into her soul.

Dunmaor leaned in, her cold breath freezing Dales flushed cheeks, she whispered, a sentence that caused Dales mind to go blank, and her face to drain of all color. It can’t be.  After she finished, Dunmaor voice became soft, as if she was talking to a lover, which contrasted her words, and said  “Ask this question to the Ash-King at the Throat of the World. And you shall have your ultimate weapon wreathed in flame."

“Who is the Ash-King? Why is having this weapon so important?” Dales asked, her voice emotive.

“Baldur Red-Snow, betrayer, and Jarl of Windhelm. The gods are fickle, and we are their playthings. Even my Lord Auriel considers me nothing more than a tool to be wielded. The coming months will be a war, a proxy war waged by powerful champions of the gods.  A champion of Hircine stalks the forests of Valenwood. A minion of Boethia haunts the path of the Ash-King. A Dragon-Lord of yore festers in the heart of Cyrodiil, intent on ruling her people. Do you think it's coincidence that such powerful figures have gathered at the same time?  Some kind of abomination powered by dark magic tries to make himself High King of Skyrim. Unseen power manifests itself in the hands of the Thalmor and the Aldmeri Dominion.  The Empire needs something more than you, her Empress,  more than a competent general, and more then her red legions to survive.” Her sickly eyes shone for a moment, as a bell rang in the distance, "Ït needs a champion, one who the Ash-King shall provide.” She paused for a moment, “This is the gift my Lord Auriel give you, my Lady Moitre. Words. A set of words that will endow you with a weapon of ancient power, unseen since the days of Tiber Septim. It is both a symbol for your people to rally behind, and a weapon of destruction. There is no binding contract. No double crossing. I already gave you the question you must ask of the Ash-King to receive it. It is free.” She laughed, a cold, dark laugh, “It is no covenant as the Dragon-Lord Akatosh ordained with…”She paused for a moment before she muttered darkly her eyes betraying an unknown emotion for a mere second, “Al-Esh but it is a very rare boon. My lord offers little in comparison to it to most of his favored.

Dales bite down on her tongue, as she whispered, “Why? Why...does Auriel favor me? I hate the gods. I curse the gods. He is no exception.”

“I cannot say.”

Dales eyes fell downcast, as she asked, annoyance brewing inside her, “You cannot say?! But you-”

Dunmaor terrible eyes trembled with fury, as her voice became like thunder, her face for a split second seemed...rotten.“I do not presume to know what my lord wants, Dales Moitre.” Dales recoiled back in both shock and terror. As if the storm clouds had instantly been swept away by a wind, the Ayelid’s normal voice had returned, she smiled gently at the Empress, the switch of emotion honestly leaving the Empress numb “It may because of your heart, my lady. You’re rage and hatred...is so pure.”

A chill fell down her spine, as Dales couldn’t speak. Instead, the loathsome she-elf continued, as her black eyelids relentless tore into Dales, “The undying hatred you feel for the Thalmor is contained to them. With your vast power, you could lay waste to innocent mer all across Cyrodiil, to sate the dark hole of vengeance in your heart, but you don’t. You stay thy blade, and shelter them for people more ignorant than you. You love them as your own people. As any human-

Dales quietly added, “Their good too **** to.”

The Mer just stared at her, as her eyes narrowed in a scowl. Dales shrugged her shoulders muttering, “What?”

Rolling her eyes. Dales blinked, and she, once more, reappeared somewhere else. A few feet away from the Empress. the elf continued, “Perhaps Lord Auriel has taken to you for you are a protector to Imperial-Elves.” She shrugged her bound shoulders, “Perhaps not. As I said, it’s not my place to interpret why my lord does what he does, only obey what he whispers to me.”

“Whispers?” Dales asked, unconvinced

Ä grim smile appeared on Dunmaor’s face as she muttered, “Are you so faithless to refute my words even now, Dales Motierre? If you are accusing me of being “off in the head”as you would label it, perhaps you should look at yourself and you’re own struggles with the demons of your mind. I'm afraid mentally healthy people don’t bring glass to there wrists, my dear lady.” 

Dales face went dark, as she cast her face downward, and into the lapis lazuli depths of the glowing water. She barely managed to mutter, “How do you know that…”

“I see all from the spring. Gazing into it’s depths, I see everything.”

Those horrible yellow orbs...softened. And deformed. Turning soft brown...brown, as the hazelnut tree. Lady Dunmaors eyes...changed, as Dales looked into them Brown eyes of infinite kindness....eyes she longingly gazed into that she knew.

Those eyes belong to someone else. Someone who lay, rotting in the earth. 

The sickly being smiled, saying, "Is everything alright my fair lady?” Her voice changed, to a familiar voice, “ Is something the matter, my sweet Empress?"

Dales eyes narrowed as she began to stutter, her hands trembled with pure terror, and the pits of her stomach contorted to actual pain. Dales managed to stutter out, "I-I think-I think I know now."

The eyes she shouldn't have had remained there, as the creature smiled, a soft, but clearly malicious smile, "And what do you know, Dales Motierre?" 

“That…” The Empress swallowed, and mustered her courage, remembering the words of bravery Lorgar, Baldur, Rebec, Gracchus, and Maggie had told her over the years. She steeled herself, as her usual cold face of melancholy returned. She brought forth the fury of the dragon, driving away the pathetic girl she was before, throwing it back to the shadowy depths of her mind. Her piercing cold gaze fell over the thing before her, as she finished, “That this place wasn’t just built to keep people out. It was also made to keep someone in.” Dales, began to slowly withdraw, backing away from the siren in the shimmering lapis lazuli water. Dunmaor’s smile remained unchanged, as she made no move to advance,  “There are things man, beast, and mer were never meant to know, Lady Moietrree.” Her brilliant white teeth, in a mere instant, began to wither and rot, underneath her veneer, and grimace, “I am one of those things.” 

Dales stopped, the fear leaving her. She stood her ground, and asked, “What are you? Are you even an elf?”

“Once.” The grinned stretched forth,

And with that, the Empress turned around, ready to speak no more, and leave this accursed prison. Only to be stopped by a soothing voice, “Wait, my lady.”

Dales turned around, and despite her newfound courage from earlier, yelped, startled and surprised. The...thing stood before her, having materialized right in her face.. It’s face, right in front of Dales. Gazing longingly into her eyes. The sinister orbs of amber had reformed, moving in an infinite sphere. Dales was spellbound, she couldn’t move. The thing moved it’s moist,  tightly bound hands from Dales neck, all the way to her stomach, before it brought up an object, and held it in front of Dales. A shimmering amulet of platinum, in the shape of a six pronged star. The chain that held it however, was colored a vibrant gold. A symbol of white-gold.  The star itself wasn’t really a star, being much thicker, and wider than the normal shape, but that was the only thing Dales could associate it with. Each arm of the star, held a gorgeous sapphire within it’s tendril, and in the middle, was a large, blue gem. A gem of Lapis Lazuli. The same thing inside a Welkynd  stone, condensed in a pure mineral.

The she-elf placed the amulet briefly to her bound heart, and placed it in the fear-struck Empress’s small, pale hands, which we’re now opened. She spoke, in a gentle, calming voice, as melodic as the early breeze of the sea. “In the ancient days of yore, under the vermilion sky of twilight, Ayleid flower maidens gave their amulets of Lord Auriel to favored knights who went off to war, in the dreams of them returning it to them, under the breeze of spring.”Her eyes softened, as her purple lips became warm,  “I offer you this token of my affection, in the hopes of you returning to me." She paused, her eyes reflecting the glowing blue light of the watery depths,  "My knight..." 

Dales felt...vast magic flowing forth from the amulet. This...thing was an artifact of power. Great power. And it was being offered freely to her. Dales made...no move to turn it down. 

The warm smiled remained, as the maiden grasped Dales palm, and closed it. Dales held the amulet of Auriel within her cold hands, coiled like a sleeping serpent. The Lady of the Spring gently went forward, and whispered into her ear, "Call upon me, at you're own peril, my knight. I am here for you. I shall be here when you're bones are festering with maggots beneath the dark earth. I am here when the Great Destroyer devours, and restarts the kalpa. I am here for eternity. Now... " Her amber eyes closed, as she mouthed, snapping her fingers "Awaken."

****

 

 

[Witchking of Angmar]

 

Cyrodiil
White Gold Tower
 

It always spoken by these Tamrielic folk of the marvels within the Imperial City, having spent weeks in the jewel of Cyrodiil the eastern Witch had long since came to a decise conclusion. What was so highly spoken of was the work of putrid hands, Elves had with most foul magics raised this beacon of debauchery. It's high walls and ornate architecture only made the krone reel inward, the energy it put off had sickened her greatly. Looking back even as her footsteps echoed in the high tower the Witch did think fondly of the gardens, reminding her of an eastern city citadel back in the island with it's inner gardens bearing tree's plentiful in fruit.

Victory those many years ago should not have belonged to these curs, all that was lost in the island haven brought about from a Dark Age by these Imperials flaunting their power rotting within. The old Witch was a staunch contrast from the womanly nobles within the White Gold Tower, the Witch bore a red headdress bearing three rows golden stags with a lengthy wrap around her headdress extending down her back. Trousers hidden underneath the thick steppe styled dress.

She had finally been admitted for a meeting with the Imperial's Emperor, keeping her pace steady under the watchful eyes of the tower's guards as she neared the great door's that no doubt held the Emperor within.

Inside was a large room, at least by Roscrean standards. It was decorated with a couple of bookcases with only a few books and some trinkets. A couple of portraits of people she assumed to have been important decorated the wall. A long table with crystal glasses and liquor filled carafes stood against the far left wall. A large decorative carpet covered much of the floor. The window on the other side of the room wasn't that large compared to the room, and they were not high enough to see over the inner walls. 

In the middle of the room was a long and low wooden table rich with carved decorative details. Around the the table were three red and gold, cushioned armchairs and and a small couch. In one of the chairs sat a large man with black beard and hair reaching down to his shoulders. He wore moderately regal set of clothes in red, silver, black and purple; looking comfortable and slim enough to probably be more informal clothing. 

"You must be Miss Parvana?" he said in a somewhat courteous tone. 

"As I am oh Emperor of Emperors." While not bowing as was beneath a woman of such royal folk she did extend her right hand upward in a V shape, The old Steppe salute.

The Emperor however looked unmoved by her salutation. "Please have a seat," he simply said and gestured towards one of the chairs opposite of him on the other side of the table.

Tahm-Parvana edged forward into the seat gestured for her to sit, the chair being far to lavish for her tastes. Feeling quite uncomfortable with the way she sunk into the seat, never the less when looking up at the Emperor awaiting permission to continue as befits a good diplomat she didn't complain on the chair.

"I've been told you want some kind of... crown, and that you are willing to pay generous tribute for it. Correct?" he said courteously. 

"Yes good lord." Proclaimed Tahm-Parvana with a smile that despite her age didn't seem grandmothery in the slightest. "The crown of Anoshurivan I Casurgathradan taken as trophy in Roscrea's defeat from the dead King of Kings, it is without doubt the crown still lies here in Cyrodiil forgotten by your people but never ours. What my King of Kings offers for it's return is three years worth of tribute payed in full, Thirty thousand fully payed Legionaries, Twenty aqueducts with ten roads to boot, Three fortifications, Happy plebs or perhaps complacent nobles. There are many things of endless importance in this uncertain time within Tamriel that three years of tribute could be put to very good use..."

"I'm afraid you're right that it is probably forgotten here. Do you have any description of the crown? Preferably a drawn one, if not written."

"The crown would be most unusual by Tamrielic standards, Instead of the older crowns with crenelation his was almost leaf shaped. Bearing a resting stag under a fern, around the crown are sets of four amber embedded within the golden crown. Atop the crown is a brilliant ornament with foreign silk colored a beautiful purple, as was described in Druidic texts on the crown."

"And how much tribute were you offering to pay? In raw numbers, how much and in what substance?"

"Three years worth of tribute from the former client state of Roscrea, The King of Kings offers... Eleven thousand talents. Of which the return of the crown does also I should note officially end Roscrea's status as a Client State, though with respect oh Emperor of Emperors Roscrea is in all ways but name no longer a client state of the Empire."

The Emperor looked a little bit annoyed for a second. "It's only Emperor. And it's more in custom to say 'your majesty' when talking directly to royalty. Also, I don't care about your Roscrea's status regarding my realm, as long as it's not hostile. I also assume you mean to pay in gold. But do you have any other metal you could also pay in?"

"Forgive the mistaken tittle your majesty our language is not easily translated to your common one, while gold and copper were to be payed it would lessen the impact upon our deep treasury if iron was to be included. However I cannot guarantee my King of Kings would wish to ship such resources while the Eastern Empire Company schemes against us."

He seemed to ignore her remark regarding the East Empire Company. "Iron would be good. At least what you can spare. Do you also have any ebony?"

"Roscrea does not hold the blood of Shor in her veins I am saddened to say, the only Ebony to be found in Roscrea is from foreign deposits."

"Hmm. How about you send a message to your King... of Kings, to see how much iron can make up part of the payment, and I'll see about finding the crown in our vaults and putting it in safe keeping?" 

"No your majesty I will not write back with anything until an agreement is sealed and I bear witness to the crown, unless the Emperor objects I am to stay in the city until all arrangements are satisfied for both parties."

"Then how much iron do you think your liege would be willing to part with?"

"Would not gold and copper with... Five percent of the tribute payed in precious metals and two percent of the tribute in iron?"

"And the other ninety three percent?"

"Gold and copper aforementioned before hand."

"We have little use for copper."

"Eighty two percent in gold with eleven percent payed in bronze and amber, finally as by request five percent of the tribute in precious metals while two in iron."

"Just to make clear up the specifics: Exactly what precious metals are we talking about?"

"Silver and various minerals of value, Gemstones and the like."

"I find that reasonable. I wont promise anything for now. I want to find the crown before I promise it to you."

 

It was with that the discussions closed, the emissary being sent on her business. Given the Imperial Bureaucracy being how it is she didn't expect results any time soon, as horrible it could be in Roscrea under Imperial rule the bureaucracy surely was far more intense in Cyrodiil after all five Roscreas could be fitted in Cyrodiil with room to spare so much territory to govern wasn't easy.

Under watchful eyes of the palace guards Tahm-Parvana was escorted outside of the palace, once outside it took some questioning to the finely dressed nobles out and about on directions to the marketplace. The youthful trio of pompous Nibenese found it quite amusing on her ignorance about the city layout, informing the islander on the district she sought for. They were helpful enough, Tahm-Parvana didn't find offence in their belittlement on her ignorance, Royal Casurgian nobility would have been far more hostile then these people ever were it's in her folk's blood.

The Green Emperor Way was absolutely massive only now that she walked below the citadel walls did the scope truly dawn on her, the citadel alone could nearly fit the largest city in Roscrea within it's walls. Were it actually built by Imperial hands she'd have more respect in them, however impressive their own stone masonry was these cosmopolitan people lacked the skills of their fare flung Atmoran ancestors if one could even consider these horrid people as having any Atmoran blood left in them.

Far to thin if at all and it really shows, like herself there were many insightful minds in Roscrea who objected to the Druids returning the craft of old to Skyrim. Many however were not the majority and those who were smart enough to feel distrustful of the Nords were drowned out by many of the Western Chieftains being so narrow sighted as to think their mainland kinsmen had Roscrea's interests in mind. As Tahm-Parvana went about viewing the architecture she only felt stronger on secrecy, it's the one and only thing they have over the mainlanders and the Druids were aiding in rebuilding Skyrim as was in First Empire days!

Never the less her tightened gut at picturing a new Nordic Empire with their desires of unification was indeed unnerving she had been so lost in thought that time was lost track, it was a gatekeepers' calling that awoken her from deep thought. She was sent on her way through after explaining her intentions of browsing the Empire's greatest marketplace for the first time, if she didn't know any better the gatekeeper almost looked giddy quickly explaining how flabbergasted foreigners were at the Market District, how he was right.

Once through Tahm-Parvana was exactly as he had foreseen, flabbergasted at what lay before her. It seemed to stretch on forever, easily ten times the size of Roscrea's largest and most grand of marketplaces. In Roscrea within the Royal Casurgian town of Soln Alanneshkeh nestled between the River Akarehkas and Anubelied Delta slanted eyed merchants of the far east were established in the silk trade, of all the luxuries in Nirn the Royal Casurgians adore silk more then the finest wine, more then the sweetest fruit. It was a mutually beneficial trade with the slanted eye'd merchant-slaves, they would import the finest of silks in return for large quantities of amber.

It was the only luxury they would accept in trade was amber, it was this trade of amber for silk that would create the most grand of marketplaces in Roscrea. Bringing great wealth to the town, but this dwarfed both Soln Alanneshkeh and it's market tenfold. In the stretch before her there were more elves and beasts then men, that disturbed her greatly. It's contrast was too alien when compared to home, her folk were rather cosmopolitan when only the Atmoran sphere was taken into consideration. But this took cosmopolitanism to the extreme, it wasn't natural. If anything was to bring this monstrosity down, she suspected it would happen from within. Taken aback from the moment it dawned on her how awkward she must have looked, standing in the middle of the road looking at folks.

Luckily enough not too far from the gates leading into the market was a sort of library judging by the 'First Edition' sign that hung outside of it.

As she entered the "First Edition" place, all at once she saw that her instincts had been correct. Hundreds, if not thousands of books pilled up in large, oak shelves. All kinds of volumes, from stuff that looked recently, to ancient-looking, musty tomes. Besides the over stock of books, small pieces of furniture lay scatted around, and at the forefront of the medium sized shop, was a person on desk. It was a human, a middle aged female Redguard. Her skin was light despite her race, but still a good deal darker then a Bretons, and tanned Imperial. Her hair was done in a small ponytail, and she wore a peculiar set of antique glasses. 

Taking in the surroundings Tahm-Parvana took her place before the Redguard, clamping her hands down atop the desk. Outside of political dealings she could speak in a more relaxed archaic colloquialism.

"Greetings Yokudan, is this ground of knowledge written in your holdings?"

The red guards black eyelashes contorted, as you said, speaking a polite, yet confused tone, "Pardon madam, I don't know-what you mean? This is a bookstore, the First Edition."

Pondering; the Roscrean looked about the store from the desk, at least it made sense with the layout. "Well, perhaps the end result is the same? Have you anything detailing the histories of Cyrodiil, we have very little from the native's own view?"

She gave her a strange look, chuckling, and fixing her black hair, "Of course! This is the heartland of Tamriel after all. Much of Cyrodiil's history has been recorded throughout the various eras." She paused, placing a finger to her chin, "Cyrodiil's history is very long. Is there anything specific time? Or do you want a general look?"

"I don't think the days prior to Tiber Septim interests us much, however take special note for volumes on Ural Se- Uriel Septim fifth of his name, forgive my slight of tongue he is know under different names to us. If it is written any such autobiographies from the various claimants and Emperors from Uriel fifth of his name to.. eh, Martin Spetim?"

"Saint Martin." The girl corrected, narrowing her eyes. She seemed a little offended. She got out of her chair, and motioned for her to follow her, "Got a two volume series that might just be what you need." She paused, before asking, "You're accent is unfamiliar. We're you from madam if you don't mind me asking?"

"The former Imperial Province of Roscrea, specifically the city of Nebbezzar. I understand the common tongue well enough but the culture and traditions of Cyrodiil are foreign to me, Saint Martian isn't known of in my homeland." Keeping in step with the Redguard Tahm-Parvana finally decided to remove her ridicules headwear, far too hot and humid for the thing in Cyrodiil, she only kept it on for the diplomatic talks now folding the thing up and stuffing it in her dress. 

"The last of the Septim Blood. He wreathed himself in divine fire, and became the Avatar of Akatosh during the Oblivion Crisis, saving the Empire, and Tamriel as a whole. " She paused, "Roscrea."She stopped for a moment, "Subjected by Uriel V. I know little more then that. You are kin to the Nords of Skyrim, and the Skaal of Sothstiem correct? Not much is known about you're land. Only one book on it too. At least that I have."

"I can only imagine the horrors faced on the mainland in those days, Roscrea had but two gates open up against her. My condolences to Saint Martin." Tahm-Parvana avoided the subject the Redguard seemed to be hinting at, she didn't want to waste the day explaining histories to some bookkeeper not that she'd let her know that.

The bookeeper strode forward, going to a rather large looking shelf. She quickly wheeled a large ladder to it's foot, before climbing upon it, and retrieving a handful of books. "Like I said, "Conquer to Saint, volumes 1 to 2" by Axio Averius is a decent look at the time frame you want." She brought the two books forward, and put them on the large desk. "However, if you dont mind paying more, "Historia Septimus" is a lot more detailed." The Redguard woman brought out a much large, and thicker tome. It had a dark brown cover, and was very dusty. A dragon symbol was printed on the front cover, a shattered symbol of the Septims.  "It's pretty rare, i've only seen a few copies. Beautiful book." Her dark hands trailed across the leather bound book, "Alas, the archaic writing style of the author, Legate Zanath turns people off. But all of his works are of very high quality." She paused for a moment, "If I recall, he also wrote an account of you're island."

"Well there were a number of Legionaries who wrote of their accounts during Uriel's conquests, but I do believe we should discuss prices." There was a flicker in her eyes, greeted with an upturning of the lips. This is what she excelled at, already working a spectacular deal before hand still had her in the mood of numbers and bargaining.

"You don't seem lacking in means, but i'll give you a fair shake." She paused for a moment, "I'll give you both volumes of saint for one hundred septims. There second print's, but there still in mint condition. Not rare, but not too common. If you want Septiumus..." She paused, scratching her chin. "Three hundred septims."

Making a 'Mhhmh' noise from the back of her throat the Roscrean was quite disappointed, would have cost her more on the island proper. "Done, gold is gold so I assume you won't much care if it doesn't have Tiber's face engraved." 

"There yours." She handed the three tomes over, saying, "If I may ask, what's you're interest in Imperial History? "

"You certainly ask questions, are you the bearer of eyes and ears?" She cut up with that, it was amusing if not a possibility. Tahm-Parvana assumed everyone was an agent here in the Imperial City, better then having loose lips. "For the King of King's royal library, he doesn't have anything written from the natives here. We're a literate people after all, on the subject of questions perhaps you know of any respectable feasting establishments in this district?"

"My a spy?" She laughed lightly, "Don't mind me. I just naturally inquisitive. I've never seen a folk from Roscrea before. "She contemplated her question, "I usually dine at "The Merchant's Plan's". A bit pricey, but the pork pie is rather tasty."

The Roscrean contemplated something in her head, she looked as if she'd like to speak up but debated within whether she should. In the end she did raise her voice up, after all her children were beyond these people. They couldn't blackmail her.

"Are there any, well, toycrafters? Exotic if you may, exotic at least from my own view. They grow bored of horse riding, I think some wooden craftsmanship will do nicely."

"Perhaps Dragon figures and wooden gladius's would be to you're children's liking? There's a quality toycrafter not too far from here."

Ruffling through her dress's layers Tahm-Parvana took out two handfuls of coins, placing and counting them on the bookkeeper's desk. Even here she didn't want to be seen with a large satchel of coins, better to keep that hidden as it's all the gold she has on this diplomatic mission.

 Before taking her leave she had to ask. "Where would the Merchant's Plans and this toycraft's workshop be at?"

"Thank you. Both of them are near the fountain. The one with the maiden statue. Can't miss them." The Redguard said, fixing her spectacles.

Taking her leave the streets she walked down were filled with countless businesses, twelve more bookstores... or maybe libraries were passed on the way to the fountain. Within the endless stretch of markets she couldn't find one that really interested her, as a Royal Casurgian she found silk to be a luxury no civilized man, woman or child could live without. Very much wanting to see how the substance from Hammerfell compared to the foreign Akaviri fabric she was used too, if anywhere in Tamriel had it she was sure it'd be here.

Her first sight was that of the presumed toy craftsmen. The building itself was rickety, but still well maintained. A vibrant sign, depicting a small, stylised somewhat...cutsy, fire-breathing dragon, painted deep red, with a bunch of blue letters that read "Dragons Crafts". 

"Dragon and shortwords indeed." She spoke to herself before parting the door and moving into the workshop.

The store in question was filled to the brim with toys. Steel figures of Imperial Soldiers. Teddy Bears. Replica's of Imperial Shortblades. The most impressive stuff we're the wooden dragon models. Large, but oddly cute, they certainly looked less frightening then how the winged horrors we're described in legends. At the front desk was an odd looking man. An Imperial going by his skin, he was quite elderly, had grey hair alongside a well done beard. His glasses, unlike the sophistication of the Redguard, looked rather silly, and we're very oversized. His face was covered in oil stains, and he was busy fashioning some kind of contraption. 

The silliness of it all pretty well made her skeptical, her boys needed honest manly works of wood and iron. If it wasn't for the well crafted toys of the soldiers she'd have left on the spot. "Greetings and fair welcomes." Called out from Tahm-Parvana.

That man remained silent for a moment, before looking up. He was actually pretty well muscled, going by his large, broad arms, "Can I assist you madam?" His voice was gruff and hoarse.

"Yes indeed you can, I was directed here with confidence you were skilled at your trade. That confidence is quite held, have you anything that's not so... light hearted? For we barbarian folk of yonder, growing boys tired of their horses and bows."

He looked at her oddly, before muttering, "Nordic, or nord-like going by you're look. You from Solsthiem miss?"

"Roscrean; sharing a common ancestory with our kinsmen from the Old Kingdom, islander never the less."

"Atmora." He began to scratch his chin, "When I was with the Legion, I met plenty of Nords, a few Skaal's even. Never met one of you're folk. How old are you're sons? I'm sure I have something here, for some aspiring warriors."

"I have twelve all of noble stock, youngest is four oldest is twelve. If i may ask how did you change professions from professional soldiery to toymaker, surely the former payed more handsomely?"

"Decided making kids smile is better then blood money." He looked angry for moment, "Especially under a snakes like Titus Mede II and that ***** Amaund." He paused for a second, before looking apologetic, "Ah sorry for that language miss. Soldiers tongue. Didn't feel right fighting for an Empire that bullied the other provinces. Don't blame them for leaving."

"I most certainly don't blame you, wouldn't be right fighting for a wicked leader. Now I understand if you would wish to stay your tongue but as I am of Eastern Roscrea we know little of Titus Mede aside from him changing the governance of Roscrea back to native hands, as for this Amaund we know nothing. The Stormcloak Rebellion caused our ties to be cut. I, acting as emissary would certainly do well to avoid mentioning subjects I know little of in the presence of high classed Imperials, would certainly be thankful if a man of your experience helped me."

"What do you need help with?" He asked, curious. 

"Well the toys of course." Brandishing a friendly smile. "But tell me if you may about this Amaund, how did he as what I assume was a claimant or previous Emperor gather such a fury within you?"

"Her majesty's fathers. Don't get me wrong, Her Majesty is good woman. Strong, and fierce. An Empress I'm proud to serve. As is her husband, Emperor Krojun. Slit the fuckers throat. But Talos be willing...her father was a horribe man. At least Titus put an effort to try and keep the Dominion out. Amaund invited them in. Writs for the prosecution and annihilation of Talos worshippers. Sleeping with Thalmor whores. Horrible." He paused, before saying, "Ah. Politics always ruining good conversation. Would you're lads enjoy steel soldiers, or perhaps some practice gladius?"

She had to mentally note that the Empress had two fathers, strange. "Well why not both, have you anything else?"

"Wait here." The man returned a few minutes later, with a large handful of various things. He laid them out on the table, first he grabbed what appeared to be a sheaved shortblade. The scabbard was made from leather, very well made, and ornate with imperial sigils, and red dye. With a slight thud, the man drew froth a blade. It was an imperial gladius. The blades edges we're dull, identifying it as a practice weapon, but the steel blade was otherwise of very high quality. Quite bare, with a steel handle, very practical. "I custom make these myself. Very popular among the lads whose parents have money. "He held the blade, tip first, and offered it by the handle, "Inspect it if you wish."

"Well in their adulthood they'll fight on horseback, shortwords would make good toys for their amusement and muscle growth but not to train with. I'll certainly like to purchase the wooden shortswords, just for the sake of things how much would you be selling that?"

He grabbed another blade from the pile, similar, but quite different. Far longer, "Is this cavalry Spartha, more to you're liking?"

"Well you see my older boys already are being schooled in the techniques with straightswords, I came for the exotic, mundane to you no doubt." A humerus if not random thought entered her head. "Do you think Dwarven children played with brass toys?"

"Not anymore. Ghosts can't pay with toys miss." He took another thing out of the pile. It was a toy figure. Very detailed, it was made from steel. It seemingly depicted a legion solder, wielding a shield, and spear. The toymaker spoke once more, "These are my next most popular items I think would suit you're sons. These soldiers are wearing second era kits, but I have third, and fourth ones. Even some Imperial Watch variants."

"Eh, nothing with Elven influence if you mind. Those older second era kits look a little too influenced, gods in those days we still had our own empire in Atmora."

He brought out a set of third era ones. It was...very mundane in comparison. Quite practical, their Lorica Segmantia, while distinct, was far more spartan. "These better?"

The poor Legionary didn't quite grasp that he was presenting Tahm-Parvana with the kind of soldier Uriel V used in his conquests, it didn't bold well with her and it showed. "I think I quite like the Newtscale, did you paint it yourself?"

"Yeah. One of my jobs as a Prefect was acting as a quarter master when my Cohort was camping. Learned steel smithing there as well." He took a set of three fourth era soldiers, "I rather like the Lorica of the fourth era myself. Very dependable."

"Well I think we have a good transaction in the works, wooden shortwords, some steel figures from the third and forth era and some fine conversation to boot. I never wore armor or went into battle so I can't really remark on the modern kit."

"How many of each do you want?" He crossed his arms. 

"How much would this cost me? A dozen of the toys and lets say five wooden shortswords."

He began count his fingers. "Would seven hundred septims be fine for you?"

"How would you say to a bartering of five hundred and fifty." A nice sounding number she figured. "With a nice cut of amber thrown in with it, after all isn't amber a resource not found in Tamriel? It has great value, merchants from the far east will only ever trade for our amber."

"I know what amber is. My Captain had a piece of Ember embodied in his sword hilt. Make it 580, along with the amber, and you got yourself a deal miss." He said with a smirk,

"Ah, a simple curiosity but if it's known to you did your captain bear Roscrean or High Elven amber in his hilt? TO my knowledge the two islands are only where they wash ashore. As for our bartering I think I could add thirty more coins to the mix."

"Man was a Nord, and I dont know a single nord who would wear High Elf jewelry." He said with a grin. "We have a deal then miss. I'll have you're order ready by the end of the day. Say...even o clock." He paused for a second, "You mentions you're lads are of noble birth? Some jarls son?"

"As for the payment I'll bring an upfront deposit of one hundred and eighty coins, pay the rest when you have everything set. As for talk of jarls no, neither east nor west has jarls ruling holdfasts. We never really abandoned our imperialistic governance, still using imperial titles and satrapies thousands of years old. Like yourself actually my husband is in the service of our ruler, our King of Kings as a fort commander! Farrukhazad-i Mah Azar, a man of noble house."

"That's some name." He said with a chuckle.

"There are names impossible to write in swift, his is quite short actually. Anything else I should be made aware of for the order?"

"Unless your worried about the toys coming to life, I doubt it." He quickly counted the down payment.

"Well you certainly have a for filling day no, farewell for the time being." With that bidding goodbye out of the way she was quite parched for something exotic, probably utterly boring and mundane to the natives. The streets as always were bustling with activity, she had only walked a few miles about the market, visited only two business and already she was exhausted. The stench of elves and beasts was starting to become accustom to her nose, that disturbed her more then any political talks could all the way to The Merchant's Hootenanny or whatnot.

 

 

 

[Witchking of Angmar]

 

Kyne's Watch

 

“Admiral Red Snow.”

Rebec looked up from her ledgers. She had rented an office at the Kyne’s Watch customs office, out of which she ran her commercial shipping business. Before her was a golden-robed priestess, the one she had brawled with in a grudge match back in Whiterun. “Danica. What are you doing here?”

“I heard about your project here. The town. Should I not come to see a settlement devoted to Kynareth?”

“Don’t know anyone by that name. You might try Solitude.”

The priestess laughed. “Let’s not start that fight again. I can still feel your left hook on my jaw on rainy nights. By whatever name, the goddess can be proud of such a thriving town made in her honor. There’s something missing, however.”

“A whorehouse. Yes, I know. I hear it all the time, and you wouldn’t believe the things people say to my mother-in-law when Baldur’s not around to hear.”

“A temple! There’s not even a shrine to the town’s namesake. I’m here to change that.” Danica produced a burlap sack, out of which grew a small sapling tree. “This will be the first step. We need a town square in which to plant the Gildergreen tree. I have some Elder sap left, heavily diluted, but it should get the tree growing even in your sandy soil and salt air.”

Rebec sat back in her chair. She was about to call the whole thing a fool’s errand, but there had actually been talk about the village needing a square. Kyne’s Watch had sprawled haphazardly out from the harbor and fort. The Stormcloak builders had done a decent job of keeping structures orderly and storm-hardy, but the town still didn’t feel like a town so much as a jumble of longhouses. A temple would also bring in money from gullible pilgrims.

“Alright. Let’s go talk to Ysana. She’s the mayor, so she gets the final say.”

***
Some houses had to be moved and land leveled, but a week later, there was already the semblance of a market square. They had decided to lay it out on the far side of the existing town, so that visitors had to travel past the inn and shops to get to it, and so that the town could grow past it on the other side. Some benches had been set out, and Danica’s sapling stood at the center in a raised bed frame.

“It looks pathetic,” Rebec said to Mazoga, who sat next to her on one of the new benches. “How is Kyne supposed to be honored by that? She doesn’t grow trees, she rips them up. This Kynareth is some elven impostor.”

“It’s a tree. It’s not going to turn anybody elven or weak.”

Rebec shot her a look. “You never know.”

The orc rolled her eyes. She was nursing a bottle of mead, but had no opinion on gods or goddesses, so Rebec sighed and went on, “I’m the one who’s pathetic. Baldur is off saving Tamriel or some shit. I’m stuck here like this toothpick of a tree. It’s not that I don’t like being a mother...”

“So don’t.”

“Too late for that. Can’t keep my hands off Baldur, gods help me.”

“I mean, don’t get stuck here. Come out sailing with us. Bring Ragna. She ought to be learning anyway. Or let’s go somewhere else. There was a place I meant to tell you about, up in the mountains, Volskygge. I sheltered there one night during the Trials. It was a dragon priest temple, I think, but the Dragonborn killed the priest’s ghost. Now there are just a few shufflers and skeevers to worry about, but there’s a wall in there that has something to do with a shout. You’re a Tongue now, right? So maybe you can learn something from the wall?”

Rebec thought that dubious, but this sounded like a harmless enough adventure, so the next morning she, Mazoga and a few of their crew set off into the mountains to seek out the temple. Ragna stayed behind in her grandmother’s care, with a Nord wetnurse they occasionally hired when she was busy. The women took point and behind them trailed Bjol Waverunner and Sidano, the Black Wisp's Khajiit assassin.

As they walked, Rebec glanced over at her former first mate. “You’re wearing the Nordic Carved today. Normally see you in the Stormcloak captain gear still.”

“The others can sink like a stone if they want, when we’re sailing. I don’t plan to. But I can’t deny this stuff is good gear on land.” Like all the Grim Ones, Mazoga had earned the heavily enchanted suit after surviving her Trials. She had taken to keeping her hair permanently in thick plaits that could fit under a helmet and didn’t need to be combed. Her other souvenirs were frostbite and wound scars that made her look grim indeed. Orc or not, no one questioned her right to be captain of Skyrim’s flagship and a member of Baldur’s elite any longer. Not to her face, certainly.

Bjol Waverunner came up alongside them. "You heard what they're saying about the moot, cap? Jarl Brund Hammerfang is going to challenge Baldur's claim."

Rebec had indeed heard, and the thought of it made her blood run cold. There was the challenge that came from clever talk and politics, and there was the kind of challenge by which Ulfric had claimed the throne, and by which Baldur was now claiming it, though that fact wasn't known. Rebec had seen enough of Brund to know he wasn't likely to back down at a lot of talk by what he considered lesser men. "You're not to bring it up with Ysana, clear? She's got a lot on her mind already."

"I'm no fool. That would put her right out of the mood."

"Uh huh. Priorities."

The temple reared up above them as they turned a corner in the path. Some shambling skeletons drew Rebec back to her own task. They were easily dispatched. Inside, Mazoga lit torches and passed them around. The place smelled of blood upon blood. Rebec continued in, pushing open the inner doors, then turned around to wait for the others. As she did, she noticed Bjol stepping up onto the side platform to inspect a chair.

“FUS!” Waverunner flew back against the far wall at Rebec’s shout and came up cursing, but he wasn’t so angry when she pointed out the pressure plate he had been about to step on.

“Right,” she declared. “The ancestors left some presents for tourists. Everyone keep a sharp eye on the floor, for blood and squiggly lines. Sidano, best keep your tail tucked in.”

The group maneuvered more traps, helpfully marked out for them by the rotting corpses of adventurers and bandits who had come before. There was a puzzle room that Mazoga and Rebec managed to work through together, Rebec cursing all the while about how much time the ancient Nords had on their hands. At least the small barrier had seemed to keep out most of the rabble, because there were more artifacts in the next rooms. This slowed them down as they paused to search.

Rebec turned off into a side chamber, and was stopped short as she was bathed in a greenish light and a chill like a foggy night on the Sea of Ghosts. An ethereal female figure hovered before the far wall inscribed with totems. Around it danced two glowing orbs, the mother's sentinel wisps. As the ghost woman turned Rebec lifted her axe to throw, but she stopped herself since the wisp mother only regarded her with curiosity rather than alarm. It glided nearer, and reached out a hand slowly towards the amulet on Rebec’s chest. Glancing down, Rebec saw that her Kyne totem was glowing. Instinctively she clutched at it and stepped back to keep the thing from touching her. The wisp mother hovered, face expressionless. At least it didn't shriek like the sea harpy for which Rebec's ships were named, but otherwise she appeared similar. Like the harpy, she was flanked by globes of spectral green fire that danced and swooped.

One of them passed Rebec and glided out of the chamber. Rebec was brought out of her stunned silence as she realized what was about to happen. "Maz, don’t attack it!”

It was too late. There was shouting, then wisp mother let out an angry hiss. She turned on Rebec, who dove behind a pillar just as a blast of frost magic sliced through the air towards her. Before the wisp mother could let out another, she was out and charging at it, both axes swinging. The shade tried to glide back but was prevented by the wall behind her, so she slid around Rebec's side. As she prepared another frost blast, the admiral likewise turned and did a quick roll right under the witch’s legless body, coming up behind her and slashing again.

Mazoga and the others came rushing in to join the attack, and then chaos broke loose. A half dozen identical shades appeared, one right next to Rebec. They were more easily put down than their mother, but by the time Rebec had killed one another took its place. Even as a Nord, her joints were aching from their chill attacks. When she noticed one of the shades slipping through a back door out of the chamber, she gave chase, shouting “Oh no you don’t!”

It was the original wisp mother, weakened but far from dead. She turned when she heard Rebec’s pursuit, preparing to attack. Wisps careened out towards Rebec’s face, seeking to blind and harass her.

“Fus RO!”

The thu’um was directed not at the wisp mother herself, but at the ancient hanging braziers that still burned above her head. They swung wildly and then their chains snapped, dropping onto the wisp mother and spilling out their dragon fire crystals. There was an unearthly, wailing scream and the wisp mother disappeared into green smoke, her wisps dropping with a thud.

The sore and weary adventurers recouped back in the hall with a bottle of healing potion they passed around. Mazoga was better off than most due to her enchanted armor, but still had some chill burns. As Rebec put salve on them, she kept her voice low so only the orc could hear. “That thing. Before you all attacked her wisp, the mother wasn’t hostile to me. I thought those were always hostile. She reached out for my amulet. It reminded me of..."

"The harpy. She wasn't hostile, either."

“I don't understand what it means."

After a pause Mazoga answered, “You know what some of the crew used to say? They’d see you out there looking at the thing as it followed us, and sometimes it looked like you were talking to her, or she to you. After Jala, they thought... well...”

Rebec started at her daughter's name, then frowned. “The wisp mothers are just ghosts of women taken by frost. What does that have to do with Jala?"

“One story is that wisp mothers are ghosts of women wailing for their dead children. You know how sailors are. A couple left the crew because of it. I didn’t have the heart to tell you the real reason they left.”

Rebec's eyes burned with fury. “What do they call the ghosts of sailors wailing for their shriveled balls?”

Even hours later after they made camp, Rebec was muttering to herself, irked by what Mazoga had told her and by the wisp mother’s behavior. Unable to sleep, she got up and took a torch, going into the side hall. She half expected to see the wisp mother again, and almost hoped she would, but the chamber was empty. Rebec approached the wall the wisp mother had been facing. It was a frieze of ritual totems such as one always found in the old Nord temples and tombs. Rebec’s eyes rested on the Kyne totem. Her eyes widened when she noticed the two globes that seemed to float next to the goddess’ head...

Women bound in fog and frost for all time, testing those who ventured too far into sea or frozen waste. If you lived, you got to sail or fight on. If you died at Kyne's hand, did the goddess extract another form of service?

Favored of Kyne, people called Rebec. She shook a fist at the winged carving. “Spare me your favors, you soggy bitch. You been trying to kill me for years. I’m still here, and when I die I'm going to Sovngarde."

The next day, the party made it into the vast hall that used to be the dragon priest’s lair. The crypt was empty, though the blue-eyed corpses of the priest and his deathlord minions were still there, robbed of their most valuable trinkets. Rebec then stepped up to the word wall. She waited, then Mazoga asked, "Anything happening?"

"My feet are sore, that's what's happening. I have no idea what this giant chicken scratch means."

"Let's make a copy. Maybe Baldur can read it, or we'll find a book."

***

A few days later, Rebec and Mazoga met for a midday meal at the inn. Ragna lay sleeping on a chair next to her mother, wrapped in furs and unperturbed at the ruckus around her.

Danica Pure-Spring entered, carrying a bundle on her back, and crossed over to them. “So, admiral. What do you think of my Gildergreen?”

“A very impressive twig. Still don’t see what it has to do with Kyne.”

“Maybe you will, someday. She will show you.”

“She’s been showing me a quite a lot, and I don’t appreciate it.”

The priestess smiled. “The lady’s blessings are sometimes strange. I didn’t appreciate having to tend so many war dead, but it made me a better healer. You will be a better warrior for having a spiritual purpose.”

“I haven’t got any such thing and I’ll thank you not to talk such rot if you’re going to eat with us. Sit and tell me what’s going on in Whiterun. Do you hear any news of Carlotta or Mila Iron-Brow?”

Danica’s face darkened as she sat. “I actually did hear a rumor. Apparently Carlotta died in the fighting down there. There’s no word about Mila, but they say Boldir escaped to Cyrodiil. Your husband sent a company of Grim Ones after him, to bring him back to face justice.”

Rebec let out a string of muttered curses. “This is all wrong somehow. Boldir wouldn’t just murder a whole town.” A thought nagged at her. How many towns would Baldur raze if he thought it could save her and Ragna? Or to avenge their deaths?

Danica spoke up again. “It will soon be time for me to go back to Whiterun myself. The Stormcloak builders will make a temple on the mountain above the town, but there's one more task the lady set out for me. A temple is no good without a priestess.”

Rebec nodded blankly, her thoughts still caught up with worrying what had become of Mila. It took a moment for Danica’s words to register, and to notice that the priestess was looking intently at her.

“Now see here. You asking for another beatdown? I want none of this.”

The priestess chuckled. "I asked around the town about who would be suited, and I only heard one name. You’re Kyne’s favored, they hear you shouting in the mountains. The builders said the plot I chose for the temple was already set aside for a new home for you and Baldur. In the old days, a temple of Kyne used to be the priestess' home. You see, I know a bit about the old ways, too. Maybe you’re right that Kynareth wants her other aspects to be known in this time. You already have plenty of healers at the fort. The people here want to know their goddess will fight for them.”

Rebec glanced at Mazoga helplessly, but the orc just lifted her eyebrows and shrugged, grinning.

“I’m going to war with Baldur. If he ever gets home.”

“By then another may step up to the task.”

“I have no idea how to be a priestess!”

“I’ll stay for a few weeks longer. We’ll hold a festival to celebrate the new temple’s founding, and ask the goddess’ blessing on the moot of jarls. You can begin your duties then. Oh, and I brought you something. Forged by Eorlund Grey-Mane from the rarest dragonscale.” The priestess produced a ceremonial breastplate and a midnight blue robe.

Rebec held up the breastplate and saw that it was inscribed with the same totem she had seen in Volskygge, the winged woman flanked by orbs. Sighing, she rested the piece back down. “The bitch can’t kill me, but she’s sure enough getting her revenge.”

 

 

 

[Witchking of Angmar]

 

 

Skyrim

On a normal morning, Jarl Ingun Black-Briar would have taken her place in the new longhouse and given answer to the the dozens of requests and disputes that arose every day in her recovering hold. But this was not a normal morning. Soon, Skyrim would have a new ruler, and it was the duty of the Jarls to decide who that would be. Ingun sat in her chair that they called a throne, turning an axe over in her hands again and again as she pondered on this.

"Are you ready, my Jarl?"

She took one last look at the fine steel war axe, freshly forged by Balimund and adorned with interlacing carvings that came together to form a wolf in honor of Mother Mara. It was the new Axe of Riften, both a symbol and an exceptionally well-crafted weapon. In all her years, Ingun had never once needed to carry a blade. Even in her darker days when working for Maven, her sins had been committed at the alchemist's table with a mortar in one hand and a pestle in the other. Things were different now. Dishonesty and poison were not the weapons of a true Nord, and that was what she needed to be when sitting among the mighty Jarls.

"Yes," she said to Arnath as she stood and sheathed the axe at her hip. "Have they finished preparing the horses?"

"They have. Your escort awaits you by the front gate."

"Good."
The pale light of the early dawn spilled through the windows, painting the floorboards a dull gray. They had decided some time ago to leave early while the city still slept, for the last thing they wanted was fanfare as their new Jarl departed for the first time since her appointment.
The journey would be long and hopefully dull, but at least the Jarl of the Rift would not need to leave her own hold. She looked forward to seeing Ivarstead firsthand. Word was that the town had grown since Riften's fall, as many of the refugees decided to make new lives for themselves there. No doubt the place would be particularly active in the coming weeks as the most powerful men and women in all of Skyrim passed through with their escorts.

Ingun dismissed her Housecarl and donned a thick fur cloak. Spring was warmer in the Rift than most of Skyrim, but somehow she doubted that the Throat of the World recognized seasons.
Next, she crossed over to the back room where she and Sovi lived. Her ward was dressed and ready, and sat in the corner reading some book with the help of a night eye potion. Ingun had not intended to take the Dunmer child on such a long journey, but she hadn't the heart to say 'no' when it became clear how much she wanted to join. "Come, Sovi. It's time."

The little girl smiled and stashed the book into her pack along with a doll and her Mara totem, and then they departed together in good spirits. The escort consisted of twenty men, all Nords who were as familiar with the Rift as she was with an alchemy table. Between them and Stormcloaks from Eastmarch patrolling the roads further north, the old fears of bandits or Thalmor were about as present as those of a dragon attack. The hold was safer than it had been since Riften's fall, and it was the perfect time to attend a Moot.

***

Every day at noon, trees and sun worked together to stage a shadow show for Falkreath's dead. On one soldier's grave, a snow whale drifted lazily up and down with the wind. On another, a man with stunted legs swung his axe at a hunchbacked monster twice his size. Jarl Fenrald's favorite today was on the headstone of a woman named Tekla, which displayed the uncommonly vivid image of a dragon getting crushed again and again by a falling rock. It made for one of the rare moments that he allowed himself to smile in this place.

Tekla. He remembered her. She had been the steward of Jarl Dengeir, served him faithfully until they were both murdered by Imperial assassins. Just one sad story among thousands that had plagued Falkreath during that terrible war. Skyrim had won, sure enough, and grown stronger from their victory, but it had been done at the expense of his home. In just one month, the massive graveyard that they were famous for had grown so much that they'd needed to add a new section to make room.

The loss of life was a travesty, but people always died in war. Falkreath understood this better than anyone. But death was not the only misfortune they suffered. General Baldur Red-Snow had ordered his men to burn every crop found south of Lake Ilinata. It slowed the Imperials, sure, but when the war was over and Ulfric's troops pulled out, it also left the city's battered population with nothing to eat. Every coin in Falreath's coffers had gone towards food, which meant there was little to spend on repairing their city or even paying those who tried to help. Dengeir's replacement Lod died of some illness that he was either too stubborn or two poor to get a cure for, and Lod's replacement Metne had been so hated that the people threw her out in under a year.

Falkreath had bled for Skyrim. Suffered for it. They did this because they were Nords who loved their land and would gladly seek Sovngarde early for it if asked. But now it seemed as though the rest of the world had forgotten why this had been necessary, forgotten who's doing it was in the first place. It was the damned Imperials. He would not forget, and nor would his people. They would remember for the sake of the dead.

Jarl Fenrald's smile waned, and he decided that he'd spent long enough paying his respects. With a final prayer to the gods and the dead, he turned and rejoined the world of the living. Falkreath City had always been quiet as far as holdfasts go, and today it was even more so than usual. A thick fog meant that most children were indoors and those who worked were slower and more careful with everything they did. The Jarl even caught himself falling for the spell a bit as he realized how lazily he was making his way back to the longhouse.

He stepped through those big wooden doors (freshly cut to replace the ones that had been destroyed by an Imperial fireball) and found his hall empty save for a single guest. His Thane, Hunrik. Who had taken up residence in an empty mill beside the lake. "My Jarl."
Fenrald nodded for him to continue, and he produced a letter. "I was to remind you, the date Jarl Baldur sent for you approaches."

"I know." As if I could have forgotten. Fenrald took the letter and looked it over once again. When he had first gotten word that the next moot was to take place a High Hrothgar, he had thought it some joke. The idea that he of all people was being summoned to make the climb like Talos himself was beyond unbelievable. That he would see the Greybeards, walk the seven thousand steps... all because he loved his home enough to say the words that everyone else had been thinking. Now, he was being asked to come and say them again to the most powerful Nords in Skyrim. He knew where he stood, which Jarl would be the best king. The one who would give his people the blood that they deserved.

Hunrik stood there a little awkwardly, looking around as he did. "The longhouse is, um... peaceful."

"It's empty." Fenrald replied. "My people have more productive things to do than stand around guarding their Jarl or whispering in his ear."

"Do you no longer keep court?"

"Of course I do. If I need of advice, I'll go to them ask for it. Until then, they're busy."

"Uhh, right." He stood there a few moments longer and then asked, "So when will you leave?"

"Soon. How does your mill run when you are here?"

"My wife and sons manage the workers well enough." 

"Good. Then I shall leave tomorrow, while you manage things here until I return."

The Thane looked dumbstruck. "Wait, what? I-"

"Have been given an order. I will make sure you have everything that you need. Run Falkreath as you have run your mill and you will do fine."

Fenrald turned and retired to his quarters. He hadn't planned to leave for a few days still, but Hunrik's arrival was a convenience he could not pass up on. He could already feel his heartbeat quicken as the excitement gripped his chest. I'm going to the Throat of the World! 
He thought back to the shadows on Tekla's grave. And Skyrim will finally remember what happened in Falkreath. 

***

At almost eighty years old and frailer than a draugr, most of Dawnstar quietly believed that Jarl Skald the Elder had seen his last winter. The days that he could manage to sit his throne for more than a few hours were rare, and the ones when he could walk its streets and speak with its people were gone completely. It seemed as though Skald the Elder embodied his name more and more every day. And so it came as a surprise to everyone when the summons for the moot arrived, and he declared that he himself would become Skyrim's next High King.

The first reaction was that these were the ravings of his senile mind. And so afterwards, the court mage Madena brewed a potion to relax his mind and help him rest so that he may be sharper come morning. However, when he awoke he made the same declaration with even more conviction than the first time. As the weeks went by, it became more and more apparent that this was not only happening, but that it was one of the few things left in the world that mattered to the old man. In his eyes, the two major 'claimants' Baldur Red-Snow and Brund Hammer-fist were both unworthy of the title. They were too young and too inexperienced, and unlike him they both held the insane notion that they could do things differently than Ulfric Stormcloak had and that it would be an improvement.
And so Skald made a promise to anyone who would listen: No man loved Ulfric more greatly than he did, and no High King would rule the way Ulfric had but him.

It was so absurd that even Skald's own guardsmen joked behind his back. Nearly all of Dawnstar did. To them, he was the grumpy old man who considered himself a hero and believed that giants were conspiring to take the Nords' land. The one who drooled on himself, and struggled to make the journey from his bed to his throne without assistance, all while going on about how Skyrim would prosper under his rule. That would be his legacy to them.

It made Vrage sick. It was true that he had never been close to his older half brother. Skald been in the Jarl's chair for twenty years before he'd even been born, and had been none too pleased when their merchant mother remarried and had a second child. They had grown up in separate homes and separate worlds. It wasn't until Skald learned that he could not have children that the Jarl decided to acknowledge Vrage and make him his heir. By then they were both grown men, and hadn't spoken two words to each other in their entire lives.

Even so, Vrage knew Skald better than most. He knew how greatly their mother's death had upset him, and how little he'd had in the way of guidance growing up as Jarl. The people he surrounded himself with now: Madena, Jod, even Bulfrek- they were good folk, but their Jarl had been a boy in a man's body long before they were born. He had their pity, but they could not understand him. At times it felt as though no one could.

"You look sad. What's wrong, Love?"

Vrage looked up as he laced his fur boots. His wife Jytte was watching him with a look of concern.

"I was thinking about Skald," he answered as he pulled the laces tight. "I'm going to have to speak with him again before I leave."

"Do you want me to come with you?"

"Thanks, but not this time." He gave Jytte a kiss, threw on his cloak, and trudged outside into the snow. Even in the Spring, Dawnstar was rarely spared from a the stuff. And so far, the place still felt more or less the same as it had during the Winter. Not that you would hear someone from the Pale complain. The people of this land were as hard and strong as the Atmorans they'd descended from. To them, the cold was a friend who kept their beards thick and their enemies at bay. As much a part of life as the sun and the stars.

And so even on this particularly cold day, Dawnstar was bustling with activity. The docks were loud with the sound of shouting crews, teams of returning hunters dragged in fallen horkers on their sleds, boatbuilders were hard at work constructing longships for the upcoming war, and smoke wafted across the cliffside from dozens of smelters. Vrage greeted everyone he passed, in part because he wanted to, but also perhaps because he wasn't in a great hurry to reach the longhouse. Even so, it was not long before he found himself at the entrance to the White Hall.

Vrage sighed, watching his breath crystalize as he did. And then he steeled himself and entered. The warmth from the hearth hit him immediately, as did a foul smell. The throne was empty, which meant Skald could only be in one place.

"There you are." Madena called to him from the left side loft, where she let go of the railing to come down and greet him. "Have you come to say goodbye?"

"Aye." Vrage looked over to his elder brother's room. The door was closed, but he could hear voices on the other side. "How is he?"

"You know the answer to that." The Breton mage shook her head. "Forgive the smell... it's-"

"His shit. I know." The future High King of Skyrim, everyone. "I'm leaving today. But first I'd say a few words. Just in case."

"Of course. Understand though, that this is not one of his better days."

It's been a long time since Skald has had a good day. He went over to Skald's quarters and gently pushed the door open. Inside, he found his brother, blanket to his neck, arguing as Bulfrek tried to get him to drink.

"I don't want any, you damned oaf. Go away! Your Jarl commands it!" Skald's eyes darted over to Vrage, and his lips twisted into a smile. "Brother! Come, come." He looked at his servant again. "I said to leave, fool!"

Vrage gave Bulfrek a nod, and the man took his leave. After the door closed, he went over to the bedside. "I'm leaving today, Skald."

"Leaving?" The old man's eyes stared, uncomprehending. "You cannot leave. You must defend the city while I am away for the moot."

It was as Vrage had feared. "We've talked about this. I'm the one who will go to the moot. You cannot make the climb in your condition."

"Condition? Bah!" A line of drool ran down Skald's fuzzy chin after he spat the last word. "The only thing wrong in my hall is that my damnable servant would rather bring me tea than mead."

"It's medicine. Probably a potion. You need rest brother. You cannot climb the tallest mountain in the world as you are right now. You asked me to represent you at the moot, remember? It's why I'm leaving. You gave me your axe." He pulled back his cloak so his brother could see the weapon.

Skald's eyes went wide. "My axe!" He smiled stupidly. "It is good that you have it, brother, for I feel quite unwell. I would have you go to the moot in my stead. Represent me as the next High King of Skyrim!" He turned and looked up at the ceiling. "I will do right by our homeland, you will see. Mighty Talos himself will be proud."

"Of course you will." Vrage frowned.

"You will make sure I win, will you not?"

"I will do all that I can."

His brother frowned and made a 'harrumph' sound. "It will have to do. You have always been dependable. When Ulfric called for action you were among the first here to join his cause. That's when I knew you were true."
The two brothers sat in silence for several minutes, and then finally Skald turned and looked at Vrage. "You are all dressed up, brother. I hope you do not intend to leave? I have need of you here."

A pang of sadness struck him, and Vrage could only respond by putting a hand on his brother's shoulder. "I won't be gone long, I promise you. Goodbye brother. Soon Skyrim will have a new High King."

Skald the Elder's eyes lit up. "King, yes. I cannot wait to go to this moot! Soon, I shall be king!"
 

***

At almost eighty years old yet still spry and sharp of wit, it seemed as though Vignar Gray-Mane still had a good few winters left in him. And so it came as no surprise to anyone when he decided that he would be climbing the seven thousand steps to attend the moot in person. He certainly did not need to. His brother, niece and nephew, -even a few Companions- had all volunteered to go in his stead, but Vignar would have none of it. It was "not the Nord way" he told them all, and when they cited instances in the past of Jarls not attending, he laughed and said "Well it's not my way."

And so when the day came at last, Vignar descended from Dragonsreach with the vigor of a man half his age, but not before throwing a great feast in his own hall. There had been bards, magicians, a trained bear, and enough food and mead to sate everyone five times over. The guests included his family and friends, most of the Companions, and members from nearly all of Whiterun's most prominent families.

It had been a clever move on the Jarl's part, planned long in advance to please everyone at once before his departure and leave the city in good spirits while he was away. Hopefully, this would make anyone who might've taken advantage of his absence think twice. Not that Vignar was all that worried. Whiterun was stronger than ever, and his clan were more than capable of managing things in his absence. In truth, the only fear at all came from the same place as usual: Clan Battle-Born. If anything, the feast was more to make certain that the rest of the city would take his family's side if those traitors tried something. They hadn't done so since the war, but ever since Idolaf Battle-Born's execution a couple years back, their disdain for Vignar and his family had strong and loudly expressed.

That single fear seemed for nothing when Vignar made his way through the city, flanked by Olfina and a contingent of guards. The people he passed cheered and wished him safe travels, thanking him for the great time and joking about how they were still feeling the effects of so much mead. A gathering stood around Heimskr as he prayed for Talos to grant them strength, and the priests from the Temple of Kynareth asked the goddess to keep the skies clear for their journey. 

All in all, the Jarl was leaving the Jewel of Skyrim as healthy and pleased as he could ever remember it being. The brightness of the day proved even brighter when a breathless courier found them just outside the city gates with a letter to Olfina from her brother Thorald.
"He's in the City of Chorrol," she told him as they mounted up. "He says that they've narrowed the search."

"Good." Vignar was pleased to hear it. The traitor who'd burned Riften had been a trusted friend, once. He was proud that his nephew would be the one to bring him to justice. It seemed fitting. "Perhaps we will learn in the Rift what that whole damned mess was even about. But enough about that. I am pleased that your brother is well. He brings us all honor by wearing that armor."

"Do you think there will be Grim Ones in Ivarstead? With so many Jarls in one place, it seems only wise that Baldur Red-Snow bring his best to keep order."

"I should think so. Baldur has acted like a king since the day Ulfric named him General. Forming alliances, strengthening our army, fighting our enemies. He knows what he's doing better than any of us. His own people believe that the gods themselves sent him."

"Surely you don't, though."

"I know Baldur. He did not seem like Wulfharth reborn when we last met. As I recall, the man once stole a cow just so he could win a game of tag."

Olfina laughed. "And did he win?"

"I don't know," Vignar answered. He settled into his saddle for the long journey ahead. "I'll ask him that when I see him. And many other things. Whether he is a gift from the gods or just more clever than most, all can agree that our future High King is an interesting man."
 

***

Having grown up in the drab and colorless marshes of Hjaalmarch, Jarl Sorli the Builder found that the Rift's eternally autumn forests were much more to her liking, even more so than Eastmarch's hot springs and Whiterun's vast tundras had been. Of all the holds to call my own, Ulfric had to go and give me the one best known for fog and mud.
It wasn't entirely unfair, of course. After all, Hjaalmarch was her home, and Morthal had been the last hold capital to be secured before the push into Solitude. Still, she felt that after proving how excellent of a job she could do, it wouldn't have killed the man to offer her Riften once the position became open. 

It probably slipped his mind. That made as much sense to Sorli as anything. After all, it was said that the people of Riften had been forced to choose their own Jarl after months of not having one. No doubt Ulfric had simply been too busy to give them that sort of attention.
To her it was rather unfortunate what had happened here. Such a beautiful and mighty hold, first reduced to ashes and banditry, and then forced to turn to some young mead seller for guidance. Everyone in Skyrim knew who the Black-Briars were of course, but it wasn't until the death of Maven that anyone heard the name 'Ingun'. Apparently she was a last living relative. Considering that and the fact that it had taken many months for her to gain power, Sorli felt that it was unlikely this Ingun was much more than an upstart who was chosen for her money. She won't last long. Real leadership comes from experience.
That was why she had been given Morthal, when so many others could have been chosen instead.

Sorli and her two dozen guardsmen had left early enough to travel at a comfortable pace, camping early every night and sleeping even further into the morning than they might have at home. Most of them, herself included, did not leave Morthal often, and now they relished in the chance to enjoy this different scenery. Wilderness was not all that they found in their travels. They also met Eastmarch soldiers patrolling the roads, and travelers heading south with supplies for the city of Riften. At one point they came across a procession of merchants from Shor's Stone who were also bound for Ivarstead, and decided to travel together.

Eventually, their larger group came upon a small group of Stormcloaks set up at a point along the road. One of the soldiers stood and blocked their way as they approached, forcing Sorli to reign in her horse. She scowled at the man. "Do you know who you speak to, soldier? I am Jarl Sorli of Morthal."

"I know, my Jarl. I served with your husband in the Reach. Don't worry, we're not stopping anyone from passing. Captain put us here to warn travelers headed to Ivarstead. There's something dangerous about a mile up the road. We're not sure what it is, but it's killed all the trees."

Sorli shared a glance with the captain of her guard, a Nord named Benalf. He shrugged, and so she turned back to the Stormcloak. "You haven't seen this creature for yourself?"

"Nobody has. Jarl Ingun's got her people looking into it."

"I'm sure she does. Is that all?"

"It is. Just make sure your men keep their swords handy."

Sorli laughed and rode past the man. "Keep your swords handy, he says," she said back to her men. "He must not know that in Hjaalmarch we breakfast on creatures that would make the ones here tremble in fear."
The soldiers laughed at her joke. Indeed, the Drajkmyr Marsh was well known for the monsters that inhabited it. Even Morthal itself was known on occasion to attract vampires, werewolves, and any other beast that could blend in. The result was a population who were paranoid, but not easily scared. Especially not by tales of monsters. Although, when they came upon the dead trees, Sorli did feel a little unnerved. The many-colored Rift had been so beautiful up till now, and the sudden change into a black and twisted landscape came as quite a shock. Even the grass had withered and died, and whatever birds or squirrels might've lived here had fled. Even for them, it was unnerving. 

Ingun Black-Briar's soldiers were not far. They came upon their encampment just off the side of the road. There were over a dozen soldiers, but also a few citizens, including a Dunmer child who was sitting by a fire with a doll in her hand. The two groups met courteously, but upon realizing who Sorli was, one of the citizens approached. "So you're from Morthal? Do any of your men know what to make of this?"

She shook her head. "Most of the trees back home are dead anyway. That doesn't give us much to go by."

"Well the hole's not far. What if we took you to see it?"

"Hole? The Stormcloak didn't mention a hole. She turned to Benalf. "What do you say? We are early."

"Might as well."

They were led a little ways into the woods, where they met a group of five more guards and a well-dressed woman, all standing around what was indeed a giant hole in the ground. Their escort introduced them. "Jarl Ingun," said the man. "This is Jarl Sorli of Morthal. Her man here might know something more about all this."

The mead merchant Jarl's dark eyes widened a bit at the news. "It is an honor," she said to Sorli. "I did not expect another Jarl to come here so soon, let alone offer aid."

"Yes, well maybe you'll learn to act less surprised in the future." She motioned to Benalf. "What do you make of this?"

"Well it ain't a chaurus, that's for damn sure. Or a frostbite spider."

"We know what did it," said one of Ingun's men. "We just don't know what it is." He pointed to a pair of pale white corpses a few yards off to the side that Sorli had missed before. "We dragged those two outa the tunnel. They were right at the edge."

"Those?" The guard captain laughed. "Those are Falmer. I know a Falmer hole when I see one. They didn't do this neither."

"Falmer?" said the Rift soldier. "You mean the Snow Elves? They're a myth. Been dead for thousands of years. These beasts've gotta be some sort of goblin or something."

"Hah! If Falmer are a myth, then call me Benalf Myth-Slayer. Trust me, lad, they're real."

"Did you send anyone down there?" Sorli asked.

"Yes," Ingun answered. "Two of my men went. They found more of those... things. All dead. The tunnel just keeps on going. They said it eventually opened into a larger cave where there were strange glowing mushrooms. They brought me a sample if you want to see."

"No need," Benalf said. "Don't know nothing about mushrooms 'cept that I don't like the taste. Whatever you've got here, it ain't nothing I've seen before. Tunnel like that, if I didn't know better I'd say you've got yourself a dragon who likes to burrow."

"Dragons fly," said Ingun's man. "They don't burrow."

"That's why I said I know better, fool. Got no idea what did this, but it's killing Falmer so you oughta thank it. Pesky bastards, those things."

"It's also killing part of my forest," answered Ingun. "But it seems we've learned all we can here. I'll hire someone to look into this after the moot." She turned to Sorli. "Ivarstead is only a few days further. How would you like to travel together?"

Sorli shrugged. "Might as well." As they made their way back to the campsite, she decided to ask, "So who do you intend to support, eh? It'd be good to know where the Jarls stand."

"I've never met any of the claimants," answered the young woman. "But I-"

"I will back Brund. Skyrim needs a strong economy, wouldn't you agree? We'd be wise to stand with the leader who controls the most wealth."

"How much of that wealth will make it to Morthal?"

"A lot, if we're friends." She cast a sideways grin at Ingun. "And I hear Riften could use some good silver these days as well. Something to think about."

***

Jarl Korir shook his head in disgust as he watch a man from the Riften camp walk about Ivarstead hand-in-hand with a red-eyed elven child. Disgraceful. He did not hate elves, of course, but this was man's sacred ground and they had no place here.
He spat and turned away, pushing the affront from his mind so he could focus on more important matters, like finding a place to drink!

What had once been a quiet little village had grown substantially over the last year due to refugees, but with the long-planned moot fast approaching, travelers from all over Skyrim and even beyond had come here to take advantage of the traffic. Aside from the Jarls' own tents, those grim Stormcloak soldiers patrolled the streets, and merchants from everywhere stood beside wagons laden with goods that could not be found outside their homes. Certainly not in Winterhold. Korir walked through the merchant's ranks now, past a group of Bretons who wore colorful robes and peddled silks from their homeland, then a man from Whiterun who had a collection of weapons that had supposedly been wielded by fallen Harbingers of the Companions. Korir almost stopped at wagon from Solitude when the woman asked him to try her spiced wine, but decided at last that he would prefer some mead. For that, he was directed to Vilemyr Inn.

The place was packed, of course. Men and women from every hold filled the tables and crowded the bar, where servants worked frantically to keep everyone pleased. In one corner, two bards sang a ballad about High King Hoag to the enchantment of everyone who sat around them. 

"Jarl Korir!"

He glanced over to one of the tables, and found none other than Vrage of Dawnstar waving him over. He grinned as the man and his soldiers scooted over to make room for him on their bench. Vrage waved for one of the tavern maids. "You there! A mead for this man!"

They clasped hands as Korir took his seat. "How goes it, friend? Are they calling you 'Jarl' yet or do you still have to pretend like it's not you?"

"Funny." Vrage shook his head. "I am not the Jarl, and hopefully will not be for some time. Skald lives, and has his sights for making Dawnstar our next capital."

Korir's eyes widened. "You're serious? Skald? No offense, but your brother never struck me as the sort to be a High King."

"Nor anyone else, but it is so. He claims that he will follow in Ulfric's footsteps in all things. I've come to represent him."

"You mean he's not here himself?" Korir studied Vrage's eyes. Surely the man was joking. No Jarl could hope to send his brother to fight his battles and still expect to be named High King of all Skyrim. Yet as he looked, he saw no sign of jest in his friend's expression. "Well..." One of the tavern's servants interrupted to put a mug of mead in his hands. Finally. He thanked her and took a swig, then gave Vrage a shrug. "Best of fortunes to Skald the Elder."

They drank together, and spent some time catching up. Eventually, their conversation came to the moot itself, and the climb before it. Apparently, most of the Jarls had already either made the climb or departed recently enough that they would be in the middle of it now. Vignar Gray-Mane was still in the village and would be embarking tomorrow, which surprised Korir, considering the man was at least as old as Skald. Vrage himself had come early in the hopes of meeting either Baldur or Brund before things got started. Sadly, Baldur had been even earlier and Brund had yet to arrive.

In the end, the two men decided that they would make the climb together. They were both traditionalists, and had no intention of bringing guards or advisors to assist, and so the company would be welcome during the long venture upward. "Two Nords of the Old Holds, climbing the Throat of the World together," Korir said, well into his mead by then. He then raised his mug. "To the future of Skyrim!"
 

***

"You got yer axe handy?"

"I do, Falk. I told you, I have everything."

"I know, I know. It's just... are you sure you didn't forget something my lady?" 

"Falk, contrary to popular belief I am not stupid. I know you're stalling, silly man."

Falk wanted to smile, at least for her sake. But he couldn't. Not even when Jarl Elisif placed her hand on his cheek, scratching his namesake playfully. "I'll be fine."

"No you won't, not with that beast they call a man. You can't marry him, please! If you do this... I'll..."

"You'll what Falk?"

"I'll resign! I'll leave!"

Elisif hesitated. Her husband had already abandoned her, killed by the hand of Ulfric Stormcloak. Then Baldur, who she once thought kind and thoughtful abandoned their friendship out of the blue. Alone she thought he even cared for her once. Longed for his distraction, his conversation. 

Anything to be rid of her thoughts of having wedded her husband's killer. But around his brothers, or Ulfric himself, he changed. Maybe it was just an act? Or perhaps pity.

And now Falk was leaving her too. Just as well.

No she didn't mean that. She might've mistaken Baldur's kindness and pity for more, but Falk, that was something... different. Falk reminded her of an older, and stronger Torygg. Perhaps that is why she felt guilty of having been with him. Unlike Ulfric, and more than likely unlike Brund Hammer-Fang in the near future, she enjoyed giving herself to Falk. And that was her biggest betrayal to his name yet.

"I am doing this, Falk. So if you must abandon me too, then so be it. But I AM going to reclaim Solitude's capital status. That is the least I can do now for my dead husband. I have to try at least."

"And what will Torygg say when you see him after you too are dead? Huh? What will you tell him after you've wedded again, and this time a bigger brute than Ulfric?"

"I won't be seeing Torygg, ever again. Despite what people say, Torygg died with this axe in his hand. He died a true Nord, and surely dwells in Sovngarde. I on the other hand, am a coward. Goodbye, Falk."

Falk waited until Elisif's guard closed the palace doors behind them, closing off the light of the outside world and also the light of his life. When she was gone, he said, "Goodbye, Jarl Elisif."

Elisif spent the whole trip in her carriage crying to herself, a hand clenched on her chest. Solitude may have been warm more times than not, but her heart felt nothing but the coldest highest peaks of that icy land. 

When Elisif and her company of Nords finally made it to Ivarstead, they found that most of the Jarls and their entourage had already made it. And many people that she did not expect, though she full well should have. 

There were the exotic dark men from Hammerfell, the respectable Bretons of High Rock, with banners of their new king's family symbol upon them, and even the Imperial Legion in all their splendor of red and gold. Oh how she missed the safe feeling she felt when she saw them. And yet even now that feeling escaped her.

But even so her heart and mind were open with delight. These men and women were not there for her. They were there for her enemy. But that did not mean she couldn't indulge in the company of possible new friends and acquaintances! It would be so much fun! It-

"Elisif, my new wife to be. Was your trip a hard one, my love? Hehehehehehe..."

She didn't even have to turn to know who addressed her. Brund strolled out of his tent as though he were waiting behind the flap the entire time just to catch her off guard when she arrived. Brund gave her men the signal to leave, and at first they almost refused. But when they saw that Elisif did not react, they did as they were told, with much hesitation and doubt.

But none dared challenge Brund.

His hand fell on her shoulder, and he beckoned her to his bed. With a fistfull of her hair as he practically dragged her inside. 

"I am not your dead husband. I'll have to break you in. Tonight you share a bed with a REAL Nord!"

 

 

 

[Witchking of Angmar]

Contested Isle of Brthynocia, Roscrean Sphere
Colony-Oppidum of Brigandiagh

Before the time of Ysgramor, when man was yet still to drive out the Goblins of Roscrea the central-eastern Atmoran tribes experienced an era of expansion. Taking advantage of the wars greater powers waged against one another on the Atmoran continent, they set their eyes to the far away lands and the ships that would bring them to it. The three isles to the far southeast would weather centuries of colonists sowing the seeds of conflict, yet another isle lay in the sights of these tribes.

Hailing off the coast from the Goblin infested island of then called Roscae was an newly discovered uninhabited isle, shrouded in mystery it attracted the great explorers of their day. With the remarkable exception of the southwest, filled wetlands ranging from infertile bogs to lushly rich. It wasn't long before folks uprooted in Eastern Atmora to build colonies on the rich wetlands, the third Oppidum to be built upon the wetlands would become the greatest of them all, the Oppiudm of Brigandiagh. The colonies quickly broke off from the mainland, an event that would be repeated by the Western Atmorans.

By the time of Ysgramor Brigandiagh had dominated the other would be Colony-States, at it's peek the Brthynocian Wetlands had a quarter of a million within it. The highly urbanized Brigandiagh held most of the population, yet as all things it would decline. Not through war but an ever increasing acidity turning more and more of the once lush wetlands into infertile bogs, isolated and in decline when man drove the Roscrean Goblins into the afterlife the colonies had not the power to resist the relocation of the Agotomaeds.

What was once a mighty colony power was reduced to eleven fortified villages and the near ruins of Brigandiagh, the former power had only it's citadel intact with a population under two thousand.

Yet through it all they had survived, while the other colonies faded away into absolute ruin, it's inhabitants choosing to live among their Milhinngaet kinsmen the legacy thousands of years in the making stayed intact. Throughout the Imperial's invasion they had survived, when the more numerous Agotomaeds happily surrendered to Uriel the colonies too begrudgingly followed.

Even now after independence was won, after everything they weathered the Imperial were returning. These new Imperials did not bear the accursed dragon but the banner of a vessel at sea, it wasn't long before an incident happened. Bringing the ruling council of Chieftains to sacred ground to discuss and debate they're course of action.

Twelve chieftains had rode their chariots along the solid paths barreling down to a bog deep within their land, it was neutral ground. The bog in question held a cavern submerged but intact, arms were absolutely forbidden inside where the center held a perfectly cut square fountain extending from the rock itself. Healthy green moss growing from it, the it was all sacred as fresh water seeped up from the fountain, it was long since here when man first arrived on the isle. Fresh water in an infertile bog was surely holy.

The twelve chieftains within shared similar drab, for all they were decorated the only piece of armor worn were bronze helmets. Distinctively lacking trousers with it cutting off at the knee, their tunics had no sleeves with three going without them entirely. Of the twelve men four approached the rock fountain, one stood on each of it's sides bending the knees and each dipped their hand in drinking from it.

The four rose placing both hands on their side of the fountain, ending the rituals and beginning the gathering. It was Vericatamantaloedis; Vericataman in swift, Chieftain of Brigandiagh who raised his voice first.

"Upon tonight's dusk it will be three days ago that men who bear tribute to my halls attacked these Imperial's as a caravan entered the folk's bog, they laid ambush and sacked it. Chieftains, we have just stirred their ire and must pass judgement while our strength is still with us."

To Vericataman the other three men had little in the way of voice, even in near ruin his Oppidum was far greater then the eleven fortified villages. Neither of the three spoke, leaving Vericataman to once again bring his to the cavern.

"A choice is with us, I foresee neither through visions nor omens but the knowledge of my forefathers. These aren't soldiers we're dealing with nay it's far worse, merchants! Merchants with mercenaries, soon I suspect they will greet us with smiles and fair words with hidden meaning. I foresee warship diplomacy and we must decide to follow one of two courses."

Once again he paused to give reasonable chance of argument, none since came albeit practically the other Chieftains hadn't dealt with these men yet.

"Of the twenty manned caravan six were lucky enough to be enslaved as the rest will be preserved for eternity in the bog, I myself have purchased one of the merchants. We are out of our league here Chieftains, our wetlands will save us from invasion but our manpower isn't enough now. I'm afraid our only options are to either submit to these merchants, allow their perfume and knickknacks to fill our homesteads and simply allow them to try their hand at Imperialization or as the Eastern Roscreans still yet have a foothold on our isle we could also ally with them. I scoff at both possibilities but I raise voice in favor of having established powers instead of foreign ones."

The other three knocked their hands against the stone each speaking an affirmative 'aye' at his choice, in a way it was sad that this so called council was an oligarchy in disguise but it had it's uses. Feeling a bit of pity Vericataman asked for suggestions in this course of action from his fellow three Chieftains.

The chieftain to Vericataman's right a sickly old man growing thinner each year although still spiking his hair with lime, Andecomnotauros raised his voice.

"Perhaps.. we could ride out in chariots, maybe find a diplomatic neutral stance?"

"Now one of us should ride out in chariot but not to the Agotomaeds, one shall ride to the Roscreans. If they ask for too much perhaps a neutral approach then, however if we have their backing these merchants would not dare seek retribution. In fact I shall ride out." He couldn't hold back the twitching of his lips as they curved upward, Vericataman would use this situation to increase his position that much was clear to all the chieftains within.

Their gathering lasted another few hours discussing trivial things before dispersing, leaving for their respected Oppida. The near ruins of Brigandiagh welcomed it's chieftain back with broken stone, the following afternoon six chariots barreled through the wetlands, riders fully armed. Fully well preparing and damn near expecting battle from the merchants to intercept him Vericataman brought some of his most loyal servant-warriors, above the status of slaves yet bound to their master. Even though the wetlands were being left behind they still didn't armor themselves outside of helmets, the chieftain easily denoted by a boar-helmet.

If the merchants wanted to war with the colonies he'd burn every farm on the way back.

 

 

[Witchking of Angmar]

 

The Moot

Of all the Jarls that found their way up to High Hrothgar, none of them stood out more than young Elisif, not even Fenrald, one of the newest of the lot. Aside from her husband to be and Baldur of course, both who were still absent. 

Her ascent was easy enough, though not as quick as the others and taking her nearly three days. Climbing the 7000 steps wasn't so bad when all the capable warriors before her already cleared the way. She even overheard Vignar bragging about his frost troll kill. His booming raspy voice guided her to the table of the Greybeards where she'd sat only a few years before, with the fabled and terrible Dragonborn of the Stormcloaks. 

The Greybeards stood like silent sentinels, never speaking but always listening. Even so, remembering the young woman from her last visit greeted her with only a simple gesture, a wave of their arms, opening then closing as their hands were brought back together.

"Such gentlemen you are," she commented, even managing to work up a smile. That was even harder than her first climb. After the night she had...

Brund was gracious enough to allow her to come alone, claiming he was exhausted and needed his rest. She was not only exhausted but forever scarred. After his appetites were sated, she didn't even recognize her own reflection in her mirror. It was as if a whole winter had come and gone, leaving evidence of its passing on her skin.

She knew a night alone with Brund would be trying, but never as trying as that. His smell, the smell of sweat and death. And the air about him... cold... wrong...

She tried her best to ignore the memories...

Before she stepped into the room where the fate of Skyrim, of Tamriel would once again be decided, there was a lot of chatter, even laughter. But the room grew eerily quiet as she stepped inside with the two Solitude guardsmen accompanying her. 

Even with two guardsmen, armed to the teeth with sword and shield, bow and arrow, dagger and axe, and her, with her own axe of Solitude, a wolven design with rubies for the eyes, and her thick red dress, golden trimmings and reddish brown wolf fur and ruby studded circlet...

All of it seemed to disappear before the gaze of the other Jarls of Skyrim, who clearly detested her presence nearly as much as they did the foreigners that also were counted as guests.

She studied the layout.

The Jarl of Falkreath sat opposite of... she wasn't actually sure who this man was. He was no Jarl certainly though he seemed vaguely familiar. Looking further she noticed that she did not see Skald the Elder. A stand in perhaps. The Jarl of Morthal sat beside Fenrald, then there was an empty seat, two of them. Those must've been for her and Brund, the "Demon Chieftain of the Reach" as he was so aptly being called.

On the far side where she walked past was a seat reserved for Baldur she imagined, as Arngeir himself was standing behind that seat. He greeted her with a smile and a gesture to be seated. He was the only kind face in the whole room thus far. Maven Black-Briar... no, she's far too young to be Maven. She had a daughter, Elisif was sure of this....

Ingun. Elisif heard briefly that the Rift had found a new Jarl in her. She sat next to the seat closest to Baldur's spot. Then there was Vignar, and finally Korir. Behind them all in the back of the room sat Baldur's guests. Prince Roland she recognized immediately, but she avoided eye contact with the Bretons entirely and simply took her seat.

The sooner this moot could begin, the better in her mind. She was too lost in thought of her husband to care what the others spoke of. Sorrow and loneliness was heavy in her expression, accentuated by the shadows cast from the braziers of the Greybeards that never went out and thankfully gave more heat than what would be normally possible. 

In the fire she saw him, Torygg. But she couldn't quite make out his face. All she saw was Ulfric cutting him down. That was the only thing she could see of him now. And soon, even this faded, burned away. Replaced with the image of Brund, smiling with disgusting delight, and sucking his teeth before making her his. 

She got lost in the visions that the fire showed. Even when the Empress of Cyrodiil herself approached, she did not seem to take notice.

Dales Draconus bore herself with...a strangeness. She didn't walk like a lady of the court, more like a predator, panther-like. Her honey hair was loose and out, though she didn't bother to tend to it. She wore a complicated black and red dress done in a Colovian style alongside a chest piece that went with her dress and an armored corset, glowing silver, though she was almost completely bare when it came to jewelry, only wearing her sigit ring...and the amulet that...thing had gifted to her. 

She had soon come to the revelation only she could see it, so she didn't have to worry about offending the Jarls, for she knew they no doubt disliked symbols of elven gods. She was certainly very striking, and her face was very pretty, but...her blue, chilling eyes, the dark bags that hid underneath her eyes, deathly pale skin, and icy stare certainly marred that beauty. On her belt, she wore a plain silver imperial styled gladius, which she kept on her right side. The young Empress, however was awe struck, though she kept it underneath of a mask of stoicism.

What...a lovely creature...

Her hair was golden. And her frame lithe. A perfect body. Her eyes were as deep as an oceans.  

The monarch of the Empire had heard stories of Elisif's beauty, but in person, she was absolutely radiant.

She would be perfect, if not for the dark shadow that hung over her. Dales could practically feel it. Perhaps the approach of the Dragon would be less suitable here? Instead, Dales put on a warm smile, dispelling her previous dark look. She said, in a gentle voice, "Jarl Elisif?"

Elisif almost jumped, so out of it was she. Quickly gaining her composure she said, "Empress Motierre, right? Or is it Draconus nowadays? It's a pleasure to meet you. Here, have a seat by me until Brund arrives."

"The pleasure is mine, milady." Dales said, her voice warm. "Draconus. Please, call me Dales." The small Breton took a seat beside the former high-queen. She'll probably be voting Brund then...She spoke in a friendly, though quiet tone of voice. "I've heard from people about your radiance, though in person, the words can't compare." She complemented her. "I hope the journey up the mountain was pleasant. Me and the future High King's journey was assailed by a blizzard."

Good.

"I hope you fared well?" she asked. She was blushing a bit from being complimented so strongly and out of the blue. She was sure some of the Jarls overheard, but paid them no mind. "My trip was straightforward, no beasts assaulted me or my guards. Truth be told, I've never seen any. Some claim Kynareth sends them to test pilgrims."

"We ran into some kind of beast. Baldur told me it was a yeti, but I asked Arngeir about it, and apparently yetis don't exist!" She lightly chuckled, "I guess it was some kind of ice troll. Nasty beast. Baldur's axe and my flame magic set it straight though!"

"What, no thu'um action? Hmph, I'm surprised he doesn't show that off every chance he gets," said Elisif. "I imagine he probably uses it to kill pests, or to dispose of his child's soiled cloth." Elisif chuckled at the thought. "I'm sorry, that was beneath me. I'm not a big fan of your friend, but I harbor no ill feelings towards you, Empress. I mean, Dales."

"Isn't foul language beneath the fabled golden lady of Solitude?" Dales gave her a wink, and a slight nudge as she said, "We're both girls, feel free to speak how you want around me milady.  Baldur can be a little hard to tolerate with all his horrible singing, but he has a good heart." She grinned.

Poor girl…

Elisif was taken aback by that, and of course felt for the obvious ploy hook, line, and sinker. "I never thought I'd hear anyone utter the same sentiment. Though there once was a time I enjoyed it, it quickly got old. Aside from that, he helped Ulfric find the woman they'd use to supplant my position and to use their marriage as an excuse to steal my holds wealth for his own. I used to think he was my friend, and understood what I went through. But he was only playing me. Where others see an 'Ash-King' or such rubbish, a great bear of a man, or a cunning fox, all I see is a viper with a forked tongue."

"Baldur's a Lord of Cinder. Fire bends to his voice, and he breathed upon the attacking Dominion foes with flame ordained by Kyne. Or so they say." Dales said, keeping the friendly expression, but her voice was a little harder, "Snakes are often known as imperfect dragons, so perhaps a serpent fits him. Though I consider serpents noble animals, they control the rodent population after all, and the Akaviri Potentate were great statesmen, and respected figures of the Imperial Court."

"And what would they know anyway when they can't even agree upon Kynareth's name," said Elisif. "I don't care about his thu'um, I saw plenty of Ulfric's to know that magic abilities do not make a man true or righteous like their men would have you believe. They are not the Grey Beards. Only they I trust to wield the thu'um responsibly. That is to say, not at all."

She's very bitter towards Baldur. I wonder what he did to her...

Dales simply smiled in response, " I agree to an extent. Not about Baldur and the voice, of course, but the sentiment in general, I've seen men immolated by flame spells, and icicles used as pincushions. Magic is simply a tool to be used. For noble reasons or evil reasons." Before she continued, she noticed the wide open door, and the fact a few people were still missing. 

This gave her a rare opportunity.

Dales sat up, saying, "The moot seemingly won't begin for a little while. Care to take a walk with me, milady, down the stone halls? Stretch the legs, before the long discussions begin?" The young Empress offered her gloved hand to the Jarl.

Elisif almost took her hand, but then a thought occurred to her...

Smiling, Elisif said, "Empress Dales, even here in Skyrim your reputation precedes you. I'm sorry but this is neither the time nor the place. And no offense, but I couldn't be seen by the others walking away alone with the Empress of Cyrodiil, the very one known for aiding the Thalmor once upon a time. I do not hold it against you, but politics are what they are. It would hurt Brund's chances. I've had to grow wise in these last few years. At least a little."

"You wound me. If what I think you are accusing me of trying to do, I can assure you, I would never think to do such a thing. " A dark rage filled inside her head, telling the girl to draw her gladius and rip it through her stomach, but she shoved it deep within in her. Dales, skillful not to show it, forced a small smile, "What you've heard about me is no doubt mired in many rumors."

Elisif placed her hands on hers, whispering. "Even so, love, rumors are quite dangerous. Rumors, whispers and lies are the reason even men in my own hold believe Baldur is this 'Ash-King'. Rumors can make or break anyone. Even a king. Or queen. Please believe me when I say I truly meant you no offense, but this moot is very important to me. I shall not risk sabotaging my interests. But if you linger in Skyrim afterwards, I'd be happy to entertain you on the way to Solitude, and in the Blue Palace."

"I've actually been to Solitude once before." She sat down finally, seeing her offer rejected. Dales honestly felt...somewhat hurt. Was that what she was to foreign royalty? A predator? The Empress...could be a leech, but the prospect of forcing a woman to give her body...felt so disgusting to the Empress, she could barely restrain herself from shaking with anger. 

The young Empress gazed into the Jarl's eyes, "I was only a girl though. My mother was visiting a friend. And my father was on business.” The Empress closed her eyes, "The only thing I really remember is the sound of the blue waves in the ocean, swishing and swashy, as I looked, from the top of an East Empire Company warehouse. Do you like the ocean, milady?"

"Solitude overlooks the sea, but I confess I've never enjoyed it, or being on boats. I always feared one day the strange land formation Solitude was built on would give away to the weight and the sea would swallow the Blue Palace whole... I had quite a few nightmares about it actually. Torygg used to say I was being a silly girl. He wasn't afraid of anything back then..."

The thought of Torygg brought her thoughts to her task...

"Empress Dales, I fear that Brund may come in at any moment. I am very sorry but I must ask that you not be in his seat any longer. Again, I truly mean no offense, and I promise to make it up to you when this whole ordeal is over. I could use a friend."

"Of course. We may be opposed today, but I do hope you know you have someone to talk to." The Empress gave her a warm smile. A genuine one, the dark malice that wanted to take over gone. "If all goes well, I shall take you up on your offer. You shall give me a tour of the blue palace, and all the splendor I have forgotten." Dales got out of her seat, and whispered, "Until another day, my lady."

"Hopefully soon," she said genuinely. She thought to speak then to the Bretons, perhaps one last chance to try and persuade Baldur's supporters. But alas, she thought better of it. Embarrassing herself in front of them once was more than enough. These people climbed the 7000 steps to support him. Words alone weren't going to change their minds now.

***
As the day pressed on and both Brund and Baldur still had yet to arrive, some of the Jarls began to grow impatient just waiting at the table. It was only minutes after the arrival of Elisif that Fenrald decided that he was going to 'take a walk', though almost an hour later he had yet to return. During that time, Vignar and Ingun got up to go and speak in private as well, promising to remain close in case they were needed.

At one point, Korir thought to ask one of the Greybeards if they kept drinks, though Arngeir had told him days ago that they did not. Perhaps he'd hoped that one of the silent ones might've kept a stash of his own. From that point on, he appeared rather sour.

Some time later, Ingun returned alone.

"Where's the old man?" asked Sorli.

"He is in a side chamber just down the hall," she answered. "He found a book to read."

"And Fenrald?"

Ingun shrugged. "Didn't see him."

"Great." Sorli got up and walked out, stopping just to glance back at the Redguards, then the Imperials. "We know who you lot are here for. Something better not have happened to him. For your sake and Baldur's." On that note, she made her exit.

The Empress trailed from one part of the room to the next. The Empress was...beginning to worry. She's obviously afraid of Brund. She doesn't want to help him, but she see's no choice. A well meaning girl in way over her head. The Empress sadly smiled to herself.

Reminds me of someone. 

She dispelled thoughts of the fair, golden haired Jarl, and went back to the Moot. She would support Brund, meaning Brund already had two votes. Going by the angry scowls a few of the Jarls were giving her, that might rise soon. Baldur talked too much, but it was his gift. His way of words. Without that tongue, he would be severely handicapped in the coming debates. 

The Greybeards claim to give him their support, yet they do this. Maybe Badur was right about them.

She scanned the room, analysing it. The foreign leaders here would no doubt be an advantage to him, showing how many foreign powers would be at his side, but that was double edged sword. No doubt they resented the mere fact they were here in sacred Nordic ground. 

Especially her. 

The young Empress decided to go for a walk. It would do no good worrying about this. She had faith that Baldur could pull it off.  If he couldn't...well. There was always option two 

The Empress walked down the hallways of the ancient Nordic temple. A few minutes later, she spotted someone in a side chamber, reading a large dusty tome.  Jarl Vignar Grey-Mane, if she recalled. Him being by himself, meant he might be a little more open to her. Perhaps it was best to see we're he sat in all this. 

The Empress approached the elderly Jarl, saying in stern, yet no unfriendly voice. These people understood only steel, and iron, "Jarl Greymane?"

A moment passed as Vignar found a point where he could stop. "The Songs of the Return. I would not have expected to find the full saga here, of all places." The elderly Jarl of Whiterun looked up and studied her. "The Companions' story is a glorious one, and also violent, bloody. Not something that I'd have thought welcome in the Greybeards' halls of peace." He set the tome aside, leaving it open on the stone window nook. "What do you want, Empress?"

"I found a book detailing gory encounters with frost trolls, and other bestiary's of Skyrim a few days ago. I suppose people leave offerings of various literature to the Greybeards. Can't be selective with you're readings when you're so secluded and can't get you're books from someplace else." She said, "Making small talk? I've never had the honor of meeting you, Jarl." She strode into the room.

"No, you haven't." Vignar folded his arms. "If it's small talk you want, then there are six other Jarls out there who might be better for it."

"Perhaps we started on the wrong foot." Dales said with an apologetic smile, "Dales Draconus, of Cyrodiil." She offered her hand forward.

The Jarl did not move. "I'm an honest man, Empress Draconus. But I wouldn't be if I shook a hand that once held a Thalmor pen."

Second time now.  This is going to be a long day...

"Perhaps you forget it was also my hand, that held my blade, that slit my father's throat, and expelled the Dominion from Cyrodiil. And restored the open worship of Talos throughout my lands." She said sharply.

"I have not forgotten," he replied solemnly, "which is why I have abided Baldur's decision to invite you here in the first place."

She dropped her hand, "I will never forget my past. Nor will many people I can imagine," her cold blue eyes becoming melancholic, "Or the suffering I surely caused with my signature. But the past is the past. I can't change what I did back then. But I can make sure the future is better for the my people. That's all that really matters now. And I think we both surely agree, the Empire, and Whiterun's well-being is tied to if Baldur wins the moot or not."
"On that, we do agree," the old man said. "And we are not alone. None of us knew this Brund Hammer-Fang until recently, but what little we've heard has been worrisome. The man surrounds himself with marauders and cutthroats, and Markarth has been troublingly quiet since his last victory against the Forsworn."

"Brund was not born into his role of Jarl?" She took a seat beside the old man, "Did he have a previous military record before hand? Baldur...did not have the chance to give me any details of his opponent."

"Until recently, Thongvor Silver-Blood was Jarl of the Reach. I do not know how Brund came to inherit his position, but he now controls the wealth of Cidhna Mine so it must have been with Silver-Blood's blessing." Vignar shrugged. "And if he served in the army, word of his exploits never reached me."

"That means he controls a large portion of Skyrim's wealth..." She breathed a sigh of disappointment, "A very good incentive to support him. I talked to the Jarl Solitude. For some reason, she intends to support this brute. Do you know any others who will be swayed by the promise of his silver?"

"Sorli, no doubt." Vignar's wrinkly frown tightened into a scowl. "To this day I do not know what Ulfric saw in that woman. But aside from her and Elisif, I trust everyone at that table to stand by their convictions. The leaders of Skyrim are not your Elder Council. They will do what they believe to be right by their people."

Well at least he's loyal to Baldur.

"For all our sakes I hope you are right." She paused. Still looking uncertain, "Baldur is a hero to the common people. He was a war hero in the last invasion, highly favored by Ulfric,  adored by the public, and has the backing of multiple foreign powers. To challenge him for the throne, a man you barely know, just makes me feel...wrong. Like we're missing something about this Brund. He's either very stupid, or very confident. Considering he made himself the Jarl of Skyrim's richest hold, i'll go for the later."

"Not everyone is as impressed by you foreign powers as you might hope. I understand what Baldur has done here. He summoned you to show that he can, to prove that he alone commands enough respect to make all the kingdoms of man listen and do what he says. We will need that when we march south together against the elves." Vignar sighed. "But it is more complicated than that. I don't know about his brother, but Jarl Skald hates the Empire almost as much as he does the Thalmor. Fenrald might even hate them more. No amount of respect from you will convince them that Baldur should be king. It would not have been enough for me either, had my mind not already been made up."

"I warned him my presence here might cause this kind of thing. But he insisted I come." She glumly said, "So by proxy, Fenrald will vote for Brund because Baldur has aligned himself so closely with us. That's a third vote, which dosen't include Brund's own one." She sighed, "Dangerous water. Is there anyone who you know is undecided we might be able to sway to Baldur's cause?"

She gripped the invisible amulet of Auriel she wore on her neck.

“I'm an old man," answered the Jarl, "and you're a foreign ruler. Convincing the others how to think before we hear them out is not our place." He shook his head. "In fact, I daresay it will do more harm than good. When the moot begins, I will say my piece and argue for it, as will Jarl Baldur. I have faith that his words will be enough to convince anyone who has yet to decide for themselves."

"Perhaps you're right, Jarl Greymane. We'll leave it to Baldur's tongue to convince the others to do the right thing. And by the gods, hopefully all will be well." She got out of her seat, "Well, I'll see you at the Moot, Jarl Greymane. Thanks for the information."

"Mhmm," Vignar grunted and then he turned away from her to reclaim his book. "Fair winds and all that."

Dales stepped out of the room, dark thoughts entering her head. She was...less hopeful now of the chances of Baldur winning. She traced her hands around the gleaming amulet on her neck, and whispered, "If you truly do show me divine favor, Auriel, now is the time to show it!"

"Pfft!" 
Dales looked over to find Jarls Sorli and Fenrald standing a little further into the hall. The two had been speaking quietly, but upon recognizing her, Fenrald made a point to raise his voice. "And speaking of those devils, here's their queen now." He looked equal parts angry and disgusted. "Baldur was wise to bring the moot here, where we cannot shed blood."

"Shut up, Fenrald," Sorli muttered. "Save it for the moot."

"Oh I'll have plenty more to say there, believe me."

"Fenrald was it?" Dales said, a dark look appearing on her face, "Jarl of Falkreath. Threatening the guests of the Grey Beards in these sacred halls? Tsk tsk, do you now know you're own customs?  Not that it matters anyways, I'm quite sure you would be dead a second before you drew your blade."

"Did you hear that?" The Jarl laughed, though there was no trace of humor in it. He glanced at Sorli, who seemed increasingly uncomfortable. "My people don't flinch as the girl rains fire on our home, and she has the gall to think she's frightening!" Looking back at Dales, he said, "I didn't threaten you, Empress. If I do, it will be much clearer."

"No, but you're Jarl surely did, when my old friend Lorgar Grim-Maw sent an arrow in his heart." Dales said, giving him a pleasant smile.

The fake amusement drained from Fenrald's face, to be replaced by something stuck between excitement and hatred. "Lorgar Grim-Maw," he repeated back to her. "Perhaps it's a good thing Baldur invited you after all, Imperial, for that is something I never thought I would learn."

"I'm glad I could be of some help, by telling you that dog killed him." She said, the smile still on her face, "Now if you'll excuse me good Jarl." She gave him a brief nod, before turning around to face his companion. She said, with a blank expression. "You must be Sorli, a pleasure."

"That's right," she answered. "And you're the Empress everyone seems to hate." Before Sorli could say another word, a grimacing Fenrald muttered something and stormed off. "... Especially him."

What a freak. And her. I can already tell she's a bitch. Dales kept the forced smile, "Hate is a very strong word. Perhaps, dislike is better? I'm sure you're a very respected Jarl." She said.

"As respected as one can become when ruling a backwater hold like Hjaalmarch." Sorli shrugged. "Still, it's not all bad. We understand not to spit in the eyes of potential friends, for instance."

"Of course, and are we potential friends, jarl?" Dales asked, "Or are you like the Jarl of Falkreath, who hates imperials with a burning passion."

"Hating Imperials was healthy when we were at war," replied the Jarl. "Now? I don't see the point. You're not the ones who want to kill us."

Need to be careful around her. If what Vignar said is true, then perhaps she's an opportunist. At the same time, if she's lying she can use my words as ammunition later. 

"Wise words. We are united against a common foe. Cooperation, I feel, will be the best way to defeat the Dominion in the coming months. Yet I hear you oppose Jarl Red-Snow." Dales asked, crossing her arms.

Sorli's eyes narrowed. "Did Black-Briar tell you that? I don't oppose Red-Snow. Got nothing against the man. It just so happens that I've got no reason to love him either. Jarl Brund, on the other hand, has done much to convince me that Skyrim would prosper under his rule."

“And what is that, if I may ask? I hear Jarl Brund has control over the wealthiest Hold in Skyrim. Do you worry about Skyrim's economy?"

An idea was forming in her head.

"Now I know you've been talking to Ingun," she muttered. "Whatever else that snake might've told you, it just so happens that I do care about our economy. And our safety. And I believe that Brund is best for both."

**** it fine. Let's do it Dales! 

The Empress smile grew, "Perhaps we can, speak privately in one of these side chambers?" Dales was uneasy, but when the iron is hot, you need to jump. "I have a...proposition for you, if you're willing to hear me out?"

"Oh?" Jarl Sorli's brow arched. "Well then, Empress, lead the way. I would never turn down a potential friend."

***

Roland watched the the Jarls mingle and talk amongst themselves, a sense of ease about them that he did not personally feel. The Empress had that same air about her before she left the room, and his grandmother was almost apathetic in her demeanor. It had been Lady Gaerhart who suggested they stick to the periphery of the moot and not hound the Jarls. Roland was hesitant at first, but after seeing the Jarl of Falkreath come storming into the room after an argument with the Empress outside, he realized staying quiet was the wisest choice.

Still, he was surprised at his own nerves. The nobles of High Rock did not make him feel like this. He'd grown up around them, though, and knew their false smiles and hidden glares like he knew the back of his hand. The Nords did not care for such tact, and whatever they lacked there they made up for tenfold with confidence. Even the newest Jarls, of Falkreath and Riften, seemed more suited to this moot than he did. It was something about the blunt Nordic manner, and the fact he was atop the world's tallest mountain, an unwanted foreign interloper, that made him feel so out of place.

But with the practiced manners that was the culmination of his life's education, he greeted Jarl Korir of Winterhold, who had practically strutted over to the Bretons. "It's nice to meet you, Jarl Korir. I'm Prince Roland, and this is my grandmother, Lady Gaerhart, and our Lord Admiral, Duke Theirry."

"Prince?" Jarl Korir looked disappointed. He then nodded to Duke Theirry. "I was just about to ask the man I thought to be your king how tough the climb was on a wooden leg."

Duke Theirry flashed a smile and said, "Years at sea have given me a good sense of balance. The seas are much crueler than some icy steps."

Lady Gaerhart, leaning over her ornate cane, gave a dismissive wave. "What he meant to say is that the litter they hauled me up here in moved slow enough he hardly climbed a mile a day. At that pace he needn't have any legs."

Roland couldn't help but smile at the Duke's expense, but Theirry had the good nature to laugh as well. The Jarl, however, did not seem to appreciate the jest.

"It is no small thing to make the climb M'lady, on two legs or ten. Your Admiral has proven stronger than the many who died trying the same." He regarded the wooden leg again. "Much stronger, I'd say."

Roland took on a more serious tone and said, "My father knew which men and women to put his faith in. Duke Thierry has proven himself more than worthy of commanding our ships. Making this climb only reinforces that."

"Thank you, Your Highness. And thank you, Jarl. Though, in truth, I had hoped to see High Admiral Red-Snow here," Thierry said. "When she and Jarl Red-Snow last visited our waters, they came upon some pirates. I made a concerted effort to rectify that problem, and was hoping I could show her the fruits of that labor."

"He means the tattered pirate flags he captured," Lady Gaerhart explained. "Nice ornaments for the tavern in that new town of theirs. And proof High Rock means to carry its weight."

"Fine ornaments indeed!" Korir grinned and clasped a large hand on Duke Theirry's shoulder, shaking it. "That is reassuring. It gives me faith that this alliance is not just talk, but something that can truly be done." His smile waned a little. "I must admit, I was not pleased at first to learn that you would be here. Nor those Redguards or Imperials. After I got over it, I found myself eager to meet the man who freed High Rock. Why couldn't your king make it?"

Duke Theirry said, "Preparations for our war effort needed his attention." 

Roland frowned a little at the real reason, the Daedric plague eating away at his family, and said, "And we recently had a vassal who allied with the Thalmor to attempt to remove our family. That needed dealt with as well."

"Truly?" The Nord's voice deepened with rage. "What kind of honorless cur would ally with the Thalmor even after they've been thrown back? Bah! The elves have poisoned our countrymen's minds. All the more reason why they must be crushed for good."

"You'll find High Rock in agreement," Roland said and gave a small smile. "We look forward to heading south to fight the Thalmor alongside you Nords. Alongside High King Red-Snow. Are we in agreement on that as well?"

"Red-Snow's victories do him credit," Korir replied, "But I don't know him, nor Brund neither. You'll find out if we're in agreement when I've heard the Jarls speak and measured their words and deeds myself."

"For what my words are worth," Roland said, then put on his best self-depreciating smile. "And I know how little Nords think of us foreigners. But for what my words are worth, I think Skyrim would do well to choose Baldur. I would not think to tell you what is best for your people, but for all our people, we will need a man like Red-Snow leading all of us against the Thalmor."

Unlike earlier, Roland felt much more at ease. Maybe it was falling back into the rhythm of politics that he knew so well from High Rock, but now he felt confident, and as if he was not so out of place here as he might've thought.

"Well said, Roland! Why, I imagine your father couldn't have put it better." This was High King Joleen, of Hammerfell, sporting the warmest thing he could find before his trip, a large spotted cat fur over his shoulders, and a suit of chainmail over a dark blue doublet.

"Sorry for butting in," said his son Jabreel. Running a hand through his long locks, he said, "Father often does this when no one is paying attention to him."

"Quiet you," said Jeleen. "We just got bored looking for something good to eat around here is all. Why didn't anyone think to bring some worthy refreshments to a meeting of kings?"

"Ha!" Korir's laugh came out as more of a bark. "I'm glad I'm not the only one. Half of Skyrim would give all they own to become a Greybeard, but I think most would take it back upon discovering that this place hasn't got a drop to drink!" The Jarl grinned. "Find me after the moot, Redguard. Whoever wins, we will celebrate Skyrim's new ruler in Ivarstead with meat and mead aplenty!"

Korir stated to leave, and then looked back at Roland. "And worry not, Prince. Whether it is Baldur or Brund who bears the mantle of King, trust that the Jarls would not choose either if he lacked the strength to fight elves." With that, the Jarl of Winterhold lumbered off to rejoin his countrymen.

"Good to know not all of the pale skins are stiff and grouchy! I was beginning to worry Baldur was the only Nord that knew how to smile! I like that one, what say we accept his invitation, Jabreel?" said Jeleen.

"You like anyone that offers you food. It's amazing you haven't been poisoned yet."
The Bretons all laughed at the joke, and Roland said, "It's been far too long, King Jeleen and Prince Jabreel. Your new titles suit you rather well, I'd say."

"Butcher is the correct title for this one. He's got no sense of subtlety or tact," said Jeleen.

"He's just mad that he didn't get to unite all of Hammerfell with the sweet honeysuckle dripping from his tongue. He was sure that he could convince the remaining stubborn kingdoms to fall under his banner. I wasn't."

"And so my hot headed son decided to go and assassinate those kings instead. Any of them that opposed me, ruining all the hard work I'd put into diplomacy."

"But it did work," added his son.

"For now. An alliance built on blood will not last. But hopefully it will last long enough to defeat the elves. You still have much to learn my boy. But still, I am proud of you all the same."

The young man tried to hide his smile, concealing it by flipping his dark brown locks. "Besides, assassination does take much subtlety and tact."

"And do assassins also subtlety announce to the world their deeds? All of Hammerfell wonder now if you're in cahoots with the Dark Brotherhood, of all people! As do I..." said Jeleen, scratching his hairless chin.

"If I were, they'd have already killed me for giving up my cover," said his son dismissively.

Roland wasn't sure what to make of this. Nobles in High Rock didn't talk this openly about such tactics. He knew it unlikely one would ever admit to something as mundane as blackmail unless under duress, much less act so nonchalant about assassination. He dismissed those thoughts for now and grinned. "Well, should we ever need someone taken care of, I suppose I now know who to write to."

"No, Roland, no you don't. Blasted Ra Gada, their over-confidence will be their undoing. Last thing you need, is an assassin that tells you of his kills. But, then, if Jabreel hadn't, then the last remaining kingdoms might not have been convinced of our strength. I envy these Nords. This moot, their politics. It seems far more simple."

"Less bloody, anyway," added Jabreel. "My method was simple. Though, a moot of our own would be nice, if we could ever agree on anything other than we hate elves. Even that isn't always enough."

"Their politics, and our own, led us to civil war. Thousands dead so we could achieve some sort of peace. I wonder sometimes if only a few dozen dead would've been the better option," Roland said. "Thankfully, it seems we've settled our problems for now. With my parents' council, I do not expect us to fight an internal war for quite some time."

"That reminds me, I wish your father had come. For one we had a bet on which one of us would be assassinated first. I imagine, that I've lost that bet. Of course, perhaps you are right. Less death is preferable, especially when we need as many warm bodies as we can muster for this war. You have your parent's' wisdom, without them anywhere around. I believe the next generation is in good hands. Lady Gaer-"

As Jeleen spoke, the very room seemed to be shaking, books in their cases and chairs rattling, followed by three hard knocks coming from High Hrothgar's doors.

"What in Aetherius was that?" said Jeleen, he and his son gripping their blades.

Roland reacted the same, but Lady Gaerhart placed a hand on his arm to stop him. In a low voice she said, "So, it is true." Speaking so the Redguards could hear, she added, "I believe one contender for the throne has arrived."

Brund Hammer-Fang, ex legion Legate, and the Demon Chieftain of the Reach, had arrived. 

"Where do these damn things even come from?" he said, standing atop the corpse of a frost troll that dwarfed even him. Alfr Vega wasn't suited to cutting their thick hides. His Hammer-Fang was the weapon of choice for such tasks, as the poor thing beneath him found out the hard way.

As he freed his weapon, Brund saw several other sets of eyes staring down at him from the rocks above. Hiding. Despite what the Grim Ones in Cyrodiil had claimed, even Frost Trolls knew when they were bested. 

They watched him still, as day became night, as the icy winds of the Throat of the World attempted to impede his path. And even as Brund walked the steps, wearing the skull of the creature Daric killed, it never occurred to him that the creatures might've felt agitated by the sight.

Or perhaps it did, and he just didn't give a ****. It made for a good strong helmet and he wasn't about to give it up.

"You fuckers can just keep coming, it makes for good practice!" he cried, shaking the earth around him as he roared, threatening to be swallowed up by mounds of falling snow. Even as they fell, Brund kept stomping his feet, roaring and daring the trolls to face him in combat once more. 

Boom, boom, boom... if they wouldn't come to him, the earth and snow would come to them. 

And it had, like oceans of white, a great bride's gown descending on them all from above, knocking them free from their perch. His own path was blocked now, but it mattered not. With a roar from his throat the snow and rock scattered, and Brund continued on his way. "Ugly *****, the lot of you," said Brund as he finished his salted horse meat.

It seemed that the mountain was bored of testing him now. The rest of the way was uneventful, and the great vistas of Skyrim from his vantage point seemed lost on him entirely, even as the great bands and ribbons of Aetherius danced across Skyrim's crisp night sky. He felt nothing for it, just as he felt not the cold.

He did take the time to read the stone etchings that decorated his path however.

                                                                    Emblem X 

               The Voice is worship; Follow the Inner path; Speak only in True Need.

"Get a load of this horse crap," said Brund. "I speak when I please, and see no gods stepping down to smite me. If anything, my voice is certainly a boon from them. I alone dictate my own path. And so it always has been, and so it always will be."

He highlighted this point with a butt from his troll skull, leaving a crack forever in the age old tablet.

Wasting no further time, Brund knocked on the doors to High Hrothgar, before stepping in himself, not waiting to be greeted.

Arngeir and his Greybeards were waiting for him as he entered, but he paid no attention to their presence, instead looking all around within their home, a grin on his ugly mug as he took off his helmet.

"Ahhh, at long last!" said Brund. "You've no idea how long I've awaited this meeting."

"The sentiment, is shared," said Arngeir with no humor or sweetness in his tone.

"Is that all you have to say to me?" he asked. "Hehehe, I am a guest in these halls, but I have not been permitted to enter just yet... I don't want to be rude..."

Arngeir bit his lip, and for a time it seemed as though he'd say nothing.

Brund cocked his head, licking his bottom lip. "Come now, don't be that way. I've come, in peace."

Arngeir refused even still, until his brothers gave him a look. Finally the old man gave in, eyes downcast as he waved his arm in the traditional greeting of the Greybeards.

"We recognize you as a guest in these holy halls. High Hrothgar... is open to you."

"That's what I was waiting to hear! We're practically brothers now, you and I. Tongues one and all!" Brund highlighted his point by flailing his tongue back and forth in front of Arngeir. Placing a hand on his shoulder, he said, "I pray that you taught him well. He's a violent man, you know. Dangerous letting someone like that go unchecked with the voice."

His laughter filled every inch of the room, reverberating from stone to stone, and filling every part of Arngeir's mind. His every step was a transgression, and he felt each step like a stab in his soul.

As Brund further explored High Hrothgar, he came across Galmar Stone-Fist himself, nursing a bottle of mead he brought on his own. He remembered from his last visit the lack of good spirits.

"You salty old dog. I did not expect to see you..."

"Nor I you, Brund. You've come a long way, haven't you?" said Galmar.

"Hehehehehe... You can say that. Have you come to accept me as your king?"

"The only King I'll ever accept is one bearing the name of Stormcloak," said Galmar, spitting at his feet. "You and I are no longer brothers without that understanding. So piss off, before this gets ugly."

Brund knelt down to his eye level. "Who says it hasn't already, eh? If getting fucked by our dead king is a requirement to rule, then Elisif is as much qualified to rule, but you know better than that."

"Save it for the moot, Hammer-*****. A rock with Ulfric's seed dribbled upon it is more fit to rule than you, or Red-Snow. Ash-King, Demon Chieftain... MY SACK!"

Brund grinned to his old mentor and said, "Perhaps I should've taken the mantle of Bear of Markarth? We all enjoy our titles, don't we. Anyway, you cling to your dead friend. Perhaps I'll have another one for you in the near future..."

"Ulfric cared for you. Cared for everyone in Skyrim. He was the perfect king for this land. He loved his brothers and sisters. Loved them all."

Brund didn't stop to hear Galmar continue and said under his breath, "And that, was his undoing..."

Finally, Brund was amongst all the Jarls of Skyrim. The most powerful and influential people in the entire kingdom. A man like him would feel humbled in their presence, for these men and women would decide the fate for every last Nord from this day on.

None of them mattered in the slightest to Brund. 

Not this black haired bitch he knew nothing about, not Korir, not... whoever the **** that was...

Looking around, Brund hadn't seen Skald. Perhaps this man or the girl was a stand in for the old fart. It mattered not. No one wanted to see him shit himself anyway. Another equally old fart he passed by earlier, but he said nothing to him, merely left him to his book. So many unfamiliar faces stared back at him now, like the trolls that dared block his path. All except...

"And look, it's Baldur's ragtag group of milkdrinkers. And.. ahhh Elisif," said Brund as he smiled, revealing his yellowed teeth. He approached her, arms raised as though he owned the place. He grabbed her by her hair, and stuck his tongue down her throat, then took his seat beside her, opposite of where Baldur sat, and exactly where the last Dragonborn had once sat the last time Elisif was in these honored halls.

The irony did not escape her. She did not look at him, sealing herself away in her mind, where a piece of Torygg still dwelt. This is where she stayed on her night with Ulfric, and her night with Brund. It served her well, but the time for hiding was gone.

The moot was about to start.

In the recesses of the Greybeards’ outer halls, a dark haired woman stood with hands on the shoulders of a tall, solemn girl. “Stay here. It will be over soon and we’ll go home.” Veleda kissed Sofie on the forehead and left her to her books.

The former queen had heard the rumbling and raving, and she knew what it was. The stories had passed along from Reachmen to other ears including hers. With a nod to Galmar, she steeled herself and entered the hall with him, while Sofie crept along behind, unseen.

Inside, Veleda met the eyes of each jarl, gave a half nod to the Ra Gada and Bretons and what she surmised was the empress of Cyrodiil. Her black dress, trimmed with sable fur, showed clearly the line of her rounded stomach. She wore an ebony circlet set with amber stones and her cloak bore the embroidery of a Stormcloak bear, but the only other adornment she wore was the sigil of her husband’s house burned into her hand. Her eyes were dark-rimmed and her cheeks reddened from the exertion of the frigid descent from the Time Wound.

Veleda’s eyes barely skimmed the figure of Elisif before resting on Brund. That was a long look, too long for politeness. “Jarl Hammer Fang. Brothers. I greet you.” With that the former queen took a seat at the middle of the table next to Galmar, and glanced over at the last empty chair.

Dales remained as silent as the crypt as her frosty eyes lingered on the man. A...chill, went down her spine, as she felt...something. It wasn't dark magic, but a feeling of familiarity. This man made her feel the same way as she did in her father's presence. I understand now. Baldur had said little about Brund Hammer-Fang to her, but the she-elfs words rang true. As if a crawling chaos, Dales felt very uncomfortable around him. Her stomach twisted in even more disgust at his treatment of his bride to be. Clarity filled her. This...man, was just like her father. And was just as dangerous to Tamriel as he was. But to her horror, she knew, even as the Empress of Cyrodiil, she could do nothing.

It was all in Baldur's hands now. 

She had done all she could for her friend. Now it was the time to remain silent. 

The Empress gripped her amulet of Auriel tightly, as she thought, sitting in her chair away from the main group. I've never asked anything from you. I beseech thee, Lord Auriel, protect Baldur. His fate is tied with the fate of Cyrodiil, and all though who dwell within in.

The horrible feeling remained within. Until...it was consumed by darkness. Her amulet shone invisible, blue light. A voice whispered in her mind, "Light can be as dangerous as darkness, my knight. But I am here for you, as I promised. I'll always be here for you...." 

Was Dales now hearing voices? 

"If things get out of hand. Whisper sweet honey words to me. As the bells tolls, I shall come."  The voice snickered, "I am yous. And you are mine." 

Dales choose not to speak to the voice, as she waited for this accursed gathering to begin. Unsure, if Baldur could beat this darkness.

 

***

By Mother Kyne's Mountains, Her Seas and Glades, sharpen my tongue and quicken my blade,

Over the fields, knee deep in snow, guide my hand for the killing blow,

Bold and true I stand a Nord, a child of Kyne, a soldier of Shor,

And if I die, my soul, don't discard. So that I may see Ragna one day, in Sovngarde.

It's been quite the journey, hasn't it? We've been through alot, you and I. And we may still yet. But if not, know that I love you, and I'll miss what we shared. Wish me luck... 

Paarthurnax watched the yellow haired nord sit for hours on end, first at the time tear itself, and then where Paarthurnax once revealed the words of Yol Toor Shul to the Dragonborn. In truth, Paarthurnax never understood the ways of the Greybeards. The ways of the Joor, their Way of the Voice was not his own. Even so, he gave the man his silence and peace, saving Tiinvaak for another time.

Baldur stood finally, when the tremors from below even reached the heights of the Throat of the World. It seemed that the time had finally come for him to leave. 

"Yol be with you, Ashen One. Breath, and focus."

Baldur responded in kind with a smile and a wave of his hands in the traditional Greybeard way and then descended to High Hrothgar. The Moot had finally come.

***

"Baldur Red-Snow, and Brund Hammer-Fang, the last Jarls to arrive. They are both finally here, and we may now begin the Moot. Baldur Red-Snow has taken a vow of silence, until the votes have been passed. May the gods be his judge, as well as the Jarls of Skyrim. May your judgement be honest and true."

With that, Arngeir sat the fabled Jagged Crown on a pedestal beside the meeting table. "Yol!" said Arngeir, his thu'um lighting the fire at the table's center anew. Worry was all over his aged and weary face. Even he now wondered if what he'd done was the right call. Meeting a man like Brund would do that to you.

Brund himself was tickled with amusement. Baldur Red-Snow, unable to speak? The minstrel? It was a dream come true for him. The gods judged true indeed, and they apparently weighed and measured the Ash-King, and found him wanting.

He was all smiles until Baldur finally stepped into the room, wearing nothing but the simple robes of the Greybeards themselves, his hair being the only feature that stood out, aside from his stature and height. Somehow silence had granted him an air of authority Brund never thought he had before. He was a silly man more times than not.

But now, he was something else. Someone else. His rival and blood enemy from a bygone era. All Brund saw was the face of Ulrin Red-Snow, silent, mocking. And it filled his heart with rage.

Their eyes locked, and a low growl escaped Brund's throat. Baldur's own hands locked onto the edge of the stone table right across from him. The table seemed to stir, vibrating from the intensity of Brund's gaze and his growl as he stood. The air about him cold.

Elisif felt this cold before, and it was the only thing colder than even the freezing hell that was her heart. The only thing that brought her back was the look in Red-Snow's eyes. His own gaze was as hard as Brund's, though nothing shook on his end at all. 

What those near him did notice however was the odd rise in temperature, even for the fires lit by the Greybeards. Elisif wiped her brow, no longer feeling Brund's chill, until Arngeir put a hand on Baldur's shoulders.

"Please, be seated Jarl Hammer-Fang. Everyone. Let us begin."

The Empress felt the heat. Like that of a Dragon. And with it, her valor returned. The young girl's own icy eyes narrowed, as she thought, Come on Baldur. This fucker is nothing. You can win this. I have faith in you.

"Fellow Jarls," Vignar Gray-Mane spoke up, his rough voice resonating around the room. "It has been a long journey for all of us, and it is not one made lightly. This place is too damn high up for that..." A few people chuckled, but the Jarl of Whiterun remained serious, and they quickly followed in suit. "So I won't mince words. I came here to pledge my axe to the man who has fought for us, who has led us against our enemies time and time again." He reached to his hip and drew a splendid war-axe of Skyforged steel, and then pointed it at Baldur. "Baldur Red-Snow does not need to speak to earn Whiterun's loyalty. He did that long ago!"

Vignar dropped his axe onto the table, where it clattered in front of Baldur. Though its echo had not even died before Jarl Fenrald's voice filled the hall. "Tell me, Vignar, did Red-Snow earn your loyalty when he torched Falkreath's farms, or when he aligned with the ones who destroyed our homes and tried to remove our god?"

"After," Vignar answered. "We haven't met, Fenrald, but everyone here who knows me also knows that I've no love for the Empire. But acting on old grievances will get us nowhere. Not when we have a greater enemy in the elven lands."

"You call them old grievances, but the way I see it," Fenrald drew his axe and pointed it at Dales, "there stands my greatest enemy." He turned, and tossed the weapon in front of Brund.

Brund grabbed the axe before him, eyeing it the way a babe might a new toy. Looking at Baldur, he waved it at him, grinning from ear to ear. Baldur's face remained unchanged.

"I thank you, Fenrald for your wise decision. Though, let's get something clear. I intend to usher in a golden age for this land. It will be gold, because there'll be a new skin rug in every home for each Altmer I kill. That, is my first goal. That said, you are correct. I remember Ulfric once telling us, and that includes my comrade there staring at me so hard... to 'Never forget! Never forget!' And I promise all of you..." Pointing a clawed gauntlet finger at Baldur, he said, "Brund never forgets."

At those harsh accusations, Dales considered remaining silent, but she felt she couldn't. 

"I did not know Ulfric Stormcloak. He surely had no love for me, like Jarl Greymane" The Empress said, scratching her chin, "But what I did know was he wanted trade, and close military cooperation with Cyrodiil. You go against that, you go against Ulfric. With an Empire, that wasn't an Empire like the ones before it. At the same token, I doubt if you hate me, you'll even believe my words, so I won't waste them." She paused, "Then hear this. The Dominion marshals its forces while we're on this mountain. They don't care. They'll put us all to the sword. Dislike the Empire all you want, but the real enemy is to the south of Cyrodiil. Humanity needs to be united, not divided." 

And with that, the Empress fell silent. 

Baldur eyes her. He wasn't angry, but the Nord's eyes looked...pleading. As if to say, "Be a little more quiet girl!" Dales rolled her eyes, but did a quick, curt nod to him.

Brund stood next, noticing Baldur's look. With a sly smile he gave Baldur a look of his own. Looking to the Empress of Cyrodiil directly next, Brund decided to test her temperament. 

"Speak, when spoken to, carpet licking wench. This is a moot of Nords. You lot, are guests. Act like it."

Baldur continued to look at Dales, slowly shaking his head.

Dales remained silent, and her face unemotive.

Baldur seemed relieved, meanwhile Brund was amused. As he sat back down, Arngeir stood awkwardly, clearing his throat. "The other Jarls have the floor."

"The Empress spoke true," declared Ingun Black-Briar. She looked at Fenrald, "We are still recovering from two wars and yes, our homes have suffered -Riften knows what that's like as well as anyone- but we can't afford to look for enemies in the past. We need to focus on rebuilding and preparing for the future."

"A future where we ignore those who wronged us," growled Fenrald. "Who only stopped wronging us when we forced them to! I'm not afraid of some elves on the other side of the world. The only time they threatened us was when the Imperials made it possible."

 

[Witchking of Angmar]

 

The Moot: Part 2

 

"Aye," said Jarl Korir. "If the Thalmor are a danger to Cyrodiil, then it would make sense for the Empress to want us on her side against them. That doesn't mean that we should share in her fears."

"Have you already forgotten what happened to Windhelm?" Ingun asked. "To Ulfric? The Thalmor are a threat to everyone, not just Cyrodiil."

Others nodded in agreement, but Fenrald held strong. "I remember stories about a ship made of sunlight leading a fleet to assault the city. I also remember that they were defeated that same day. Skyrim's enemies have tried to take her from us since the days of Ysgramor's sons. And they have always failed. The only time in four eras that elves have ruled us was when our leaders became cowardly enough to rely on Cyrodiil."

"I do not think that Jarl Baldur intends for us to rely on Cyrodiil." Jarl Skald's brother, the man called Vrage, spoke up. "Granted, it is hard to know for certain, given his decision to remain silent."

Baldur smiled at that, apparently amused by it all, when he probably should've been worried.

"Perhaps he thinks himself a Greybeard," said Brund, annoyed by this. "Perhaps he should stay up here then. Leave the fighting to me."

"Perhaps he thinks you'll win this for him with your jokes," stated Vrage. "Tell us, Jarl Brund, what do you offer Skyrim besides "skin rugs" and a promise that you never forget? Right now, it seems that Fenrald knows something that I don't. Do you intend to maintain the alliance with Cyrodiil if you are named High King?"

"Firstly..." Brund chucked something at Arngeir of all people. Surprisingly the old man was quick enough to catch it. It was a pouch full of coin. Silver coins to be exact. Arngeir considered throwing it back but thought better of it. 

"I appreciate this generous donation to High Hrothgar and accept it graciously," said Arngeir.

"Thank the Forsworn slaves I have working extra hard to fund this little war of ours," said Brund. "And secondly, yes. I don't disagree with Baldur's bringing the Imps to heel. In fact, I applaud your little dog trick, Red-Snow. But you should've let your pets stay home. You left your wife, after all. But this alliance came at too easy a cost on part of the Imperials."

Baldur's eyebrows raised before biting his lip. He was also gripping Vignar's axe like it was the only thing keeping him in his seat.

"Your silver didn't help Riften when bandits reduced it to ashes," Ingun said to Brund. "When our people were scattered and homeless, our lands plagued by bandits and the Thalmor, it was Jarl Baldur who sent aid. He defended us in our time of need, even just after his own city was attacked and none would have blamed him for ignoring us. It wasn't his obligation, it was his choice."

She drew her own axe now, and placed it on the table beside Baldur's clenched fist. "For that, the Rift will stand behind Baldur Red-Snow." She gave Baldur a smile. "And I pledge my axe to him till the day Sovngarde greets us."

"Jarl Baldur's defense of the Rift said a lot," stated Korir. "But Jarl Brund makes a good point as well. I sympathize with Falkreath every bit as much as I do the Rift. We bled for the Imperials, and our reward was that damned concordat and more war. In the end, the cost for it all was too easy." His face softened, "But what's done is done... Vrage, where do you stand?"

"You know damned well that I stand here in place of my brother," replied Vrage. "Dawnstar's axe remains with Dawnstar. Unless I learn that Jarl Skald stopped breathing during my journey here, I maintain his claim to the throne."

Every one of the Jarls laughed at that, none louder than Brund. Even Baldur closed his eyes and seemed to try and stifle the chuckles. At last, of all people, it was Galmar Stone-Fist who interrupted the laughter. "I'm no Jarl, but were I, I'd sooner drop my axe before Elisif. At least she can swing it." He glanced at Ulfric's first wife. "Ehhhh, on second thought, maybe not..."

Elisif showed fire in her eyes for the first time that night. She moved to stand and speak, but felt Brund's glare on her without even meeting his eyes. When she leaned back, Brund said, "I'm not the only Jarl that likes his jokes it seems. Let's be serious. We know which Jarls this moot is for..."

"Aye," agreed Vrage, "I think we do." He turned and looked to the foreigners. First to Roland, then Jeleen, and lastly Dales. "You came here at Baldur's behest, not to seat a puppet as has happened before, but to show that you are willing to allow Skyrim to lead your alliance if Baldur is at its helm. Why?"

"I thought better of you," Fenrald said. "Is there a Nord in this room that can take a shit without asking foreigners for their opinion?"

Vrage ignored him and nodded to Roland. "You first, Prince. Why does High Rock support an alliance led by this man?"

Roland, seated against the wall, stood and looked over the Nords seated at the table. "I am here on behalf of my parents, who have their own reasons for supporting Baldur. But their reasons are not mine. I support him because of what the citizens of Windhelm said about him and his valiant defense of mankind's first city. I support him because I saw the dead Thalmor hanging from the trees in the Rift. And I support him because it was his meetings, with the Redguards and my late grandfather King Gaerhart, that forged this alliance. To stand not only against the Thalmor, but against Cyrodiil. If we are to defeat the Thalmor, we will need a mind as sharp and an arm as strong as his leading us. And that is why High Rock supports Jarl Red-Snow." Prince Roland nodded at Baldur and sat back down.

"Baldur Red-Snow wasn't the only one defending mankind's first city," said Brund. "It was my thu'um that allowed us to reach the Sunbirds, and cause them to rout. Alas, this was not as well known. Because the minstrel here has a talent for... theatrics. But in any case, it doesn't matter. Ingun brought up that Baldur went off to defend the Rift not out of obligation, but that's not necessarily true... You lot have faulty memories it seems. It was his so called brother that burned down Riften in the first place, allowing the Thalmor a safe haven to retreat to. Of course he defended your home, he felt guilty! So maybe you shouldn't be so quick to smile for him and pledge your allegiance."

Turning to Roland, he said, "And you shouldn't be so quick to speak on matters you know nothing about. You might've seen the bodies, but it was I that helped make them."

A few seconds passed as the Jarls waited for the Prince to respond, but he made no effort to do so, seemingly knowing better than to insert himself into their debate. At last, it was Vignar who broke the silence. "Baldur is not responsible for the burning of Riften. The man behind it it was one of my own. He was kinless, and not tied to Windhelm or Kyne's Watch in any way. If anyone at this table deserves blame for his actions, it is I."

"And if anyone has the right to place that blame, it is I," said Ingun. She looked at Brund. "Baldur owed us nothing, and if guilt is what drove him to aid us then so be it. This only proves that he is not a heartless ruler."

Baldur didn't seem to hear the words of the Jarls, or even care. The second Brund started talking about Boldir was the second that he stood to his feet. 

"What, Red-Snow? Got something to say? No? Well too bad," said Brund, visibly annoyed. He had to bite his lip to fight his urge to strangle him right then and there, and the Black-Briar bitch too. And the old man. In fact, blood was trickling from his bottom lip as he and Baldur locked eyes.

"Baldur might not have anything to say, but I do," said Jeleen.

"Father..." 

"Hush, Jabreel. I am a High King myself. I'll not wait my turn to speak like some dog. Hear me, Nords of Skyrim. I have earned the right to speak at this moot and say my piece, by right of blood spilled together by your side. Does anyone here challenge this claim?"

Everyone looked at Brund and Fenrald, though while the former still glared at Baldur, the latter frowned. "I kept silent while the Imperial girl pratted out more words than two of the claimants, and now you think I'll challenge the right of a man whose people fought beside me? Damn you all." He shook his head and faced Jeleen. "If any Jarl has a problem with you speaking, then they have a problem with me as well."

"Good!" said Jeleen, grinning from ear to ear with his hands clasped to his gut. He had to pause a moment... he wasn't expecting the Jarls to let him talk without at least a grumble.

Clearing his throat several times, he said, "This moot is a formality, isn't it? Fair enough, I don't know this Brund, I didn't have the chance to meet Veleda here in person, and when I met the Red-Snows, she was not yet Queen anyway. But by your gods, Nords, this isn't even hard. Baldur Red-Snow and his wife, they are the ones that earned my trust. I sent them on what seemed like a lost cause, a false hope. A doomed mission. You think you Nords are stubborn, try the Alik'r, or any deep desert war chieftain of Hammerfell. Not only did they manage to convince the Alik'r to ally with me, they also somehow managed to get them to hate their chieftain afterwards... he hated this man so much he attempted to kill him at a negotiating table, and failed. After that the Red-Snows marched back into my palace with most of Hammerfell promised to me on a silver platter..."

Jeleen seemed to be playing the moment back in his mind. "He risked his life to make this work. He and his wife. As a warrior, not just some soft handed politician. He even impressed the current Alik'r chieftain with how quickly he dispatched the former. And this isn't just an alliance to fight elves, but any foreign power that wishes to ruin our hard earned independence. Or otherwise, I'd not be sitting next to the likes of... her." Jeleen pointed behind him at Dales. "Rather, she'd be missing a head instead and I'd be going home with a trophy. Fenrald. I respect your stance, I do. I myself was disappointed when I heard the Nords allied with the Imperials instead of doing what we sent our Ra Gada to do. Kill them to the last man and woman. But, even I admit this is better. Falkreath has suffered, true. But the alternative could be elves telling you directly when you can piss and shit, or borrowing your wife on weeks end directly, instead of indirectly through weak southerners. And I can tell you one thing. That man you stand with? Would have never gained our support to defend Falkreath."

Brund shook his head the entire time Jeleen spoke, but he let him finish. Even he did not wish to show him disrespect.

"You have no idea how many elves, countless amounts of elves I killed defending your home in the Great War, Redguard. You wound and dishonor me with your words."

"And I thank you for your hand in defending it," said Jeleen, frowning. "But I know a king when I see one, versus a common butcher. It's what I've been trying to explain to my son. A King must be a warrior and diplomat both, or that King will bring only war to his kingdom and nothing else."

"I've heard enough," stated Vrage. Turning to Baldur, he said, "I do not know what kind of man you are, but from all these words from royals and esteemed Jarls, it seems clear that you are the only man to lead this alliance, and that is what Skyrim needs right now."

"Agreed," Korir said. "I do not believe that we are as threatened by the elves as these foreigners would have us believe, but if we are to march against them regardless, then I would have our king be the one who is at the head of it all. Besides, the Old Holds have always stood together on such matters. I'll not be the one to break the tradition."

The two men drew their axes, and as they tossed them onto the pile, Jarl Sorli stood and did the same, saying, "A High King with ties to so many rulers can only bring fortune to Skyrim." She glanced at Dales and retook her seat. "Sorry, Brund."

"It seems the Moot has chosen it's champion." Dales gave a self satisfied, and as she would say, "shit-eating grin", just as she said with faux politeness, "It's seems, my good JARL Brund, that the gods have ordained you to follow Baldur Red-Snow again, as you always have."

Elisif seemed more upset than Brund did at that moment, fighting back tears whilst Brund feigning anger soon gave in to smirking slightly. Though now it was his turn to grip his weapon, so hard in fact that the creak of the wood and steel under his grasp was audible.

Before anyone could say another word however, Galmar Stone-Fist stood, slamming his own steel hammer into the table before him.

"I've had enough of the lot of you."

"You take issue with our decision?" Vrage asked.

"You're damned right I do," said Galmar. "Not an ounce of loyalty between the lot of you! Ulfric Stormcloak is not dead, he lives on in the child of Veleda Fire-Hand! She is the rightful Queen of Skyrim! Not Baldur, and certainly not Brund either! Both of you, fighting over his legacy like wolves surrounding an elk carcass. It's despicable. And you..."

Galmar pointed a finger at Baldur. "Before his body was even cold claiming his wife's seat? Screw you, Red-Snow. You were there the day we all decided she was the perfect candidate. You know damn well Ulfric desires her to rule in his stead. We all did! Now you claim to be Wulfharth's incarnate to steal the seat. And you!" Galmar pointed to Arngeir. "You and these 'holy men', you help him do it? Ulfric was your student first! You were a father to him! Screw you the most!"

Arngeir was quiet for the majority of the moot, and truly surprised at the direction it had gone without Baldur having even echoed a word. But now his face was not of shock or surprise, but woe.

"What the gods reveal to us has nothing to do with us. I have not interfered or claimed anything, I've only allowed the gods to show favor by judgement of the Jarls, without the influence of even Baldur's speech."

"Oh stuff it! Show some gods damned loyalty! Baldur didn't need to speak anyway when he had this lot to do it for him! We are supposed to be better than Imperials and Bretons. From where I stand, none of you are any different."

"I too was the rightful Queen of Skyrim, Galmar. You didn't have any problem replacing me then. Why now should this be any different?" said Elisif, smiling plainly at his anger.

"Because unlike Veleda Fire-Hand, you are nothing but a cowardly whore, letting yourself be used in such a way..." Galmar was eying Brund now, who again only smiled and licked his lips. 

Bursting out of her seat, Elisif said, "I am NOT a whore! I still serve Torygg in my heart! I still serve Solitude! I-." Elisif sat back down, trying to hold her tongue, and tears as best she could. "I am doing the best I can in his absence. Someone must see that Solitude's wealth be returned to Solitude."

"Whatever," said Galmar, dismissing her entirely. "Veleda, please," he said. "Show them why we believed in you."

The former queen of Skyrim stood up. "Brothers. None of you greeted me, nor have you asked my opinion, which is why I have held it until you each had your say. I am no longer a jarl, and a Moot is for the jarls. For the jarls." At this Veleda gave Baldur a withering glance. "Yet I do have something to say, if you will permit me. Many here today have held forth about what Ulfric would do or what he would want, even the leader of Cyrodiil, who had better held her tongue on the subject. I believe I can speak to that subject."

She turned to address the foreigners. "First to our guests. Ulfric and I would have gladly welcomed any one of you in our hall, but I do not gladly see you here now, in our holy place and at a moot. Your very presence taints whatever decision comes out of this assembly, leaves it open to challenge. Yet that fault is not yours. Prince Roland, I was glad to meet your father. My daughter, Ulfric’s appointed heir, has followed his rise with great interest. Noble Ra Gada, you showed all of us the way, and you came to Skyrim’s aid in Falkreath though we had not come to yours in Hegathe, to our shame. Dales Draconus, if Cyrodiil is ready to help allay the grievous harm your country did to ours, if you've put aside your faithless ways, then I'm happy to fight alongside the legion once again. Please give my regards to High General Gracchus. I betrayed his trust, but I relied on his example in battle after battle for Skyrim’s freedom."

"I did not know Ulfric as long as many in this room, but I knew his mind at the end. We spent many days and nights talking about the kind of Skyrim that we hoped to build. I knew his plans, and his fears." Veleda paused, looking around the room at the faces before her. For a moment they swam, and she could imagine that one of them belonged to her husband. It was not wholly an illusion. He looked down on her from Sovngarde now. One day she would have to answer to him for what she did, and what she did not do. Placing a hand on her stomach, she went on, "I accepted the honor of being Ulfric's queen for the sake of Skyrim’s future. Yet we are not imperials. A High King or Queen earns that right not because of title or inheritance, but because of deeds. Sofie knows it, and it's what I'll teach our child who will never meet his great father. For this reason, I make no claim now to Skyrim’s throne." She held out her hand to keep Galmar from coming out of his seat, and went on before his sputtering could form words, or before she could lose her nerve.

"Jarl Brund Hammer Fang." Veleda turned to him. "In one year you managed to achieve a peace in the Reach that neither the empire nor the kings of Skyrim ever could. Perhaps someday you’ll share with us in greater detail how you managed to accomplish what others before you could not, and how you managed to become jarl. For now, you have allowed us confidence that the Reachmen will not take advantage of another war. We all owe you a debt of gratitude."

"Baldur Red-Snow. You sit on a seat that has belonged to the family of Ulfric Stormcloak for generations. You usurped his title, his lands, and you use his name and seal. As Galmar rightly charged, you did all this before his body was even cold and before I or my daughter could return to make any claim. I cannot say that Ulfric would have approved of the way in which you took his seat."

She took a breath, then went on, "Yet I do not think he would have disapproved of the jarls’ choice. You had Ulfric's trust. He relied upon you time and again not only for the might, but the cunning that a High King of Skyrim requires. Skyrim cannot afford a war of succession while the Dominion threat looms. You are the one Ulfric would want to take up his seat and his cause, for the sake of all our children." Veleda removed a sword from her belt and held it up. "The sword of Queen Freydis, Ulfric’s bride gift to me." Fire-Hand had no vote, so she didn’t add the sword to the pile of axes in front of Baldur, but did place it on the table in front of her, with the point towards him. Leaning on it, the former queen gripped the hilt so hard it turned her knuckles white, and her eyes burned as she held Baldur’s. Make it mean something.

Brund raised out of his seat so quickly that it fell to the floor behind him. And these were stone chairs. Arngeir grimaced at the destruction of their property, between Brund and Galmar both, the latter of which was bowing his head in defeat.

Brund on the other hand still held defiant. "I think it's time I-,"

"ENOUGH."

It was Baldur who finally spoke, also standing once again before slamming his hands on the pile of axes before him. Every Jarl's eyes were on him, stunned silent by the sudden sound of his voice.

"The moot is over. I am High King of Skyrim. Now I will speak, and you will listen."

Brund did not like that at all, and evidently neither did Elisif. "This isn't over yet, Baldur Red-Snow!"

"You're damned right it isn't!" cried Brund.

"Tiiiiinvaak! Onikaan.... UTH!"

When Baldur's thu'um left his throat, Brund's clenched hands went straight to his head, as if trying to block out Baldur's words.

"Get out of my head, you *****! What is the meaning of this?!" 

"I said I will speak, and you will listen. Jarls of Skyrim, can you understand my words?"

The Jarls were clearly shaken. Most of them had never witnessed the thu'um in person, and those who had did not expect it now, not from the man who'd spent so long in silence. At last, it was not a Jarl, but Vrage who spoke, his voice stricken with awe. "Aye, my king. We can understand you."

Fresh from her false declaration, Veleda's eyes narrowed at the thu'um and Baldur's question. She had spoken her piece, however, and kept silent now. Taking her seat, she laid a hand on the sword and seemed unmoved by anything further going on around her. From the entrance, Sofie still peered in, watching the proceedings.

Dales was clearly surprised, but not frightened even if she couldn't understand him. Her cocky smile, turned into a full, sadistic, grimace, as she felt a tinge of pleasure. Her efforts hadn't been in vain, and she was sure now, her faith had been well placed. Baldur would be high king, and all would be well. She, however, knew it was a time to be silent, and let the Nordic tongue speak.

Baldur met Veleda's eyes first. He felt her hate more clearly than any other sensation he felt now. As if that sword pointing at him were running him through worse than her glare. He knew that was the point.

He was speaking as the High King now... that realization hadn't dawned on him fully, the idea that this was really happening. That he'd be the one to follow in Ulfric's footsteps.

As Baldur spoke, Elisif sobbed, the sound of the thu'um and the memories of Torygg's death and the realization that she failed yet again too much for her to handle. Brund was beginning to recover, so Baldur began quickly.

"First of all, Veleda's words leave me humbled, truly. She has proven to be one of the strongest women I've ever met. And for that, I request here today that should I die in battle, or my time as king comes to an end, that Veleda Fire-Hand be made my successor. I have no desire to rob the Stormcloak line of their birthright. I sought to be king and took action so quickly out of necessity. And I will continue to. Of course, it is not the obligation of the Jarls to honor such a request, but let it be known regardless. Now..."

Baldur turned to Falkreath and Solitude's Jarls respectively. "You do not have the information that I have on the dominion, so I do not blame you for not fearing the possibility of elven rule in these lands. You will soon be made aware, for I would have our Jarls fight by my side if they are willing. The old grudges, pettiness and spitefulness, they end here. The elves attacked our home in the heart of our land, and for that, we will march. And we will not stop until we've returned the favor tenfold. I am not telling you to forgive the Imperials, but you will work with them. The Elves have reclaimed their power of old, and the Nords will be at the helm to send them back where they belong. No one will stand in the way of our victory. My children and yours will be safe from elven influence, or all of Skyrim will go hand in hand to Sovngarde trying. Am I clear?"

"Yes," said Vignar and Ingun.

"Aye," said Korir and Vrage.

Sorli the Builder nodded, and Fenrald remained silent, but made no effort to argue.

"That goes for you too, Elisif and Brund," said Baldur. "Even you must admit this is a more pressing issue than whatever it is between you, and I."

"Whatever it is between you, and I?" said Brund. His face was red and he was perspiring but was otherwise fine. He raised his hammer, and showed it to him, the blood of troll and Breton still caked between and around its steel spikes. 

"What you and I have is a blood feud. Know whose blood this is?"

Baldur couldn't breathe, and gave no response. His heart was pounding so powerfully he thought it might cease to beat entirely. He felt as though the spikes had pierced his chest right then and there. 

"Yes... you understand now, don't you?" said Brund, smiling. "Holy ground, High-King. Remember what the Grey-Beards taught you!"

"B-Bru-.." Baldur's eyes were wild with hate, swimming in tears. The heat from before returned as his mouth began to form the words...

"Baldur, don't!" said Arngeir. 

"ZUN HAAL VIIK." The words themselves weren't spoken loudly, but the echo reverberated off the hall's high ceiling. In an instant Brund's weapon was torn from his hands and flung against the wall behind him, falling with a thunk.

Veleda followed up her disarm shout with a warning. "Respect the Moot's decision, Jarl Hammer Fang. Respect these halls. Or you will be made to."

"Insolent bitch, know your place!" said Brund, punching the table and leaving cracks in the stone. The thu'um from her caught him off guard... how many did Ulfric train in his absence...

"It is you who have forgotten your place, Hammer-Fang!" Vignar said in a raised voice.

"Stay out of this, all of you! Brund, tell me whose blood that is!" said Baldur.

"I'll tell you, soon enough," said Brund, clenching his fist repeatedly to combat the throbbing from Veleda's shout. "Elisif. Give me my hammer."

Elisif wiped her face, but stayed in her place, unsure of what to do. Things were beginning to get out of hand, and she was unsure how much further she could stand to go...

"Stay where you are, Elisif," said Baldur. "Unless you'd like to be charged with treason as well."

"Oho that's rich!" said Brund with a knowing smile. "Do as I said, bitch! Or end up like your dead husband!"

For that, Elisif finally ceased her sniveling, slowly getting up and inching towards Brund's weapon and namesake.

"How far. How far will you go to drive Torygg's name through the dirt?" said Baldur. His shout had worn off now, and Elisif seemed as though she could think clearly again. She continued her path...

"Tinvaak Onikaan Uth!" said Baldur, following with a command. "Diin!"

She froze in place. Diin. Freeze. Stop. She heard the words clearly, and obeyed. She didn't feel forced to listen. She wanted to stop. To simply do nothing. She missed the days when that's all she had to do. Watch Torygg work and be there by his side, his loving support. 

But he was dead, and she had to pick up the slack. Shaking her head until it was clear, Elisif kept moving. "I am not dragging his name through the dirt. You lot have already done that."

"You miss him. I understand. But what you are doing here? Helping him? And for what, because I hurt your feelings? Because of some misguided feeling of saving Solitude? You wish to save Solitude, then cease this... desperation and go home. Prepare your people for war and stop being such a coward," said Baldur. 

"I AM NOT A COWARD!"

"DREH NII!" said Baldur.

"Prove it..." said Elisif, as if acknowledging his words. "How do I do that..."

"Do as I said before," said Baldur. "Stop this. Stop putting Skyrim at risk for your sorrow. Prepare your hold, or go see Torygg. As you should have, long ago."

Elisif didn't say anything to that. For a time she simply stood in place. 

"Hahahahaha, what can I say, she is indeed a coward," said Brund. "But I knew this. Hurry up and give me my weapon already."

She obeyed. It was heavier than she expected, but she managed to heft the thing up over her shoulders as she made her way over to her master. Baldur shook his head in disgust as she continued her display of shame.

Grinning, Brund held his hand out, waiting for his weapon. It never came. Instead, he heard a loud clang as Elisif dropped his Hammer-Fang and instead grabbed the Axe of Falkreath that Brund knocked to the ground earlier with his punch to the table. She grabbed a fist full of his mohawk, yanking him down to her level until he was sitting, then brought the fine steel axe down in one strike towards his vulnerable and scarred neck, as though it were a guide telling her where to strike him.

"Elisif!" Vignar barked.

"What are you doing you witless bitch?!" roared Fenrald.

A choir of voices rang out as the leaders of Skyrim attempted to talk her down, but Elisif ignored them all. 

He's right. I am a coward. And I'm putting Solitude and all of Skyrim at danger out of sorrow for Torygg. But no more.

"Prove it? Fine, I'll prove it! For Sovngarde!" She cried as the axe came down. She could still hear Baldur's words echoing through her mind, bouncing around inside her skull...

Brund grabbed her hand at only the last moment, feeling the fine edge at his neck. As he grappled with her, Elisif drew a dagger and attempted to gouge his eyes out. Before that could happen, Brund's head came up, hitting her in the jaw before he lifted her up and slammed her on the table before Fenrald.

"Elisif, for attempting to kill the future High-King of Skyrim, I sentence you to death. How do you plead?"

She only let out a weak whimper.

"Heh."

"Tiid!" cried Arngeir, dashing for Brund as fast he could. By now, even the other Jarls had risen to stop him. But it was far too late for that.

Without anymore words and before the Greybeards or anyone could intervene, Brund brought the same hand down into her sternum, killing the young Jarl Elisif the Fair instantly.

"You're next, Red-Snow! I challenge you by my right as Jarl to duel for the seat of High King!"

Baldur's face was wrought with confusion. One minute Elisif was there, the same desperate and stupid girl he'd always known. The next, she simply wasn't there at all. 

Now, Brund was pointing a finger at him and challenging him for a seat he only just now earned. That much wasn't surprising. Somehow he knew it would come to this. 

Shaking his head, Baldur took a deep breath to calm himself. Brund was taunting him, trying to get him worked up. The blood on his hammer could've been from anyone, anything.

"This is madness!" said Jeleen. "Refuse!" 

"He won't," said Brund, laughing at his futile plea. "A man is measured by the quality of his enemies. And my biggest enemy is a true Nord. He won't say no. He can't. Not even Torygg refused Ulfric..."

"I refuse," said Baldur.

"What??? Excuse me?" cried Brund.

"You heard me. I refuse. I am already king, and the king doesn't have to accept a challenge. If the Jarls today think I am weak by turning down this pissing contest, then so be it," said Baldur. "We need every able bodied Nord to defeat the elves, especially our tongues! Don't you see that, you fool? Fight by my side like we did in Windhelm and lets finish this fight!"

Brund was beside himself. The disappointment was all over his face. "No. I don't accept this. I DON'T ACCEPT THIS!"

Arngeir seemed relieved and smiled at this. It seemed some of his teachings were getting into that thick Nordic skull after all. Bringing the Jagged Crown over, Arngeir said, "Unless anyone wishes to contest this decision..."

"I do obviously!" said Brund, stomping the ground and knocking the crown in the air. He easily snatched it out of the air over Arngeir's head and grabbed his hammer once more. "If he wants this crown, he'll have to take it from my cold dead hands! You stupid coward, I killed your son! I killed him, and I killed your elven servant too! He died slow, slow and painful by the very same means you introduced to us in Falkreath. Knowing this, do you still refuse me, coward? Fight me, Red-Snow, FIGHT ME!"

At that Baldur finally lost it. The cry that escaped him was like that of a dying animal, and made all the worse because he was trying to contain it. The sound was already deafening, let alone in the confines of the stone room. Even Brund held his ears as Baldur's shrieking filled them, affecting his balance.

Tears poured from his eyes freely as he ripped off his robe, revealing the refurbished ancient Nordic armor gifted to him by Eorlund Greymane, then grabbed his axe pledged to him by Vignar, and the axe of Riften pledged to him by Ingun respectively.

"YOL!" His thu'um flowed from his mouth like a fountain, gathering in his hands. As he baptized himself beneath the flame, his hair caught fire, gathering at the top of his head.

"Shor's bones!" Korir exclaimed, and he wasn't the only one. Nearly every Jarl in the room stood in awe of their new king and his crown of flames. But at that moment, only one of them had Baldur's attention.

"I used to consider you a shield brother. But what you've done... I can never forgive. You can't take the crown from me, it was never yours to give. But if you wish to die here atop this mountain alongside Elisif, then so be it!!"

Farewell my golden lady of Solitude. May you find your dear husband in the afterlife, and your spirit be at peace in Sovngarde. 

"Legionary Commesitati!" Dales jumped out of her chair, her face wrought with hate and rage. Her hands glowing frost, as she spat, summoning forth a large spear of ice. Her three bodyguards, in perfect sync, drew forth their blades; imperial steel being brought out in the first time in High Hrothgar in the history of the now-free province, as they made their way to their Empress. Dales screamed at the top of her small lungs, "Give the word High King Red-Snow, and we'll help you ********* this prick!"

The Bretons stood from their chairs, glowing with arcane protective energy. They backed into the corner with magic ready at their fingertips, but not attempting to interfere, their weapons stayed sheathed.

Jeleen and his son both drew their blades as well.

"First and only time I've ever agreed with the Imp. Let us help you kill him, Baldur, he's guilty of treason!" said Jeleen.

"Now is the time for the leaders of the alliance to stand down, and leave," said Baldur. His tone low and lined with malice. "No one is to lay a hand on him. He is mine, and mine alone. BEGONE! All of you!"

"Baldur, please. Not here. Not in our home, not with the Jarls present!" said Arngeir. "If you must, both of you hold this duel atop the Throat of the World. There is to be no more death within these halls, I beg you!"

"FINE!" said Baldur. 

"Fine by me too," said Brund. "I care not where, so long as no one interferes. Certainly not weak milkdrinkers. Your time will come soon enough. First Baldur, then the elves. And then, you."

Brund stepped past the Jarls, and then Baldur, who was still looking at Elisif's dead body. He placed a hand on his shoulder and said, "Don't keep me waiting too long, Ash-King. It's cold outside."

"Not for long," said Baldur. Brund chuckled, and removed his hand from his shoulder as he left High Hrothgar and awaited their fate.

As soon as he left, Dales rushed over to her nordic friend, her hair trailing behind her, "Baldur, you can't fight him! He...feels wrong. So cold. Whatever he is, he's seeped in dark magic. Real dark shit. You're thu'um may not be able to overwhelm him! He'll ******* slaughter you!" 

Her fists clenched with hate, "Thing is Baldur. I know him. I know his type. It's like a phantom. It ain't just about your pride and even ******* Skyrim. If he becomes king, the Empire is ******* next. And if we're sandwiched between the elves and Skyrim under Brund, we're fucked. We gotta butcher him!

"The High King has accepted Brund's challenge," Vignar said to Dales. His tone had become grim, reflecting the expressions of every Jarl in the room. "For better or worse, this must be settled in the old way."

"Aye," Korir agreed. "This is his fight, not yours."

"We don't take Brund's threats against us lightly," Roland said, dropping his magic and stepping forward. "But we won't intercede, if that is what the Jarls wish. Good luck, High King Red-Snow."

Dales icy eyes closed, as she leaned it, avoiding the flaming hair, and whispered A true lord of Cinder. "Are you sure you can win this Baldur? Tamriel is relying on you. This isn't just Skyrim on the line."
Baldur nodded.

"I do not know the ways of your land, but in this one, we take care of personal matters ourselves. And this just got very personal for me. Aside from that, as Veleda rightly said, my inviting you here was a gamble. On one hand it was a strong hand played to win the seat. On the other, there are some that might think this moot compromised. So how well do you think it'll go if all learn I accepted the help of the Imperials or Redguards for a duel for the throne? Even if my people did not care, I would not have it! He killed my boy!" cried Baldur.

"And for that, my hands and mine alone will rob him of life. That is final. This isn't about Nord pride. This is vengeance. This duel, this war. All of it. And that is why I'll win, regardless of his strength. I'm going to show him how I got my namesake. So if anyone has anything to say to me, now is the time."

A small smile appeared on her lips, "Kill the bastard then. Take sweet vengeance, and once we've felled the Dominion, and the Thalmor ruined, i'll drink from that same cup.  May the gods, Imperial, Redguard, Nord, Beast and even Elf be with you, red-snow."

Baldur nodded and waved his arms downwards before bringing his hands back together. "Thank you for the notion Dales. But I'd ask the gods sit this one out for once. These fine axes pledged to me are all I'll need today."

Dales chuckled, as she took a step back, and waited beside her bodyguards.

Veleda had stared a while at the lifeless body of Elisif, not so Fair any longer, with a defensive spell ready in her own hand. All she wanted was to get her daughter out of here, but in showing up at this Moot, she had left behind a life of hiding and had gotten involved.

She didn't realize until then, however, that Sofie had seen everything. The girl had been peeking in at the door, but entered then, going to her mother's side. "Mama, let me come with you. I want to watch the duel." Veleda hesitated, was about to scold, but only nodded once. Her children, Ulfric Stormcloak's children, could never lead the soft lives of nobles. They were all involved. Out of the corner of her eye, the battlemage noticed Baldur in cozy discussion with the so-called empress. Shaking her head, she wondered again what she had done in not trying to expose him. It was too late now. Or maybe the Lady of this mountain would take it into her own hands, now.

Dales icy blue eyes went from her Nordic friend, down to the pale corpse of the lovely lady of Solitude. Dales mind blotted out the horrible injuries she had suffered, and painted her over. She was still...so gorgeous. Life ends...isn't it beautiful. It's almost...tragic?  Sorrow had finally consumed her. Killed her even Brund swung the hammer, but the woman had charged forward, and fallen. It was suicide in a way. She had taken her own life..just like Dales had wanted too. The Jarl was so similar to her, yet so different. It was funny. She barely knew her...but she knew her. 

My sweet Empress. Always so selfish. All you wanted was her flesh, and you pretend to understand her. Tsk tsk. My knight...

Dales blocked out the voice in the back of her head.

Galmar walked up to Elisif's corpse past Dales, not addressing her at all. He spat, and said, "Good riddance. Was long overdue." 

Continuing on past Veleda and the Jarls, he stood next to the man with the burning hair, regarding him. Galmar's eyes traveled up and down, unsure of what to make of him. The man before him was far different from the minstrel he knew. But then, perhaps he wasn't. 

"Baldur the Unkindled indeed," he said, this time without sarcasm. "I'll see you when the war starts," he said as he walked past to the hallway, awaiting Veleda.

"Aye," was all Baldur said in response.

Roland turned to the assembled Jarls and foreign dignitaries. "Given Brund's threats and the dissatisfaction our presence brings, we will be making our way down to Ivarstead as soon as possible. Rest assured, we plan on fighting with Skyrim no matter who is High King, but I would hope those assembled recognize we are your allies and not the enemy, even if Brund does not. Thank you for inviting us, High King Red-Snow."

"It was my pleasure," said Baldur. As Lady Gaerhart passed, Baldur said, "I'm terribly sorry you had to be exposed to such a brute. I promise you, we Nords are better than what Brund just demonstrated."

"From what I've seen today, I know that to be true. But I hope for the sake of all of us that you succeed," Lady Gaerhart said, a grim look on her face. With that the Bretons gave a slight bow of their heads and left the hall.

"Baldur," Vignar started, before correcting himself, "My king." He stood watching him just like all the other Jarls. Though where the others appeared either grim or angry, the old man's expression had gone sad. "I knew of your daughter, but never a son. I am sorry for your loss."

"May he drink forever in the Hall of Valor," said Korir, to which many of the others muttered their agreements.

Baldur thought briefly to correct them on his racial status... and that pained him almost as much as knowing he got him killed in the first place.

"He died a true Nord," said Baldur. "Any man would be proud to have had such a son. His sister will know of him, even if only in song and story." Now it was Baldur's turn to look grim.

"Tsun willing, she will hear those songs and stories from the lips of her father," Vignar said with a resolute nod.

"Aye," Fenrald agreed. "For what it is worth, after all of that, I do regret my decision to support the man. If you kill him, I ask that you come find me. There is much that still needs to be discussed."

"Fine," said Baldur. He wasn't sure what Fenrald had to discuss with him but it was the last thing on his mind. "And for what it's worth, I didn't disagree with what you said entirely, anyway." Preparing to leave, he said, "I'll see you all when this is over. And on the chance that I don't, tell my wife... tell her... tell her they were all out of Juniper berries. And leave it at that."

Baldur didn't give them a chance to ask questions. The way he saw it, if after all of this, all that he'd done and put her through he went and died at the hands of Brund, he didn't deserve to be remembered. It would be best if she'd forgotten about him entirely and got on with her life. For Ragna's sake and hers.

Veleda followed the Bretons out, leading Sofie. She found Galmar and faced him, almost sheepish. "I know it isn't what you wanted, but for this reason it couldn't have been me. What would you do if it were me facing the duel? You can rest easy knowing you were true to Ulfric to the end. Now go, Galmar. We'll be alright. You have a war to prepare for."

Galmar seemed distracted when Veleda started. He put a hand on little Sofie's head, then on Veleda's stomach. "I'm not going anywhere. And in any case, Arngeir just told me we have to stay, in case of avalanches from this damn duel of theirs... I don't know what I'd do if you were challenged. I just... Brund wouldn't try and kill you... would he?"

When he collected his thoughts, he said, "I am old, Fire-Hand. This kingdom, it's up to the new generation to protect now. I have no say in what direction you lot go now. What's done, is done. As for being true to Ulfric, well, I don't think I was. Perhaps you were right in the end. Being true to Ulfric means doing what it takes to preserve his legacy. To preserve Skyrim. I support whatever decision you make, because I know you serve that purpose to the end. You have a wisdom I myself do not possess."

"Flattery." Veleda tried to smile, though it didn't reach her eyes. "That's right, this will be a thu'um duel, which mean non-Tongues would have a hard time at it." She expected Sofie to protest, but the girl just slumped a little and nodded. "Stay here and try not to wear Galmar out with questions no one can answer." The battlemage had a few of those herself.

Galmar looked to Sofie and said, "I never had children of my own. Well, that I know of. It's too late for that now, but if I survive this war, perhaps I can help you raise them. Like a grandpa or something. I need something else to fight for."

Vulnerable as she was, Veleda could hardly refuse. She was still a Thalmor target, and the Grim Ones no longer guarded her. In truth she had never felt more alone, and her voice was thick as she replied, "We would be grateful. I hope to find or build a house in Winterhold village. Faralda will let me do some training at the College, and there's no end of enchanting work which is good pay." She glanced over at the jarls milling out of the hall. They appeared dazed, likely from the thu'um. Briefly she wondered who Brund had meant, about Baldur's son, but realized she didn't care. "Alright. I'd best make that climb again. Good thing I can warm myself. Stay here and get some rest, Sofie. Thank you, Galmar."

"Mmhm," he said, unsure of if he'd done anything worthy of being thanked for. "Be careful up there if you're set on going."

***

As Baldur and Arngeir made the climb, in awkward silence, Arngeir regarded Baldur warily, albeit with softer eyes than before. Baldur noticed but hadn't said anything up until he could no longer concentrate on his own thoughts.

"What is it, Arngeir," said Baldur. "Hoping I die so that Ulfric can be avenged?"

Arngeir didn't say anything for a time, instead watching the winds of Kyne blowing ferociously against the mountain's peak. The others had already let Brund up... he was waiting for them at that very moment. Perhaps the winds were warning them all to turn back. 

Finally Arngeir said, "Then who would pay for all the damages of my home?"

Baldur would've laughed in other circumstances. Instead, he regarded Arngeir once more, unsure of what to make of his new disposition towards him. 

"Was Brund's display so bad that you forgot who I am and what I've done? In any case, Brund has the silver to likely remake this place five times over."

"I will never accept that silver," said Arngeir. "It wreaks of blood and death."

"As does all coin," said Baldur. 

"Yes, well. I haven't forgotten. And like I said, I'll never forgive you for it. But it isn't my place to. The gods might."

"And how is that," said Baldur. "Would I have to start preaching the good word? Perhaps going around Skyrim promoting peace and shouting at the sky for favor?"

"Well, you don't need to be a missionary, but you could try staying here," said Arngeir. 

Baldur stopped in his tracks, placing an arm before him. "Hold it. Are you asking me to become a Greybeard?" 

"Is that so strange? You obviously have the talent. There's no doubt about that. And though you haven't mastered Tiinvaak Onikaan Uth, you've become proficient in its use. Perhaps too much so."

Baldur's confusion only worsened. "How's that?"

"Baldur. The thu'um is not like ordinary magic. It is deeply personal. How one lives their life, their outlook, all of these things can affect a word and give it new meaning. So too can it manipulate its affects on others. When you carelessly use a word on the unaffiliated, the results are wildly varied. Especially with a shout like this."

Baldur thought back on the first time Arngeir used the shout on him. He'd lost his ability to speak Tamrielic. But he saw the wisdom in it. The reasoning. When he used it on Brund and the other Jarls... the affects, well... he didn't quite understand them.

"I don't get it," said Baldur. "When you used it on me, I couldn't speak. When I used it however, Brund could speak, albeit with difficulty. And the Jarls could understand my words, but I don't know that my guests could. They seemed confused. And then Elisif..."

"You could speak just fine," said Arngeir. "You were the one preventing yourself from speaking. You didn't want to. Don't you see? This shout, it can't force anyone to do anything. It can only bridge the gap between one's own way of seeing things, and another. It forces the tongue's enemy into their own personal paradigm. From there, whether a person is easily persuaded or not is entirely up to their own strength of will. How impressionable they are also plays a role. You, Baldur for example, are naturally more impressionable than your average Nord. Being a learned man, a scholar."

"Ha!" said Baldur, not sure if this were an insult or a compliment. "Well, what about the Jarls? What does that say of them? And why could they only understand me?"

"Because they are Nords. They're culturally more open to trying to understand and learn the ways of the thu'um. You may even say spiritually. And your voice isn't strong enough to open that bridge to outsiders. At least not yet. And this is the point I am making. The young Elisif... what you said to her. Do you realize what you've done?"

"What I've done?!" said Baldur. "Did you see what I saw? Are you suggesting I killed her?"

"No," said Arngeir. "I'm suggesting that you convinced her to commit suicide. She was already on the verge of doing that herself, I could see that clearly. Feel it when she repeated your words. And I got the feeling that she was very impressionable indeed. Wielding the thu'um like that to get your points across, then telling her to 'prove it'? To go see her dead husband?"

"Oh," said Baldur. "I think I understand now." 

"Well good!" said Arngeir. "I should hope so. Baldur, I taught you this thu'um for one reason and one reason only. To counter the violent nature of your first thu'um. Yol Toor Shul. Tinvaak Onikaan Uth was a shout developed by our leader, Paarthurnax, and with it he not only helped to save mankind, he also managed to suppress his own violent nature. This shout if used properly can do the same for you!"

Baldur crossed his arms as his eyes narrowed at him. "Well don't get the wrong idea. Elisif, the way she was carrying on was pathetic. In the end she proved herself a true Nord after all. If I helped with that, then good. And it sounds to me like you're trying to suppress me, in general. You ask me to stay here with you to what, make up for my sins? To repent like your old dragon? OR because you fear what I've learned and how I can use it?"

"Don't you?" asked Arngeir. "Just look to Brund. Given enough time, you can easily end up like that. Any Nord could. Do you really blame me for fearing the power of the Thu'um, in the hands of careless Tongues? Of course I fear what you've learned, I'm the one that taught you. And Ulfric too, and look how that turned out. You indirectly and now directly, are my responsibility. Whether you agree, or not."

Baldur once again after so many of their debates didn't have anything to say. His brow wrinkled and he rubbed his beard while Arngeir walked on without him. This pleased Arngeir. At least he was contemplating his words.

And Baldur was indeed contemplating them, although currently not about Arngeir's last point. No, Baldur was doing what he did best. Plotting. Calculating. And wondering now how he could pervert a pacifist shout for battle.

"Guess there's nothing left to do but give it a go on the battlefield. Brund, I hope you're ready. Because when this is over, you'll be sending a message to Daric for me on your way to Sovngarde."

 

 

[Witchking of Angmar]

 

The Duel

"This place... it feels... strange. It has a familiarity that I've never known. Not to this degree. Is this what people mean when they say they feel 'At home'? I've never known this feeling before. Well, perhaps when I'm killing. But this place... I feel it. Coursing through my very being. I used to go by the name 'Morihaus' jokingly. Child of Kyne. It was meaningless to most Imperials. They just called me a mad bull. Didn't recognize the nobleness of it. Neither did I. But here? Now? At The Throat of the World? I not only believe it to be true. I know it. I felt something tick inside my head the moment I made it up here. Like something in my head just... aligned itself properly. Like things are starting to make sense. My purpose in life. I am here to show you, show all of you that I am your rightful leader. Don't you see? Look at your history. The wars, the strife, the beautiful violence. The strong rule. That's all this all is. The Arena. A fight to be at the top of the world. So isn't it appropriate that we'd do battle here? For the honor of leading our people against elvenkind as we've always done? For the honor of killing the enemy in the name of mighty Shor? I've never been a god fearing man, but now I see... this is the ultimate prize. This is why I've been so obsessed with your blood. Your father, Baldur. He was the only man alive that's ever bested me. And then you killed him... or so I thought. But after this, after I've beaten you, he'll have to come to me. And then I, Brund, will finally prove that I am the best! No one is greater than I! I am the champion of man! And unfortunately for you, Baldur... there can be only one champion. So... my rival. My shield brother. Are you ready to die?"

As the greybeards took their place around the peak of the mountain, crouching on their knees in a large open circle, Baldur took his place before Brund, listening to his every word. Baldur could see Veleda beside Arngeir as well. Figures, he thought. If he died, even if her life was in danger, at least she could take pleasure in seeing his own life end first.

Baldur looked to the skies where Paarthurnax flew on high. It was strange, Brund didn't seem the least bit curious about it, didn't think to ask what a dragon was doing here or why the Greybeards didn't react to it. 

Masser and Secunda along with all the stars of Aetherius were also present, watching the spectacle below them with all the interest and wonder that the mortals often gave them when gawking from below.

Baldur finally rested his eyes on his target. The man who killed his son. Daric never did anything but try his hardest to be something he was not. And in the end, he'd accomplished that goal through death. Such was the way of Nords. 

He supposed that if it were someone else's son, he would think, "The boy is old enough to follow his own path. He knew what he was doing." But it wasn't someone else's son, it was his. A boy he'd trained, and taken care of, worried over and loved. A boy that looked up to him, mimicked him and listened to his every word. Well, perhaps not his every word. Especially not recently.

And now, after pushing him away, after taking him for granted, Brund Hammer-Fang forever robbed him of ever seeing him again. 

"I want to know why," said Baldur as he raised his axes. "Why are you doing all of this? What the ****, have I done to you besides treat you as my equal? Tell me?!"

"What have you done? Did you not hear me, Baldur? You thought you were better than me! You and your father both! And for that, you will die! You, and your entire bloodline!" proclaimed Brund. "I swear it! Even if I die today I'll find a way to destroy you!"

Brund let out a roar so great that the snowfall ceased, blown away from the peak of the mountain as if fleeing Brund's power. The ground around them began to shake and rumble, as if it too was seeking to flee. Amongst all of this, Baldur stood firm. His eyes were locked on Brund and they never left, even as the ground threatened to topple him.

Brund continued to roar, displaying his might to the entire world. And with how great the volume of his voice was, Baldur didn't doubt that the entire world could hear him.

"Come on, my king!" cried Brund as he tossed aside his troll helm, replacing it with the fabled Jagged Crown. "Show me what you can do!"

Baldur thought of the blood on Brund's hammer, and his threat to wipe out his entire family as well. He thought of the first time he and Rebec found one another, the way they'd fucked as though they'd done so in countless lifetimes before. The blood they'd spilled together both on the battlefield and in childbirth. And the tears they spilled in shared fears and heartache. 

And Ragna. His daughter who by now he should've been on the way to see if not for the monster that stood in his way. All of this, the passion, the fear and pain mixed within him, fueling his rage. He knew that Brund was forcing him into a situation where for once, he did not have the upper hand. And he didn't care. 

No one, not an elf, not an Imperial, not even his father had caused him this much sorrow and grief. And only now did he finally truly understand how Rebec must've felt the day she'd lost Jala. 

The tears swelled in his eyes, bursting forth once more like water from newly melted icecaps. Slow at first before gaining more and more strength, just as Brund seemed to be as time went on and his yelling continued.

He seemed completely unperturbed by Baldur's pain and what he'd done. Didn't seem to understand the gravity of it. How could he? 

"I'm going to do my best to make you suffer. I'll tear you apart by the fabric of your very being, down to the smallest level. And even then you'd not feel the way I feel. And for that, I curse you! Even in death, I curse you to suffer until it equates to what I feel now! Brund Hammer-Fang, I hate you!!"

With that declaration, Baldur gave his own battlecry. At first, Brund had heard nothing at all, but a slight ringing noise. Then the ringing grew louder, and louder, until he realized that what he was hearing was so intense that his ears could not register it... Moments later after his ears adjusted, and he could finally pick up the sharp screeching, Brund panicked, grabbing his head as blood leaked from his earlobe. His vision was blurred and his balance once again thrown off. 

By the time Baldur was done, Brund was seeing double. So when Baldur cried, "Yol, TOOR!" sending a fireball where he stood, Brund could do nothing but wait until it was close before sending a mound of snow and earth hurtling towards it to protect himself. 

As the two thu'ums collided, clouds gathered in the sky, blocking the view of the stars and the moons. As if Kyne herself did not wish for the spectacle of her children's death to be seen by those faithless cowards that fled, or her dead husband who made their deaths a part of his purpose. 

The Greybeards sat still as stone through it all, chanting to their gods for a worthy outcome. The duel for the seat, had finally begun.

***

With every shout Brund sent against him, Baldur could feel the intensity of his hatred, like a dense fog thickening more and more, threatening to swallow him up forever. His own hatred acted like a beacon, keeping him above it all as fire and stone clashed. The explosions sent bits of rock flying everywhere, occasionally peppering his cheek.

"Fus, Gol... STRUNMAH!" 

This time Brund did not send earth directly at Baldur. Instead, Alfr Vega raised high above his head before it came crashing down, smashing the earth and sending a wave of snow and rock in Baldur's direction. It was too quick for Baldur to avoid by running. Instead, he used his thu'um to propel himself and jump over it. This was a mistake.

Brund remembered from the battle of Windhelm that Baldur was fond of this. The minute Baldur launched himself in the air, Brund leaped for him, seeking to cleave him in two as Baldur fell. Their weapons met, as all he could do was try and block his attack. He was lucky not to be disarmed as Brund swatted him away like a fly, cutting him at his hip.

The wound was shallow, but Brund was the first to draw blood.

Baldur recovered quickly after his body was done ragdolling through the snow. Quickly enough to dodge Brund's follow up with a downward strike from his ancient Nord pendulum. It followed Baldur as he continued rolling away, screeching against the ice and rock. He stopped, brought his axe down on the weapon and attempted to yank it from Brund's grasp. 

Brund slapped his axe out of the way, but Baldur brought the other down as well, catching the wooden poll in his axe's undergroove.

Up on his feet now, Baldur used the opportunity to try and take Brund's head off. Brund had to let go of Alfr Vega to avoid it, though Baldur managed to cut his cheek and nose. With his freed hands, Brund punched Baldur in the gut so hard his feet left the ground, leaving him winded and gasping for air.

With a mighty roar, Brund grabbed his hammer from its sling and once again swung downwards, once again forcing Baldur to parry. 

He had Baldur pinned now, and was leaning close enough that he could smell his breath. "This is familiar isn't it? Remember. Solitude? Our wager? Daric was fighting my student. Funny, that. You look just like him now. Pathetic. Weak. Hehehehehahahaha!"

"I remember winning that wager."

"Well allow me to correct history!" said Brund. 

Baldur got a real close look at the blood on his hammer as its spikes inched nearer and nearer to his eyes. Before that could happen, Baldur let loose Yol Toor Shul, forcing Brund away. He followed up with a fireball that sent Brund flying on his back, but before Baldur could capitalize, Brund shouted boulder after boulder at him as he pounded the ground with his feet.

Baldur dodged what he could, but had to use his thu'um to destroy what got too close. All the while trying to keep his balance. Something else was distracting him as well. Brund's chest began emitting a low green light...

Suddenly, Brund let out another roar and before Baldur knew it, he disappeared entirely... Before he could realize what happened, an explosion of earth beneath his feet shot him six eight feet off the ground before Brund smothered him with as much earth as his thu'um could muster. The ground was hard, and cold. He was working extra hard to perform, but even so it was proving overwhelming for Baldur. 

As he stood atop of him, Brund said, "This looks like a good place to bury you, eh Red-Snow!?"

For a minute, Brund almost thought he'd killed him right then and there. But then steam began to rise from beneath his feet, and the snow began to glow... He jumped away just in time as flame burst forth in a hellish display. Baldur's arm shot out afterwards, and then another. Before he even climbed out fully, Baldur shot his thu'um in Brund's direction once again. And again. And again.

He didn't stop until he could feel burning in his throat. Brund timed the moments between his shouts to send his own thu'um at him, but before it hit him, Baldur's Yol Toor Shul sent a boulder flying straight into Brund's chest. He could do nothing but try to stop it with his bare hands. And he did. In fact, he caught the thing! Or rather, it caught him, hurtling away until Brund went flying into Paarthurnax's word wall.

Baldur paced slowly, taking the time to breathe, recover his stamina. Meanwhile Brund was climbing out of a pile of rubble. The word wall stood right where it was however. "Yol Toor Shul!" cried Baldur, just as Brund once again disappeared underground. The Thu'um missed him entirely, leaving behind its three words bright against the stone slab just as it had once for the Dragonborn of legend.

Baldur hopped around on his feet, feeling Brund burrow beneath him, albeit rather slowly. Even so, he could never be too sure of where exactly he was.

"I have to wonder if you were smart enough to pick High Hrothgar knowing my thu'um would be difficult to use here in this hard terrain. No matter, you're still gonna die!" said Brund, his voice loud enough to echo through the ground. Eventually Baldur found himself falling below ground level, revealing the tunneling Brund had just done. Baldur and Brund clashed once again, their struggle unseen by those above ground.

Before too long, fire began bursting through the cracks before both he and Baldur were launched up to the surface from the fiery explosion. They both landed heavily on their backs, not moving. Exhausted.

"For ****'s sake. Just die already!" said Brund as he slowly stood.

"You first," said Baldur.

"I'm already dead!" said Brund with a big open mouthed smile, as he struggled to catch his breath. "It's your turn now!"

Brund stretched open his arms and began chanting in the dragon language. Earth and snow gathered above his head, growing in size before Baldur at an alarming rate. While this went on, Brund's chest began to glow even brighter. 

Baldur was dumbfounded. How on Nirn did Brund gain such strength? Was this the gods punishing him? 

"Haha! Now you see don't you? I am a god!"

Baldur attempted to thu'um him down, but Brund used the earth to protect him, raising up a barrier around him while whatever he was preparing grew more and more. 

"Now's the time to try it Baldur... either this works, or he's gonna crush me to bits...."

Taking several deep breaths, Baldur waved his arms once more in the Greybeard way before finding himself on his knees in meditation.

He silenced his mind as best he could, ignoring the rock and rubble flying past him to Brund's great rock. Ignoring the rumbling of the ground beneath them. Ignoring all but the void of his inner thoughts.

"Tiiiiiiinvaak. Onikaaaaaan.... UTH!"

The earth continued to shake and rattle, giving into the artificial gravity Brund seemed to be creating above his head. Even Baldur was feeling its pull, his hair whipping in the wind, blinding his sight and extinguishing the flame.

Even as the ground began to give away beneath him, pulled towards the sky, Baldur stood firm. Eyes closed in concentration.

"FUNT. SAHLO. Failure. Weak." Brand heard Baldur's words echoing in his head....

Brund, who was laughing hysterically from the rush of his own power began to sweat and groan in agony as he felt Baldur's thu'um once again. His neck veins were fit to burst from all the strain, his teeth rattled and gritted as they clenched.

You are too weak, you know I'm right. Even as you are now, you will fail. Just as you always have. Let go of your burden. It is too heavy for you. The laws of Nirn demand it be released. Let it fall. Be free of this great effort and give in to your true nature. That of the failure. All of this conflict is the direct result of someone trying to deny what they are. Don't resist my logic. It is ironclad.

"**** YOU, RED-SNOW! I WILL WIN! I-"

Brund fell to a knee as he held his hands to the sky. Even the ground beneath him was buckling from the weight. What was effortless before now demanded a level of concentration he could not accomplish, certainly not with Baldur bombarding his defenses with fireballs, which were now beginning to give in as well.

"****...****....**** **** **** **** ****! ******* minstrel!!" 

Brund was resisting far longer than Baldur had expected. Perhaps it was because he'd been exposed to it before. Anticipated it. In any case, Baldur continued taunting him, feeding off of Brund's insecurities and doubt. If his grudge was so powerful against he and his father, seemingly for thinking they were better, then Brund's insecurities must've been just as great, despite the confidence. And Baldur knew that, because the same was true for himself.

And even so, Brund still held firm. The two cried out under the strain of mental effort, their voices mixing and clashing in the air, amplifying one another until the air was heavy from it. Snow and rock shook free on the lower levels of High Hrothgar, the trolls and wolves running desperately to find shelter.

"Hahahahaha! I told you, I would not fail!" said Brund. Triumphant in his victory over whatever Baldur was attempting to do to his head. The great rock above him began to lower as Brund got ready for his final assault. Baldur fell to his knees, unsure of what to do next.

The perspiration on his brow was thick, his body exhausted and his throat so sore it was getting difficult to breathe. There was nothing left to do...

"No. By the gods it can't end like this... I don't accept it!" said Baldur. 

"Accept it or not, you're still gonna die you piece of sh-"

Before Brund could finish, both he and Baldur heard a great crack, followed by bits of rock and snow falling on Brund's head. Brund looked up with a look on his face that Baldur had never seen on him before... fear.

At that very moment, the great buildup of earth the size of several taverns that Brund created gave away, falling right on top of him before he could take even a single step out of its way. The mass behind it was abnormal, even for that much earth, knocking Baldur to the ground as soon as it made contact. No one could survive that, surely, he thought. Not even a mountain of a man like Brund...

"Who am I kidding," said Baldur, half covered in snow from the impact. He wouldn't be satisfied until he saw Brund's body dead before him. He stood to his feet, leg muscles tensing from the effort. His body was weary, but not broken. His spirit, still strong. Defiant.

Brund would attempt to change that.

Brund could not be seen, but he could be heard. His same draconic chanting echoed all around him, and the earth vibrated, danced as though it were music. It was as though it were alive.

Before he knew it, the loose snow and rock took the shape of two creatures Baldur could only assume were atronachs of Brund's own creation, spinning around glowing green cores that had their own gravitational pulls, the same as what Brund had tried to create earlier. Against these, Baldur had no defense. His thu'um failed him, and he could not dodge their blows for much longer.

One grabbed his arm, as did the other, and attempted to pull the High-King apart, literally limb from limb. Baldur could do nothing but resist, and to try his thu'um once more... 

But would Brund hear it? So far underground? It wasn't worth risking the loss of energy. Instead Baldur mustered what energy he had left, shouting Yol, Toor at the creature on his left. The fireball hit the spinning rocks, but the core remained in tact. But it was enough to free an arm. Before he could shout again, the other formed what looked like a fist made of stone and sent the Nord flying into the dirt, where Brund burst from, grabbing his leg. 

Brund came up yelling like a wounded animal, covered in scratches, bruises and blood. His armor had ceased to cover his left arm and the top of his chest. Enough that Baldur could see the steel fused into his chest where the green light had been shining from, albeit far dimmer than before. 

Brund swung Baldur around like a ragdoll before attempting to slam him face first. 

"Yol Toor Shul!" cried Baldur, keeping himself from having his skull smashed. At the same time he kicked himself free from Brund's grasp, punching him twice, so hard that teeth and blood flew from his mouth.

Brund caught the next punch, and attempted to deliver his own, but Baldur caught it as well. Their hands locked as the two attempted to overpower one another fruitlessly, their voices once again shaking the air around them.

Brund ended the contest with a swift knee to Baldur's gut before running towards his back. He had Baldur lifted from his feet as his arm locked around his neck, slowly chocking the life from him.

"I wish your wife were here to see this... to see you for the bitch you are. Go to sleep, little bitch. Go to sleep..." said Brund.

Baldur did not sleep. Instead he pulled at Brund's arm until he could speak, and used the brief opportunity to shout. The power of his thu'um propelled both he and Brund back, sending Brund crashing backwards into the ground. 

As Brund was recovering, Baldur attempted to crawl away and reach his axe..

Just as his fingers wrapped around the fine Skyforge Steel hilt, Baldur felt Brund's hands on him, pulling him away. 

Baldur turned to his back and kicked him in his groin, then chin as he rolled away.

"YOL, TOOR SHUL!"

"FUS, GOL, STRUNMAH!"

Snow and rock collided with a stream of flame, propelling fragments at dangerous velocity from the fantastic collision that brightened the night sky. The intensity of the heat mingled with the cold air, darkening the clouds above until thunder from their shouts was not the only present.

Neither could maintain this level of power for long, and the shouting soon ceased. But when it had, Brund was no longer there.

"Surprise, you *****," said Brund as he burst through the ground once again, lifting Baldur in the air by his neck.

Brund wasn't smiling however, as he eyed his surroundings. Nothing but rock and snow, and Greybeards. And Veleda... but that was too risky.

"It's too bad I have to end this now, but I burned far more energy than I expected thanks to you. Even if I win this duel, I might die before I even reach the bottom of this mountain. You bring this on yourself, though I take great pleasure, in doing it. Goodbye, Baldur."

“Fus Gol Strunmah, Dinok Wuth Zah, Zaami! Fus Gol Strunmah, Dinok Wuth Zah, Zaami!”

Baldur let out a cry that couldn't have been matched by any man no matter what the torture as he felt his life force literally being eroded away from his body. It was as though every cell were slowly being stabbed... his hair began to turn dull, his skin, greyed. His beard had even grown as though the years had suddenly finally caught up to him.

His wails had the same effect as they'd had before, worse even, but Brund was too close to victory. No way would he stop now. Never.

It was almost sad, he thought. Seeing his rival so strong, so proud now whither away into nothing. But everybody dies. 

He watched as the process continued its wretched work, feeling his power slowly return to him, his wounds tingling, burning as they began to heal. Baldur was still struggling. How cute, he thought. He even attempted to mouth the words. 

"Go on, say it Baldur. Try!"

"Yol. Toor. Shul," said Baldur, who now appeared to be approaching his early fifties and was still climbing. His thu'um was pathetic! Laughable! Little flames danced from his mouth like leaves blown away by a mighty wind. Brund laughed in his face at the pathetic display as his hands dropped to his side and he gave in to Brund's might.

"This is how you avenge your son? Your elf? Do you know how slow his death was? The way he cried for you as I was ripping out his lungs? You know what I'll do to Rebec in your absence? And this is all the fight you can muster? Look at you! Dying like a little bitch! Like- AHHHH!"

Those would be Brund's last words, ever.

Those pathetic little flames Brund laughed at were the same flames Baldur used to summon to perform his candle trick. They were all he could summon in his weakened state. But instead of candles, they found the tips of his fingers, and the tips of his fingers found Brund's throat.

They squeezed, and squeezed, burning through his flesh until Baldur's hand had a hold of his throat so strong Brund could not remove it. Brund let go of Baldur and Baldur slammed his head into the ground as he continued to squeeze. 

Brund had suddenly found himself without his thu'um. Permanently. However, his ridiculous strength still remained, and he demonstrated this by punching Baldur again in the gut so hard he coughed blood while Brund scurried away. The sound of his gurgling attempts to speak was enough to turn Baldur's stomach. But not enough to prevent him from finishing what he'd set out to do. He had no idea what Brund had done to him, but he could still lift his axe.

And Brund could still brandish his hammer.

They ran towards one another, Brund with revitalized vigor, but without his thu'um. Baldur without vigor, but the will to live.

He put his training to work, letting his instincts and muscle memory move his body instead of his present mind. His years of fighting read Brund's body language, letting him know how to avoid his swings. He calmed his mind, ignoring the hatred that Brund so easily summoned in him. Just like on the battlefield with countless enemies before, this was when Baldur was most dangerous.

Brund grew more and more frustrated as the old man before him continued avoiding his swings, taking light strikes at his legs and arms where he could. But Baldur was losing ground, being pushed towards the peak of the mountain, being forced upwards where he'd have nowhere left to go, but into his hammer.

The two fought and climbed. Brund's hammer nearly caught him square in the face, sending pebbles nearly into his eyes as Baldur moved his head out the way and as rock was pulverized by Brund's hammer. The spikes scraped off his plated shoulders as he continued his ascent from his enemy.

He was slower, but used Yol to position Brund where he needed to, swinging his axe exactly where Brund moved to avoid the flame, and the skyforge steel caught him first in his head, knocking the Jagged Crown from his ugly mug, then right in the chest, creating a wound diagonally across and exposing the source of the light at the top...

Baldur's eyes widened at what he'd seen.

"Is that... what have you done to yourself?!"

Brund answered him with more gurgled words and swings from his hammer. As the two approached a ledge near the very height of the mountain, Brund began smashing his hammer again and again into the ground. His strength was not nearly as great as it was before, but the damage from the earlier battle had done its work.

Both their battle and the Dragonborn's with Alduin had weakened the foundations of the earth they stood on. And by the time Brund was done, the rocky ledge they stood on finally gave away.

And as it fell, so did they, crashing onto the edge of the peak beneath them, and the weight of the rock also causing the stone below to give away as well. The end result, Baldur and Brund were falling off the side of High Hrothgar, with nothing but the bit of mountain under them keeping them from being splattered against the mountainside.

Brund may not have been able to speak, but seeing the fear in Baldur's eyes was enough to make him laugh, even despite the great pain. Even as they fell, bouncing and sliding off the surface of the mountain, Brund still tried to kill his rival. 

Baldur was clinging to the rock and to what remained of his life when Brund's Hammer-Fang went straight into his arm, leaving it hanging useless at his side. Brund wrenched it free and was about to bring it down again for another swing when Baldur jumped up and cried, "Yol Toor Shul!" 

This time Brund had nowhere to go, his whole body covered from head to toe, burning him as bright as the effigy of King Olaf in Solitude in the night air. Brund lost his footing then as their bit of rock ramped off of another beneath them, sending them up in the air in a free fall as the rock's greater weight slowly pulled it away from their grasp. 

This was just like in Hammerfell when the harpies had nabbed he and Menel, Baldur realized. That memory pained him almost as much as knowing that he was most surely going to die.

But if he was going to die, he was going to kill Brund first.

He had one more shout in him, and he used that last shout to propel himself straight into Brund who was getting further and further away from him. He speared himself straight at his middle, and even now as they were falling to their deaths, an avalanche beneath them, waiting to put them in their icy tomb, Brund still would not give in. 

Baldur had a hard time of it with only one good arm, but he clawed and bit, even taking off one of Brund's fingers until the defiant minstrel found his target. His hand shot deep into Brund's cavity, forcing his hand between the gap above the infused steel plate and the rest of his flesh. Brund grabbed Baldur's shoulders, refusing to let go, even as Baldur once again bit him, ripping flesh from his neck.

If he could still speak, he'd probably say, "Stop biting me you fu***** cu**!"

But he could not, nor could he adequately grip Baldur with missing fingers as his boot pushed against his chest.

"I'll see you in Sovngarde, you son of a whore. And I'll beat you there too, for all of eternity."

"Noooo!" cried Brund as best he could, but there was nothing he could do. Baldur wrenched his heart free from his chest, and the release of energy and the explosion that followed did the rest. A heartless Brund was shot away like a rock in a sling, falling into the side of the Throat of the World, with Baldur not too far behind him.

As Baldur neared the same fate, the ground growing closer, his vision began to fail him, and the dark of night soon grew until there was nothing to be seen at all. Not even the powerful glow of the briarheart in his hand as its spiky outer casing pierced his hand.

Tears trailed behind him as he thought of the wife and child he was leaving behind. "You know... I never wanted to go away But what am I supposed to say? Rebec... I beg you. Please, forgive me. I love you so much, and I always will.... Forgive me..."

The last thing he saw before his vision disappeared completely, was a giant hawk rushing past him like that of his dream. The power of its flapping wings, and the dive towards the ground nearly sent him spinning downwards.

And from below, the great and terrible open mouth of a snake, swallowing him whole.

 

 

"Pruzah, Ashen One... Well done."

 

 

 

[Witchking of Angmar]

Island of Roscrea
Eastern Capital of Nebbezzar
(Current date)
 

Fifty odd years in the making, the grandiose schemes long predated Berahthram's ascension to his father's throne. Two generations of King of Kings and their advisers coveted Roscrea, Shalibanictes sewed the seeds to end the schism between the island; unforgiving grasp of time would have it that his son and heir finally unify the island while Shalibanictes rest in Sovngarde. The Royal Casurgian aristocracy privy to his inner circle eagerly awaits the day when they be rewarded with westward land, the arena is nearly set.

Recent events made it quite clear to Berahthram that there was no more waiting, the point of no return had to be crossed soon. Clouds of war hung in the far south and allies gathered against it, the Empire unwittingly proved themselves useful and his greatest opposition will be departing in his armada to fight and die in a war that will never threaten the island holdings.

Even the most uncertain plan of the old scheme looked to be progressing adequately, less expensive then originally thought up by the tight lipped treasurers yet still to create a dint in the vaults was the acquisition of Anoshurivan's crown; seized four centuries prior in the conquests by Uriel. What fools the southern folk were to accept goods subverted in place of gold. These negotiations however were still ongoing, according to their emissary the crown should have been found by now. The southern Emperor was stalling, perhaps to force his hand into a trade agreement?

In the days prior he along with his advisers entered long winded debates, Berahthram's staff had came to the conclusion that now was the best time to include the seven Satraps in the plan. He needed their loyalty now more then ever, unlike the resentful Milhinngaets in the west his Satraps knew their place and heeded his calls.

The northern Satraps of Lazicurd and Myrumbria, made wealthy by their land's salt and tin mines worried Berahthram the most. The two Satraps are also of an Imperial established dynasty but unlike the King of King's own it was far southern blood who ruled, his Royal Casurgians need be careful in the coming war to not allow a resurgence of Old Great Myrumbria. 

Only the Void-Father would be so cruel to fracture the east as he would do so to the west, however the four southern Satraps didn't burden Berahthram's mind. None had the strength to overthrow him and in a time of conflict that's all that matters, albeit who in their right mind would rebel against his administration in the face of being rewarded land?

Whatever deep laden thoughts the Satraps held the rarity of summoning them all to Nebbezzar stirred them immediately.

The first to arrive was Mogandaraes Agathyne whom was Satrap of Agathyrhae, a second cousin to Berahthram. He did not fear his power as the realm's strength lie in agrarian wealth, Agathyrhae was not as fertile compared to the Royal Casurgian's own river Akarehkas; however it still bore the foodstuff that supplied the rest of Roscrea. Agathyrhae has always had the most independent rule of the Satrapies and maintained close ties with their overlords, no single region in Roscrea outside of the two aforementioned has land fertile enough to feed their entire population. The extremely rare rebellions were always crushed by starvation rather then force, something the west shall soon learn.

The only other Satraps to arrive that day were Herkomardes the Soothing Tooth, the archaically named High King of the Orthidocians among the Satrapies his mountainous realm is well and truly nigh impenetrable with their mountainous villages interconnected by a network of barrow tunnels. He was joined with the Satrap of Hirumite,  who ruled over the Vulgars a people neither of Tamriel or Atmora who begged for asylum from the monsters of Akavir, they keep their tongue and name hidden and so all Satraps are referred to as Vulga-Hirumite. Neither two had the population to pose any threat offensively and thus never rebelled historically.

His other Satraps sent word on their delay, Berahthram urged by his advisers forgave such short delays. It took time to wrap things up for a leader to leave his seat of administration, for the day he courted the three Satraps in his capital. Having them do as they please within the capital's citadel; they really didn't have the arenas and theaters of Cyrodiil, a frilly thing the hardened Nords of Tamriel would scoff at anyhow.

Much to pretty well all of Berahthram's administrative staffs annoyance the Satraps were quite disturbed at the Second Fire Alter, refusing to enter it even at the King of King's behest. While religiously demanded he offer conversions to their sub-beliefs of the old Atmoran Pantheon Berahthram decided against tradition for the others when they arrive. Those who knew of the impending conflict had a great deal of stress hanging about them, so much weight was placed upon not only the King of Kings among the men who will find themselves executed if this went sour as well, namely the urban generals and 'heroic' Kataphraktoi leaders.

It was without doubt this air was noticeable to Berahthram's Satraps, too many of the aristocrats close to the royal dynasty had a weight to them to simply pin it off as raising the tribute or establishing a new law. Normally much more composed Berahthram and even his advisers were getting restless, he had to lay the news and discuss through the night among all his Satraps. With the passing of another day and two more entering the capital it was no less frustrating courting the rulers of Pathava and Arzadan-Waluvii, Pathava always was rebellious in Atmora and the Satrapy of Arzadan-Waluvii bordered the Milhinngaet; when conflict arises the latter will be devastated.

Berahthram would need to hold hostages from both Satraps to assure loyalty, otherwise Arzadan-Waluvii will declare independence and ally with the western Roscreans to avoid being sacked while Pathava being wedged in the southwest might not be in danger but their ancient reputation for being unruly and rebellious might cause problem.

It was quite reasonable having just a few days delay from the two northern Satrapies yet when the two arrived together Berahthram was at the boiling point, he knew getting this damn thing off his chest no matter the reactions will ease his attitude though that didn't change his private thoughts. Myrumbria and Lazicurd where two entities that posed any real threat at all, the Royal Casurgians had more advanced metallurgy, architecture and administration then their southern Satraps; it was among the many deterrents to revolts. With the conquest of Roscrea the Empire had it's Nordic and Colovian legionaries settle in these two northern lands, they Imperialized the nobility and with it brought the advancements of Tamriel to them. Ruling both former Satrapies as a single dynasty, headed by a loyal general of Uriel's.

Suddenly the Royal Casurgians were no longer the technological powerhouse on the island, it was an amazing feat that Berahthram's father secured the two Satrapies during Roscrea's revolt. No small part attributed to the internal power struggle between the Empire and Roscrean dynastic loyalists among them.

Niktor Atrius Myrumbrawalde and Soter IV Atrius, former being uncle to the latter. Myrumbrawalde having the unique experience of being educated in Cyrodiil, dearest and most loyal of the Satraps and admired friend of Berahthram. His nephew and current Satrap of Lazicurd was of a much more mixed light to the King of Kings, thrice traitor during the revolt switching sides as it suited him. Soter IV was only kept alive because his uncle loved him so, an unsung demand to leave things be.

As had been expected the two put forth their excuse to being late as managing their land for a temporary absence, by no means was this false. Powerful with Imperialized nobility they may be, their lands have few urbanized settlements. It's not as easy to just pass an edict and leave.

Berahthram wished he could waste little time courting the two but now with everyone present there were aristocrats in Nebbezzar who protested that a feast be thrown, expanding connections and increasing influence was all this would amount to. But as the established aristocrats demanded it as such there wasn't a point in denying them, a good deal of these aristocrats were Aswārān forming mounted elites in times of war of which they will soon be counted on.

Both the King of Kings and the senior members of his staff military and administrative attending looked as if they'd rather be anywhere else, given the age of most the look was natural. The feast was nothing special to note in Berahthram's eyes, fabulously lavish but isn't it always? His northern satraps were far more impressed.

At the end of the mingling his Satraps looked exhausted, more then ready for to retire for Nebbezzar's palace. Berahthram had none of it, he wouldn't lay in his overly silk covers dwelling on what needs to be said for another night. They had wished to excuse themselves until being shot by an uncompromising look by their King of Kings, it was obvious now was not the time to push their luck.

Leading the seven men back into the palace Berahthram payed no attention to the great stone throne along with the tapestry carved into the walls, a truly good King of Kings holds no love for that throne. The true seat of power was adjacent through painted doors, here was the true administrative center of the east and one day all of Roscrea. Here was the only throne that mattered where as the one before only displayed grandeur, the stony faced advisers and administrators were dismissed for the night as Berahthram led the Satraps into the council chambers where he had tried countless times to reason with the High Chieftains in the west.

The Atmoriant guards stood silent staring at Satraps within the chambers, Berahthram rubbed his temple finding the right words to say while the seven seated themselves. Avoiding a prolonged uncomfortable silence he went right to it.

"Kwarth Roscae Paradraya, these words have been repeated and echoed for fifty years. By Shalibanictes, his advisers and staff, by myself, my advisers and staff. My inner circle privy to the plots and schemes fifty years in the making we have always concluded with these words, the 'Kingdom of Roscrea Beyond the Sea' those three words describe this. I'll say this now and I'll damn well have attention, we're going to dismantle the Chiefdoms and establish a unified sect of western Satrapies."

Whatever the Satraps thought they'd be summoned for the revelation hit them hard, it struck even the eldest Myrumbrawalde dumbstruck and flabbergasted. Their expressions begged for more information, Berahthram had spoken a few sentences and already he felt himself stand straighter, completely stopped fidgeting. Feeling sweet relief to finally advance things further.

"It took Ural Septim eight months to conquer the Milhinngaets while the east resisted a continent for nearly three years." He put serious emphasis on it. "The Empire is weakened beyond repair, they lack their strong arm and Skyrim has far bigger ambitions then an island. Fifty years Shalibanictes and myself tried to ease the High Chieftains into forming some kind of system resembling unity, the west is living three thousand years in the past. I'm going to say this now, you all and I will herald an end to the era of Chiefdoms. Skyrim ended it's Chieftains while Atmora was yet to freeze, even High Rock, the epicenter of disunity has been united under singular King of Kings or therefor Breton equivalent."

"Berahthram?" All heads turned towards Dara-Ephates, Arzadan-Waluvii Satrap. "Without a doubt what you're proclaiming, it's going to lead into my ruin. The Milhinngaets will descend on my holdings, they'll sack my towns and pillage what remains of said sacked towns. How the **** are horsemen going to engage in the mountains?"

"Well we could always smash the tribals." It was Herkomardes the Soothing Tooth grinning from ear to ear, the Orthidocians have long despised the Milhinngaets in ancient times having fought off twelve incursions before Atmora froze. It would be no surprise that Herkomardes be so eager, one Satrap at least is guaranteed loyalty.

Berahthram gestured for silence. "Remember my talk of fifty years? Our strategies have long since been thought up, debated and reevaluated only to repeat the process. There is not a foreseeable action among the Milhinngaets that has not been considered. I think the first thing needing be discussed here and now is the expenditure this conflict will drain from us, us. Soter, it'll be formally announced come morning but I'm raising your tribute for the remainder of the year."

"My tribute? We're going to be the plunged into a war zone, once Arzadan-Waluvii is occupied they'll pour into Lazicurd. If anything you should be lowering the godsdamn tribute."

The man wasn't at all happy about this news, Berahthram was more disappointed in Soter then furious something all to present by resting his face in his left hand being propped up by the elbow, staring at Soter all the while he ranted.

"I'm not going to argue with you Soter, you know well and damn sure you'll be rewarded with land in the west. If you'd prefer to avoid this necessary increase of tribute to help fund the war machine I'll happily discuss such dissidence with my advisers. I think they'll be more then agreeing to reward you oh so accordingly, listen to me now, listen. You're dangerously drifting from my good grace, your boys though, I think they'll make splendid successors."

"I'm sure they will... My King of Kings."

"I think they should stay here in Nebbezzar for their safety in the coming conflict, we'll send them invitations before your departure in a few days." Soter went dead silent at that, Berahthram will make it up to the man if he stays loyal throughout it all.

"Myrumbrawalde?" Berahthram lifted his head and respectfully faced the eldest among them.

"King of Kings?"

"You are the eldest of the Atrius family correct?"

"I haven't held much ties and my word among the family holds little weight to those on the mainland."

"Nonsense Niktor, from what my eyes tell me and ears hear for me the Atrius family still rank high among the Eastern Empire Company. Invite your exiled family members back from Cyrodiil, they are reconciled and forgiven for their support of the Empire... and well I'll have to raise your tribute as well. Salt and tin will be invaluable soon and I'll need a great deal from Myrumbria and Lazicurd."

Myrumbrawalde the poor old man's face looked to sag even more so, Berahthram knew how the old man disdained his Tamrielic extended family. What a life he lived though, born a man of mixed blood to be educated in Cyrodiil and even invited back to rule with his brother.. then to betray him for the natives.

"Wait, when are we declaring our intentions, against the Milhinngaets that is?" It was once again Herkomardes.

"Two things absolutely must happen before I bring this all out in the open, most importantly the Neitos army bearing the totem of Shor has to be campaigning south with the Nords. For that I need to wait until war is well and truly declared in the far south, the greatest of all the Neitos completely removed from worries without actually killing them is as best I could hope for and as such it has become. Secondly I would much prefer holding back anything until I bear Anoshurivan's crown, if I bear that crown I can wage this conflict legally."

"Legally?!" Was the overall blurted wordings of a number of the Satraps.

"Archaic laws but Athradodic laws never the less, with this the Druids technically cannot directly intervene although I suspect as do many of my advisers that the Archdruids already know of this old scheme. I believe they want this as much as we do, but are bound to their own laws. It has been the Druids who held the west together for so long, without them the Chiefdoms would have turned against one another like they had while dragons ruled. Perhaps to ease any fears of crossing the mountains marching westward I'll say this now, we won't need to put one foot from our holdings."

Berahthram didn't mind the Vulga-Hirumite being quite as the slanted eyed man never participated in anything outside his allotted land, but the Pathavan Satrap's silence angered the King of Kings. He was absolutely concocting his own schemes, he looked too much like he was listening respectfully. No man of power at his youth does that, the fool will seek glory and at Berahthram's weakest moment will declare independence. He won't deal with it the same way as with Soter, Berahthram will take hostages without announcing it from Pathava.

"Mogandaraes?"

"My kinsmen, my King of Kings."

"This is how we'll win the war, you are going to be in place of great invasions to the west. Treat the west as if it's a rebelling entity, cut off all foodstuffs and let the bastards starve, let them gather their harvests and let the nobles among them hoard the food. The Milhinngaets will overthrow their hoarding chieftains and beg for peace, a proud man can be humbled not by whips but the hoe and grain."

"That's, actually rather ingenuous Berahthram or really I extend my admiration to your advisers as well. Who in Tamriel would risk their merchants to sale foodstuffs against an armada, what kingdom would intervene?"

"The Eastern Empire Company certainly would, but there are numerous ways that will be dealt with. Mogandaraes the foodstuffs normally set aside for shipping west, I'm commissioning you to order the construction of souterrains. Under the pretense of expanding your agrarian infrastructure."

Feeling that things went better then expected Berahthram called out to all of his Satraps.

"Alright, We don't need to overload you with so much at one point. We're all exhausted and I'm sure you need time to take it all in, if restlessness does not creep in then I should think a good sleep is in order. Tomorrow my advisers will fill each of you in on the military duties that's expected of your realms, remember these words and like the Thu'um of old let it sink into your very being.

Kwarth. Roscae. Paradraya, The Kingdom of Roscrea Beyond the Sea."

With that the seven were dismissed, whatever they felt like Berahthram slept blissfully.

 

 

 

[Witchking of Angmar]

Western Roscrea
Oppidum of Boiliobris

In what followed the arrival of the Bretons at port was a surge of local traders from the surrounding minor Oppida, bringing in local commodities to barter with. It was only the Bretons arrival that sparked the attraction of locals as unlike the Eastern Empire vessel the Bretons had lawfully docked with permitted rights to trade, meanwhile the EEC's docking went unannounced. The situation had proven uneasy over the time, the Royal Casurgian caravan had long since left back east filled with what the natives considered exotic commodities. Merchants could only tolerate seeing so much trade with their rivals before snapping, each time a local having no idea the political situation seemed interested in doing business with the Eastern Empire merchants it took an nervous guardsmen outfitted in full equipment for the day to mention how unlawful the transaction would be.

After a while more established merchants from further inland in the other Oppida began arriving at the town, the city traders and merchants from closer Chiefdoms would make it a day or two before even more established natives farther east had the chance to barter. Most were quite pleased at the selection still available to them, seeing how the local traders were a bit too poor for the more lavish stock within the Breton's shop setup port side.

Fascinatingly while the local traders brought in what would be considered a rural selection, things that are traded all the time between locals yet for sailors from the mainland they could get the same thing for cheaper back home. The undoubtedly urban merchants were bringing in the exotic wears that due to distance and culture simply couldn't be found in the mainland, these were what the Bretons would make profit on.

The urban traders commonly brought in finely crafted gold pieces of artwork, each while bearing a similar cultural theme were depending on what Oppidum they came from could very well be utterly different. Two simply golden busts were bought from two different merchants one hailing northwards while the other east, they both bartered a bust depicting the archetype of a Heroic Champion. While the two bore utterly different styles with the same faces, the bizarre habits of trading with Atmoran descended peoples eventually showed it's head with a peculiar man.

The Bretons at first didn't expect much from the simply clothed man in dull brown tunic and his mule, the expressions instantly changed when presented with extremely fine crafted bunches of swords. Hilts inlaid with native gold carving designs, exotic antennas curved from the pommel and each blade bore such attention to detail in it's ridges carved lightly into each blade. His weapons drew the envy of most natives doing their own bartering about the dockyard, the craftsman of such swords was in quite the argument with a Breton.

"You can't tell me these are anything but ceremonial swords," Captain Nunier said. "No Breton in their right mind would buy these for combat."

She was the owner and operator of the Fortunate Wind, the Breton merchant vessel Captain Ofelia Kirbath had escorted to Roscrea. Captain Kirbath was well acquainted with Nunier and her shrewdness. Most anyone who sailed High Rock's northern coastline knew the old sailor was as stubborn as she was seasoned, and she held on to her coin tighter than most anyone. The results of which were evident in the fact she'd started and built her very own trading company, and then sold it for profit people only dreamed about. 

Captain Kirbath watched Nunier haggle with the humbly dressed Roscrean, and couldn't help but smile. She was a naturally bright person, but watching Nunier haggle firsthand would make even the most dour person lighten up. Of course, in this situation, Kirbath thought Nunier was wrong. The antennas on the pommels certainly looked ungainly, but as most seasoned warriors could see, the blades were sharp and well made. But for all her skills as a sailor and trader, Nunier was no fighter herself. And Kirbath was not about to correct her, preferring instead to watch the spectacle play out. 

"Where in the high hells do you come from, I craft the finest blades for my Rí Benn. Each and every one are battle worthy!" Clamored the native in half decent common, something that was a bit challenging to overcome for the Bretons. Translators had to be used for most, even still the native continued on.

"Where in the whole wide world will you find swords as exotic as these? Oh yes I can speak the haggling tongue too, you're also buying exotic swords that can be charged double mainland side!"

"Unless you plan on swimming to High Rock with the swords tied to your back, I'm your only avenue for selling these swords. And trust me, I'd rather go swimming in the Sea of Ghosts myself than convince a knight these swords are battle ready. They don't want exotic, they want useful. And the nobles aren't particularly anxious to shell out all their gold for something that'll hang on the wall," Nunier said.

Captain Kirbath felt bad for the Roscrean, and wanted to see how good Nunier was, so she said, "Well, what about those swords, without the swirly bits on the pommel. Those hilts look like an Imperial gladius. Though much better made, I'd say. Surely you can sell those for double, as the man said."

"Gladius?" Blurted out the Roscrean before any chances to speak were had. "Those basic shits of gold and iron aren't meant for selling to you, I swear I offer up swords any warrior would adore to wield into battle and yet you suggest two thousand year old basic designs gold or not. Even a swordsmith has his honor and I'd stain said honor by selling those to you men across the sea, I wouldn't want my name known across the sea as a man who only knows basic sword designs!" He looked off into space for a moment, baffled at his blades being compared to those petty short swords.

Nunier cast a sharp glance at Kirbath, but the latter's smile only grew. Nunier said, "Quit your yelling old man. Your designs are no more basic than the next. Now for the ones without the swirly bits I can meet whatever your price is for those, but the ones with them you'll have to come down on. No knight or dame is going to go into battle wielding one of them."

"Dammit Breton... I'll tell you what lets say ten bars of ebony for all my 'antennae-less' blades." The fuming redness in the native's face was fading, flabbergasted he composed himself and continued. "Maybe some Chieftains on the road home will have sense in them and buy the swords actually meant for high borns instead of common warriors. Clamp down upon my shoulder Breton if you should so agree." The native held his right hand above Nunier's shoulder.

Nunier did so, in what Kirbath assumed was the Roscrean equivalent of a handshake. The gesture done, Nunier said, "Stay right here and I'll have my sailors bring the ebony and take the swords aboard."

While the Roscrean counted his payment he took glances at the Eastern Empire vessel docked and without trade, snickering at the men on deck. Raising a coin and shaking it in their direction with a mockingly toothy grin of surprisingly decent teeth.

Kirbath kept her eyes trained on the East Empire Company vessel as the Roscrean merchant and Captain Nunier exchanged gold and goods. Kirbath was worried about what a potential conflict with the East Empire Company would mean for High Rock's trade with Roscrea, and with High Rock in general. But the Imperials stayed on their ship and there were no hostilities by the time the trading was finished. Around that time a rider arrived, scroll in hand, and approached the Imperial vessel, but Kirbath couldn't tell what that was about.

By that time, the Druid and Baron Oges had arrived on the dock with the scholar, and they departed for the Roscrean interior on their diplomatic mission. Kirbath stayed behind. Once Nunier was finished filling her hold space with Roscrean goods, she'd be escorting the merchant vessel back to High Rock, completing the first trade mission between Roscrea and High Rock in decades. 

*****

Outside the wooden gates Roscrea stretched on farther then the eye could see, before the party lay an ever stretching cobble road curving atop forgiving hills with meadows on the horizon. Imposing Menhirs stood erected here and there, with moss growing up the stones in a spiraled fashion that adorned the road.

Even with the tamed wilderness beckoning for men to cross Boiliobris' intoxicating smells of fish and oils contrasted with the land set out before them, taking his first step through the Oppidum's gates the aging Druid turned with a pleasant look about him.

"City life is certainly an adventure in it's own right, though now the simple joys in life can be appreciated. We'll be walking on foot for a couple miles to a splendid smelling little Oppidum bearing horse corrals, then on the lands will bend to we upon the chariots. We're in lowlands here, the town isn't as far as perceived. In a different time we would set out here with chariots in hand, though these times have passed with the coming of unwelcomed snakes from beyond the sea.. not yourselves mind you that I refer to."

The scholar, Demara Bracques, swept her grey streaked brown hair from her face and absorbed the Roscrean landscape unfolding before her. It was different than she expected. Less foreign. But the people and their customs more than met her expectations. She wasn't really concerned with the talk of horses and chariots or why they had to walk to the next oppidum. She turned to the Druid and asked, "Those stones, on the hills, what are they? Did the Druids erect them? Do they serve some ceremonial purpose?"

The Druid gestured with his arm jutting from those milky white robes at stones. "In many cultures certain stones are points of power, vortexes of magika. We raised the Earthbones shaping our Hermetic magic into it's core, they are far more then mere ceremonial commodities. Are there not Menhirs in Tamriel?"

"The Nords have standing stones, though I don't know in what ways they compare to these menhirs. And I do believe the Reach clans use stone pillars in their worship, though I couldn't say for what or if it's a common practice or localized. I couldn't speak to anywhere else," Demara said. "So do your menhirs enhance your magical capabilities? Why were they erected?"

"One should hope this party understands how dire our ancestor's situation was, to answer the question of Menhirs we shall discuss what came before. In days long past, when the warmth of the north quickly lay fading to the ice plagues Roscrea was seen as our last hope for haven. Through great migration the ice plagues drove our forefathers from Atmora, they descended on Roscrea. A Roscrea inhabited by the most insidious of Daedra worshiping Goblins." Pausing for a moment to take in the party's expressions the Druid continued.

"This beautiful land spread out before you now was, in those days, ripe with the Daedric influences. Our ancestors knew they could never co-exist with these heathens and so they were destroyed, our Menhirs, Sacred Groves and Standing Stones drove out the Daedric magics. The Druids of old destroyed their shrines and places of sacrifice, they trapped, cursed and banished it. Jhunal, the Hermetic God's magic safeguards Roscrea through we of his scholars."

Demara took mental note to write down what the druid said as soon as she got the chance. This line of inquiry might lead to a whole volume of books itself, let alone the volume just being on Roscrea would produce. She asked, "Do the menhirs and groves and stones still ward off Daedric influence, or was that what they did originally and now they serve some other purpose?"

"Our magics harken back to the oldest times bespoken of in his Tablet Steps, we as you see know are the third incarnation if you will. The most ancient Derwydd rode the void by way of the mind, in their oasis lead by Jhunal himself. They bore magics even we barely comprehend, it is an era lost to time, a golden age lost, paradise. The Age of Menhirs began for us when our god was slain, the oasis lay in ruins with the giants and men fleeing south. In those days of recorded history as taught to we Jhunal's scholars, the Derwydd became Drwdae. Of this era we know of, of this era cannot be spoken in swift."

Opening and closing his mouth a number of times without words, the Druid looked apologetic. "Forgive my ramblings of history in swift, the magics yes. To understand our sacred sites one must also understand the Hermetic Magics, without such insight I'm afraid it would be like speaking another language which technically it is. You seem like a learned mage, were you by chance taught in any schools of Julianos?"

"No apologies necessary. All of this information is welcome," Demara said. "No, I did not study there. I trained at the Institute for Thaumaturgic Enlightenment, where I now teach. The School of Julianos being a religions institution places stricter guidelines on its members than the Institute, and I found I work better in that kind of environment."

"If it was not obvious in our misgivings on Julianos prior it will become apparent eventually, affiliating yourself with a institution of learning outside schools of Julianos should allow for open minds. Baron, you have been most silent? Should there be anything you wish to know, give word and it shall be."

"I will," the Baron said, though he didn't seem particularly interested in the conversation. 

"So there's some disagreement with Julianos here in Roscrea?" the scholar asked. 

"The story has been told ten thousand times through a hundred thousand Kalpas, disagreements on worship. We are men of Jhunal whom has been abandoned by the Nords he so valiantly gifted such great technology upon, where do you think the ancient men of both Skyrim and Atmora traced their gifts from? There was no Julianos of those times nor were any of the other races with their gods and orders would share such achievements, do not mistake me as we the Druids are not responsible but our god is. To put it as accurately as can be, the worship of Julianos and the belief that he is Jhunal incarnated weakens the Hermetic God. Never forget this, mortal worship is one of the most powerful forces upon Nirn." It was with that last sentence for but a moment the relaxed old man's face hardened.

The Baron did interject this time. "If I were you, I wouldn't go spreading these ideas in High Rock. The School of Julianos has enough influence that trying to undermine Julianos would likely damage Roscrea's relationship with High Rock."

Demara said, "He has a point. Though the Druids of Galen might welcome contact with your Roscrean Druids. They have a unique pantheon. I believe their chief deities are Y'ffre, Jhunal, and Kyne? Or is it Kynareth? It's strange, to be sure. Part old Nordic, part Elvish, maybe some Imperialization."

"Oh, no, no you mistake me Baron. We are not Imperials seeking to covert the unwilling, our adventures within Skyrim are blessed by their soon to be High King. Our order is returning the worship of old to those who are willing, although it is best to hold tongues around the older Druids of inland. There are many who find the very concept of other races worshiping our gods appalling, myself having spent a great deal of time in Boilibrios do not share our esoteric mindset. To our order the mystery school are for the chosen few."

The Baron nodded and was silent, though Demara quickly filled the gap. Something struck her all of the sudden, and she asked, "What are the requirements to become a Druid? Is it a caste one is born into, or must you prove yourself worthy somehow? Can anyone become one, with enough study?" 

For a fleeting moment the Druid was silent, as if mulling over a response or if one should be given at all before breaking his momentary silence.

"It is as you would expect, our order favors those with inert talents for the clever craft, naturally gifted in mind or magic. We teach all but take in few, outside classes have no meaning within our holy sites, there are only Druids and Archdruids, Jhunal and the Owl. However one cannot come forth to the Druids seeking the mystery schools, among ourselves we choose whom to invite. The decisions are made among the Fifty Pillars, with the Empire having destroyed our most holy site two centuries prior the Fifty Pillars became our heart, time will tell if it shall be turn out."

"How many are you?" Demara asked. "It sounds like a rather exclusive group. Do you have a council of sorts to make decisions, or is there a single figure who heads the order?"

"As a matter of fact, there are around fourteen hundred of us roughly speaking. A few hundred of which are in Skyrim with the blessings of Jarl Baldur of Windhelm, did I already say that?" He looked confused for a moment.

"Ah anyhow the greatest of our order are the Archdruids, there are never nine nor eleven of them but never past it; if that makes any sense? In doctrine it is said the Archdruids are humbled by our patron god Jhunal, however I believe that's symbolic to which it is the Archdeuids rule the order."

Baron Oges asked, “Do the Archdruids meet centrally or do they reside over certain sections of Roscrea?”

"That I'm afraid is not to my knowledge, among themselves they communicate in secret ways." The old man replied. "Although the Fifty Pillars are the center of Druidic power, it is now our greatest holy site. As I mentioned the Empire had destroyed our most holy site in their invasion."

Hey piped up again immediately afterwards. "My young scholar if you should so wish it the Fifty Pillar's libraries are open to friends and allies of the Druids."

"Oh yes, I would love to go there. Is it on our way? Can we stop there?" Demara asked.

"It is a ways off our beaten path, after the good Baron is satisfied with his choice of connections I will take you. However I should warn you well in advance, don't steal from us please. Come to us if you wish to secure any writings."

“Of course, I wouldn’t think of stealing from you. Besides it being unwise, I wish to learn from you, and to inform the rest of Tamriel about you as well. I think our study of magic can progress quite a lot if we understand your methods of magic.”

"Oh goodness you flatter us too much, we are not so advanced in our magics that it would further Tamriel's institutions. Besides what we'd happily share with you would hold no ground in the mainland, simply put very few I suspect would give two copper coins about alchemy, astrology, and theosophy."

“Oh, I believe there’s an audience for it. In more open minded and less rigid magical schools. I wouldn’t be writing a book on your Druidic magics if I didn’t believe there would be an interest in such a thing.”

"We've passed quite the time, well out of the town's earshot. We're not directly taking the roads, it's best whatever spies are trickling in believes they are hidden and for that we most tread overgrown paths." He gestured to the northwest with his hand.

"Whatever you may or may not see know that in my company you are untouchable, we are to greet one of Roscrea's many rather militaristic religious orders. There I will recall our party to a secluded grove, to which we will continue."

"Are spies a danger here?" the Baron asked. "I would prefer we travel quickly so that we could meet as many important figures as possible. My knowledge on this place is still lacking more than I would like, and I feel introducing myself to as many important figures as possible would give me some foundation here."

"I'm sure the Druid knows best, Baron Oges," Demara said, ignoring the Baron's slightly disdainful glance.

As if the conversation made the Druid visibly tired, halting the party.

"Listen please, there will be plenty of opportunities to established diplomatic ties. I don't wish to frighten either of you... but it is increasingly likely this region will become a place of conflict, Boiliobris is gripped by malevolent minds all the while we are being encroached upon by the Empire. If there was to be terrible war here then I would prefer you be safe further inland, as for this talk of spies there is a simply answer. The Empire's greatest spies have been lost to legend yet we will not falter to hubris as the Empire does daily. Come, it is not far."

*****

Leading them away from cobbled roads the Druid led his Breton companions across cultivated hills, distant goat herders looked on in bewilderment. Treading along these hills the Druid had adopted to walk barefoot claiming the grounds he walked on owed him favors to which a pleasurable walk was his payment, the time went by filled with theological discussions between Demara and the old man.

Both parties opted to avoid arguments out of respect, Demara fascinated the native with Breton mythologies while the Druid spoke of mystery schools and soothsayers; how ancient spells were learned in olden days. Some quite grisly, such as his descriptive explanation on reading a warrior's splayed guts could teach teach how to steal his power through whispered words.

When a rather peculiarly shaped hill displayed itself the native became rather giddy, after cresting it he happily exclaimed that one day the two should seek out a festival among the many natural amphitheaters the Druids were known to preform within. Proclaiming it one of the few great pleasures of Roscrea.

There wasn't much else of note on their journey, the forgiving hills and meadows sprawled with monolithic menhirs slowly gave way to harsher rocky crags where now dolmens dominated the landscape. Giving a bit of forewarning to the two Bretons never to enter a dolmen lest they wish to be cursed, for they were foreigners and the spirits within would be most hostile.

Bearing his footwear once again the Druid touched briefly on Western Roscrea's geography, describing it rather jokingly as a land of crags, canyons, hills and plateaus bearing grasslands.

As the day's end approached the wildlife marked it's closure, finally all three came to a stop before what would barely be considered a mountain. While still having a little ways to go before reach it, the structures atop it were clearly visible. A series of interconnected brochs rose above the rocks, immediately the Baron was reminded of a Breton castle... albeit from this distance it hardly looked like one. However the redundancies of it's defenses was inspirational, like a true Tamrielic castle. It's ascent made siege equipment very impractical, not to mention just from here the Baron could see no less then seven structures he associated with gatehouses leading up the only viable path.

"I hope it pleases you Baron, certainly not a High Rock castle but the location is to die for."

"It is indeed. There's a castle called Cavern Mount in High Rock that's similar to this. Built atop a sheer-sided plateau, the only entrance is at the base and one must ascend inside the mountain, through a series of caverns and tunnels. As many gatehouses as this place has, though, I imagine it would be just as difficult to assault," Baron Oges said.

Demara asked, "What's this place called? Do you know its age?"

"At least five hundred fourty to seventy years old, the brochs are an addition thirty years old while the village; obscured by the mountain's face was established when the copper mine was discovered. Originally founded as Buma'Galaiogad it now stands as one of the few examples of your Tamrielic common tongue in use over native language. Divine's Lament as it stands now, as you are of the faith I hope it does not disturb you. All the priests and Imperial Cult members in the west who could not flee were brought to a deep fire pit and all the priests and all their amulets were melted into the earth."

For a moment it seemed he was finished yet found the need to add more. "I do pity the loss of priests however, while I curse the cult into Oblivion most of the southern temples came as healers and missionaries with good intentions. The order I spoke of prior here are the Oathtaken Drwdaeic Brothers of Wulfharth beyond the Sea, I would not compare too much with Breton orders not that I know much of them, do you know of the legendary Wulfharth?"

Demara was frenetically writing down what the Druid said, so she did not hear or answer the question. Baron Oges said, "I do. I know he's a legendary hero in Skyrim. In High Rock we know him because his removal of the Direnni from Skyrim helped bring about their downfall. And our freedom."

 

"Ah we have a common hero to some extent, even before Ysmir became High King of Skyrim he was renowned throughout all Atmora. His clan bless be their memory did not survive without him, they joined the frozen kings while we fled. In mirroring Wulfharth's actions through fierce reinstatement of proper, excuse me please, locally proper worship they have earned kinship to his memory."

The trio walking about the mountain's face allowed the village coming into view, alongside with the 'castle' in full. The folk had long retired for the night leaving the four or five dozen roundhouse buildings, mostly consisting of thatch roofs with a wooden frame supporting a somewhat mud adobe walls, a few roundhouses looked to be two stories and had walls of mortar supported stone instead of mud adobe walls.

It was evident the village had been destroyed prior from the imprints the old wall made against the ground alongside where housings once stood as well, whatever the old one looked like the current was a simple palisade with an internal dirt rampart circling the village. Since the sun was setting it was a bit hard to tell though a quick question for the Druid confirmed they were growing flax in the cultivatable land, mostly using pastoral means for food.

Looming on the first 'gatehouse' leading up the mountain the stone masonry looked to be held together without mortar, moderately high walls stretched up the path though these lacked any kind of maticulations albeit at least they had decent crenelations. The bored looking men manning the gatehouse conversed in native tongue with the Druid, they were equipped in a bronze kit that was reminiscent of much older Nordic gear.

The men in the first gatehouse blew their lengthy bronze horns just so, it was the most foul thing Demara had ever heard. Otherworldly in the unromanticized way, the fairly steep hike up the around the curling pathway walled on both sides and barring any chance of subverting the passage was evident when the mountain had a gap just so at the top. The trio found the other gatehouses open making the horn blowing's purpose evident, redundancies are good and well but the particular Roscrean who designed this took at to the extreme, Far more then what was necessary. 

Finally after hearing no less then thirteen gates closing behind them the walls reached and covered the gap, Baron Oges noted what looked like a castle was really two highly fortified.. he couldn't find the right thought for them. The lower of the two lacked a central keep and consisted of small brochs, while leading up on the opposite side was a much more intimidating set sight. While a mortar less stone wall surrounded the perimeter the higher of the two structures was another enclosed space with a wall of it's own.

This housed a true central keep that soared into the air, it was the largest of the brochs and the closest resembling something the Bretons 'might' have built, having proper maticulations and crenelations. Albeit the complete lack of windows or features made the conically shaped broch a strange thing indeed.

Right on the cusp of entering into the enclosed wall leading up to the central keep the Druid of course stopped the party.

"Well it's been a dauntingly long day, it's up to you both. We could retire our selves for the night and all break bread tomorrow or Baron you could establish yourself with the great men here tonight."

Baron Oges took a moment to wonder if what amounted to the Roscrean keep would hold up against bombardment, magical or physical, being that it was made with mortarless construction methods. The defense in general seemed sound, if exceedingly foreign in appearance. He turned to look at the Druid as Demara sketched a few items of note. Oges said, "I think I'll meet with them tonight. I want to waste no time in making introductions with the leadership here and elsewhere."

"Oh to be younger, I envy you Baron. Alright, lets make for the keep."

The Druid raised arm up and swirling his hand singled the enclosed wall's gatehouse to open up, the important infrastructure limited as it may be lay inside. A partially cobbled path connected the two dozen brochs and it's central keep, most notably were the only buildings that weren't brochs. The castle didn't have a single ridiculously talented blacksmith forging everything, instead there looked to be specialized smithies with a decently equipped getup. Only two folks were working at the moment, cobblers by the looks of things fasting a pair of footwear.

Whatever else was within the enclosed wall wasn't made obvious from the outside, at least what the Baron saw on his short pace to the keep.

The Tamrielic influence was there, the machicolations facing outward at the top looked entirely Imperial esque, while the merlons looked a blend between Nordic and native Roscrean. The entrance was the damnedest looking thing, it was a circular shape with three rings each getting smaller until in the center was a heavy looking door knocker. Which the Druid banged against the entrance's metalwork consistently until the ring furthest away from the knocker began circling to which the old man released the handle, it took a minute but all three rings turned with loud clicks and the entrance sunk down.

A single man within apparently operating the entrance alone held the Druid and by extension all of them by conversing briefly, it was becoming obvious that away from Boiliobris less natives held no grasp of the Tamrielic languages. Sharing a laugh and patting the other's shoulder the now red faced old man ushered the the Baron and scholar inside.

Inside a voice went on with a few others chiming in at times, once again in native tongue and a floor above. Whatever was on the ground floor of the broch Oges would have to find out later as he was immediately led up spiraling stairs. Greeted by the site of numerous men sitting about around a fire pit in the floor wrapped in various layers of fur blankets looking warm and pleased paying attention to man laying about on the floor, captivating the men in a language the Baron didn't understand. If he had to guess by the look of things, a bard or Roscrean equivalent.

The man continued with his talking even while eyes and heads turned towards the trio.

Once their conversation dropped and they looked expectantly towards the trio, Baron Oges stepped forward and bobbed his head in a bow. "My lords, I am Baron Vincent Oges, of High Rock. The esteemed master Druid is guiding me on my tour of your land, so that I might meet with the leaders of chiefs of Roscrea, and establish relations between our lands."

Repeating his words in their native tongue all the Baron could make out was 'High Rock and Baron Oges', the old man then nudged the Baron towards the center both taking their places around the men. One pushed off their furs to shuffle through a chest grabbing a clump of the things with both hands and tossed them to both the Druid and Baron.

"Oges, the men sitting counterclockwise from myself are Bol', Karaktoi, Chieftain and head of these oathtaken men Akaluthwain" the therefore mentioned Chieftain gripped a chalice next to him off the ground and raised it, that much at least told Oges the fading orange headed man understand Tamrielic. "Eppillos, Uxellodunmoi, Epactes, Lugidacos, Dál Domnul, Fiachnae and Gaesoroi. All are nobles that have forgone the old surnames and taken up Wulfthanoz as their hallowed clan name, speak as you wish and I will translate."

"A pleasure to meet you, My Lords," the Baron said. He turned to the Druid. "I would have you ask them what they seek out of trade and alliance with High Rock. What do they hope to gain?"

"With unrest growing in Boiliobris it has been planned and debated, should the Oppidum at the poisoning words of the Empire enter open revolt Akaluthwain will gather men under the singing stones and march upon it. Should we be successful and I believe we will Akaluthwain will claim Chiefdom over the Oppidum and co-rule through Dál Domnul, the former here and the latter in Boiliobris; Dál Domnul." The Druid directed the last part at the man, relaying the Baron's words. Dál Domnul and a few others gave answers of various length.

At last the Druid eyed Oges. "Baron, they speak for the surrounding area that trade limited in copper and flax will continue regardless. All swore against the Eastern Empire Company and might I add accused them of spreading the Imperial Cult, these accusations are not taken lightly by either rural nor urban Oppida if you understand my meaning. As for local trade deals they didn't much speak of anything, just to continue as bespoken in contract. As for alliance there was a bit of confusion on what you meant exactly, asking if they were being excluded from the treatisest established in Skyrim. I am honestly confused as well, I was under the impression that by entering into this alliance of man that we were de facto allied to your league?"

"I unfortunately do not know the particulars of our alliance with Skyrim. An agreement was made between Skyrim, High Rock, and Hammerfell under High King Ulfric Stormcloack, but he is dead, and Skyrim has not High King. What that means for the alliance I do not know. It could be someone in Skyrim admitted your people into the alliance, but as far as I am aware, that has not been fully established with regards to the rest of the kingdoms of the alliance. Skyrim has called a moot, and a representative of my King will be there. Hopefully one of the next trade vessels will have a letter for me that sheds light on the matter," Baron Oges said. "Who was it, if I may ask, that admitted your people into the alliance?"

"It was Jarl Baldur of Windhelm, a contender for the position of High King. Surely no matter the political victor our trading rights and alliance will be honored."

Akaluthwain leaned out of his furs once the old Druid finished, looking at the Baron intensely.

"Jarl Baldur, he claims to be Shor son of Shor, incarnation of hallowed Ysmir. True?"

"I'm afraid I know little of the goings on in Skyrim, and even less of what Jarl Baldur claims to be. My King is backing him for High King and leader of our alliance, but as to his claims to be Wulfharth reborn, I cannot say, though I doubt it. They say he is a Tongue, though, and certainly an interesting man."

"A Tongue indeed, the Singing Stones erupted with a crack of doom at his Thu'um and anothers. If he is truly Shor son of Shor we will find ourselves bound to his cause, he will walk the world again. If indeed he is Ysmir and well somehow Ysmir reborn urging Druids ah yes I know, to spread word of Talos is awkward to say the least. This does not sit well with the faithful Druids in Skyrim."

"My lords do know the Nords fought a lengthy civil war to preserve their Talos worship, correct?"

"I was not, this is alarming I think-"  Quickly the Druid stopped whatever verbally ruinous thing Akaluthwain was saying.

"Best we not speak in a negative light on our allies, Talos or Ysmir they are still returning to our shared ancestor's worship. Baron to you I ask unofficially should the need arise would the armada be granted access to sail through High Rock's oceaniac territories, for the war effort as we thought wrongfully of ourselves as de facto allies effort should be made now with noble witnessnes for treatesies. I have no authority to enter Roscrea into alliance but I can lay the groundwork."

"I'm sure King Theodore would permit such passage, if the time comes. Once the moot in Skyrim decides things I imagine the leaders there will hammer out the particulars of the alliance. But I will certainly pass word on to King Theodore concerning this, if you wish." 

One of the local nobles, Karaktoi amidst scratching an itch under his beard directed something in his native tongue towards Oges. He spoke what sounded like the same language but his delivery was much more guttural and of a different dialect than the men around him, barely moving his lips to boot.

The Druid translated word per word, or at least as he claimed the closest translation.

"A glorious breakaway from the Mongrelmen leaves the unified hill kingdoms in tense relationship, if war to come to hill kingdoms would war come to Oppidum Kabracte? Translation bastardizes our language I'm afraid Baron, but it was wished I speak absolutely true to his word and not extrapolate for sake of proper flowing."

"Yes, well, I'm afraid I don't understand the question. I'm not here to meddle in Roscrea's internal affairs, only to foster a relationship between High Rock and Roscrea. Any infighting or politics here are beyond my concern, and I would prefer to stay neutral in that regard."

"No, no.. eh no Baron he means of Cyrodiil, the 'Mongrelmen' being Imperials. I suspect a large pool of adventurous tribesmen might wish to strike out their wealth as mercenaries, traditionally if we weren't fighting the southeastern islanders we'd be fighting for them as mercenaries. He asks if contract is struck up with his bondsmen that it will not bring war to his Oppidum, could under Tamrielic laws be protected as say Fighter's Guild. Well I think I just did exactly what Karaktoi didn't want, extrapolating to help fill the translation."

"I think that would be a question for the Imperials. How they employ and certify mercenaries isn't something I know. I would say there's always the threat of something bad happening while they're away, whether it be related to their mercenary work or not. Most mercenaries in Tamriel do not have typical families and stationary villages. They are an itinerant lot."

"Baron, I don't think he's talking about the Imperials. Karaktoi inherited the position of Chieftain but he and his bondsmen have never settled down, there's so little to do it drives men away but the longing for home brings them back only to repeat it again."

Baron Oges almost snapped at the man about this infernal translating. It wasn't something he was used to and it was maddening. Clearing his throat and scratching at the scar where his nose used to be, he said, "Master Druid, if you could please enlighten me as to what it is exactly he wants to know, I could better answer. As it is I'm not sure what his wandering and mercenary work has to do with High Rock."

Akaluthwain was grinning ear to ear, all the while the Druid spoke in a much more forced tone with Karaktoi. Akaluthwain had his own brief conversation with the Baron.

"Forgive Karaktoi Baron, he and his folk are goat herders farther north up in the canyons. He's trying to be political and falling short, having the hallowed Druid speak in his archaic dialect but in your language. He wants your people's gold and will give his temporary service along with the goat herders barely considered bondsmen, I'm afraid you brought about the subject when you talked about alliances with High Rock."

"Hmph. Well, I can pass that message along to King Theodore as well, though a response will likely take a while. I would suggest he keep looking for work, as I don't think the prospects for mercenaries in High Rock are very good these days."

"Ah well their grazing lands are always there, Karaktoi is a subservient Chieftain to myself and while I wish the best for him as brother through oaths it would be better still for us all to remain in Roscrea. Of course this is just a loop for you Baron, talking without result is wasting breath so I give reason for our voice. Were I to put forth a request for the eh, acquisition of advanced treatises on Breton war-magics would you pass on the request from a Drwdae Cingetoi unto the merchants? I am not fabulously wealthy but surely enough."

"There are such books. I'm sure a few copies could be brought aboard the next merchant vessels headed here. Once the merchants begin to arrive more frequently they will be sending emissaries out to contact the various oppidum. I do not intend to be a permanent relay between you and they. But I can certainly put in a request in the mean time." Baron Oges didn't feel the need to mention the exact training methods of Breton war-mages varied from city to city, and between the magical institutions the mages studied at. The books would only be so useful, which is how he preferred it. Better the Roscreans not know everything about High Rock's military. 

"A bit of a setback Baron." The Druid finishing his conversation with Karaktoi addressed Oges. "But don't let this experience mull your opinion, much more folks know your language in Ecoriobriga, think upon all the good in the works. It was under my impression again with the word that this rabble was prepared for serious state of mind, albeit the Skald; wherever he went off to would have been a good opportunity for some entertainment. Ah Baron I don't have the energy left in me tonight for any sort of recalling, I know I'd miscast and that'd be frustrating. Whenever you're ready I think we shall retire for the night."

"Yes, I think that would be best." Baron Oges turned to face the Roscrean chieftains and gave a bow of his head. "My lords, thank you for meeting with me tonight."

 

*****

Akaluthwain watched Oges and the Druid speak in a foreign tongue that should have never been brought to Roscrea, they blabbered on about sleeping arrangements and just like that left for the ground floor.

Minus the crackling hearth the Broch was silent while the two below were still in ear shot, once the sliding mechanisms of the entrance went about their rounds only then did the Chieftains within speak. Uxellodunmoi was the first to speak through gritted teeth in proper tongue.

"******* foreigners, what makes these grubby little half elfs any different than the Mongrelmen?"

"Not once did that hillman speak of kinship through battle, he would have us die against the Mongrelmen and reap our harvests." Spoke another.

"And what of the benefits?" Proclaimed Akaluthwain. "Will wealth not trickle down to us? I find the heathen reasonable but I would not serve him as mercenary." He raised his eyebrows at Karaktoi whom only snorted in response. 

Dál Domnul had his moment to give thought. "Profit from the eyes of Chieftains comes from fire and war, profit from the eyes of traders comes from wordspeak and harvest. This Breton confuses me, the man looks hardened yet he speaks only of trade, I assume Baron is a suffix for merchant and does not see the way we do, he did not offer his bondsmen nor kinship and so we must think as traders."

"Traders eh" Bol' didn't at all seem amused now that he didn't have to put on a show of good faith for the Druid's behalf. "The easterners trade with the even farther easterners, look at what became of them; obsessed with daftly silk. I remember my grandfather's stories of Steppe kings, who instead of Akavir silk they wore the flayed skin of their enemies over the scales! I do not wish my sons to wear Breton cloth or eat Breton spices or wield Breton spears. The Nords will bring us wealth without conversion, they were as we are."

"Ah but the Hillmen make enemies with our old enemies" Spoke Fiachnae. "The faithful Druids speak of Nordic friendship to the Mongrelmen, we cannot trust our kinsmen; but should the pleasure whore seek Roscrean women to **** and Roscrean grazing lands to burn I think the Nords who obsess over their Imperial Talos will bend their back and pucker their lips." -That comment caused a snickering about the Chieftains. "But if what was said is true the whore hates Hillmen, if war comes to the Hillmen and we bring our Bondsmen to their aid why they are bound to us through kinship."

"You old women and your philosophy, way I see it the Nords are Imperials living in the snow. They lost any claim of Atmoran decent when they started worshiping Talos, but I'll take their furs and their mead any day." Epactes never was one for learning in the groves and standing stones.

Akaluthwain raised his voice a bit as the Chieftains began talking over one another. 

"Of all things we say, it has little impact. The Breton has chosen to watch from afar and so we are of no importance, he does not care about our coming conflict and that's the end of it; we'll trade our flax and copper... Where did that Skald make off to, damn Breton interrupted the Saga.

 

 

 

[Witchking of Angmar]

Senna Silver
County Chorrol

The sun rose at Senna’s back as she looked over the Colovian Highlands. My new home, she thought, taking in the shorter trees and hills that were bathed in white winter sunlight, which was filtered through the clouds that clung to the horizon and the tall threadbare trees of the Great Forest which stood behind her. In truth, their new home lay in the transitional area between the forest and the highlands. When Senna faced east, it looked as though the trees enveloped everything, while looking west brought the openness the rocky ground afforded.

Their home was Fort Carmala, a ruin that had little more than one quarter of the drum tower still standing. Her soldiers busied themselves with felling trees to the east, or cutting stones to the west, and already she could see the vision of the new Silver Brigade. Here, just south of Chorrol and the Black Road, and just north of a small village, they could easily attract new business. The fort was nearly empty when they arrived, with less then ten bandits residing in the ruins. They were easily dealt with by the hundred or so members of the Silver Brigade, much to the delight of the nearby villagers, who offered payment for the job.

Instead, Senna offered them an exchange of work for work, and so the loggers and stonecutters among them were helping her men bolster their new home. Some of the villagers seemed more excited about the new Brigade than the Brigadiers, since having a fighter’s styled guild on their doorstep meant no more harassment from bandits.

As for the soldiers themselves, Senna had paid them all as soon as she got word about what happened to her sister and Sibbi. A couple dozen left as soon as they had coin in their pockets, most going along with the officer Frostien Charascel to form their own group, but many more stayed. Senna still had enough coin to get them settled in nicely, and that was only bolstered when Sir Liric and Jolie Bielle, the officers who went with Sosia to the Imperial City, met up with them where the Black Road met the Red Ring. They had forty soldiers, the rest dead or deserted, but they also had a good deal of the other half of the payment. With that money and the money Senna had, they had more than enough to live on while they settled down, with enough left over to pay some masons from Chorrol to help rebuild the fort.

All the work going on obviously attracted the attention of the Count of Chorrol, who sent a lone emissary to inquire about who the hell this small army was, and what hell they were doing. With a good deal more tact, and a good deal more anxiousness. Senna was glad to see the emissary, though, because it allowed her to make good on her promise to the Emperor to settle down, and more quickly than he dictated. The emissary had returned to the Count, and hadn’t bothered them since. Senna knew that could mean he was waiting for the Legion’s arrival to oust them, or he was content with whatever answer he received from the capital. Just to be safe, Senna had some scouts watching to the north and east, since the nearest legion was at Fort Nikel.

All of this, the new home, the safety they would soon have, hell, even their still large numbers, should have boosted Senna’s spirits. But she couldn’t find happiness, even seeing how well the future was for her company. It seemed all so empty, so pointless, with her sister gone. She’d cried for the first time since childhood when she heard. The specifics, of how the man they sought, Boldir, broke into Sibbi’s home and slaughtered them all, sent her on a rampage. She berated the messenger for believing one man could kill Sosia and Sibbi’s sellswords. But when Sir Liric and Jolie corroborated the story, she wondered just what kind of monster they’d been seeking.

It all seemed so pointless, in retrospect. The vengefulness that drove them into Duke Mon’s service only kept them from the lucrative world of High Rock. Then Sibbi’s job, which seemed so easy and profitable, ended up being a nightmare. Now Senna was without her sister, hundreds of miles from home, her numbers almost halved, and now their days as true sellsword company were finished. They’d be resigned to small affairs, and never again truly see the battlefield.

At the very least, Senna was glad with the sight they’d chosen to build their new future. The fort would be the perfect guildhall, and a couple more buildings would be good enough to house the rest of the company. With Chorrol close by, and the Imperial City and Skingrad not terribly far away, business would be good.

Senna gave a half-hearted smile and turned her attention towards the loggers in the east. A fresh tree fell and crashed through the canopy onto the ground with a thunderous crack. It must have disturbed the creatures of the forest, because she saw a large eagle silhouetted against the rising sun. It wheeled over the camp a few times before heading back toward the forest.

Senna turned back toward the camp, turning in a slow circle so as to take in the work her soldiers were doing. Good work, honest work, and for that she was proud. Thinking of their last two jobs left a bitter taste in her mouth, and she wondered if the hadn’t faced some cosmic retribution for the things they’d done, for killing Orcish refugees and then hunting a young girl. Now, though, they’d help people, really help them, and Senna hoped that would allow her to take her mind off her sister, and she could start anew here in Cyrodiil.

***

Senna and her Silver Brigadiers have got themselves a new home. Asgen Tyne smiled wickedly. He couldn't wait to ruin that for them.
Climbing down from his vantage point in the treetops, the Nord rejoined Christophe and his sister where they waited for him on the forest floor. "I couldn't make out much," he admitted. "The trees are a lot taller nearer to the fort."

"It doesn't matter," Faida said in response. While her brother had been climbing trees, she had spent the last hour in quiet meditation, focusing in on the Greys and preparing in them the spells that she felt would most likely be useful in their planned kidnapping. "Christophe sent out Erer while you were up there. He'd have gotten a better view."

"Erer?" Asgen started to remind his sister that Erer was a pet when the eagle suddenly burst forth from the forest canopy as if it had heard its name. The massive bird's wings flapped to slow its descent as it came down to land on its master's arm. "There's no way," Asgen said aloud. "There's no damned way that bird is capable of scouting work."

Christophe beamed as he stroked the feathers behind Erer's head. Christophe said, more playfully than the Tynes had ever heard him, "I think you hurt his feelings, Asgen."

Erer then fluttered to the ground, and in doing so cleared the pine needles and leaves from the forest floor, creating a patch of dirt. There he scratched two rudimentary symbols: the first one was an 'X', the second two parallel lines. Christophe squatted down and looked at them for a moment. When he stood he brushed the dirt off the pants he'd traded his robes in for and took Erer back up on his arm. "The first one means danger. But we knew that. The second one means he found a path."

Asgen shook his head in wonder. "That's uncanny, that is." He folded his arms and nodded towards Erer. "I'm gonna go out on a limb here and wager he can also show us this path."

"That he can. We need only to follow him when we're ready," Christophe said.

"I could use a walk." Asgen glanced over at where his sister still sat with her little totems strewn out in front of her. "You ready, Sis?"

"Aye," Faida answered, scooping up the bones and brushing the runes out of the dirt. Her time had been especially well spent, for the gods had seen fit to fill her nostrils with the scents of blood and magic, both of which ran deep in these lands. The bones of the earth were practically exposed for one who knew how to touch them. "I'm ready."

Her brother turned to Christophe. "And you?"

"I am as well," Christophe said, lifting his pack from the ground and putting it on. "Erer will lead the way."

The cliff eagle lifted off with a smooth leap into the air, and within a few beats of his wings he was back above the canopy. This time he stuck close to the treetops, both concealing himself to the Brigadiers while also allowing the Tynes and Christophe to follow him without risk of losing sight. His low flown course kicked up a few agitated sparrows and one especially perturbed kite, but nothing ventured close to Erer once they caught wind of him. 

Christophe led the land bound group, having the most experience tracing on the ground the routes Erer mapped in the air. He moved along without much need for quiet, until Erer banked and doubled back and drew a triangle in the air. Erer then flew to a higher altitude and took up what could only be a lookout position, while Christophe slowed to a stop and turned to his companions. "There are people up ahead. They aren't Brigadiers, from what Erer saw. At least, they aren't armed like the Brigadiers. That's usually what he goes off of, weapons and armor."

"Whatever they are, it sounds like we can take 'em." Asgen answered, his hand moving instinctively to the hilt of his dagger. "If they ain't Brigadiers, they must be from that nearby village. Either way, they might be able to give us some information."

"Yeah, and then go straight to Senna and tell her we're here for her," Faida chided.

"Not if they don't know." Turning back to Christophe, Asgen said, "Can Erer tell us how far they are?"

"He can't give us a measurement," the Breton scribe said. "But he can go circle above them, to mark their location. Will that do?"

"It's better than nothing." Asgen answered. "I can climb another tree to see where he's flying."

Christophe turned and looked toward the sky, and after a few seconds of looking Erer came into view. Quick hand motion, a seemingly innocuous scratching of the back of his neck, he called the eagle down. Christophe kneeled in the dirt, drew first a triangle and then a spiral, and with one look Erer understood the message took to skies once more.

"Which way is he headed?" Christophe asked Asgen, who was already clambering up one of the larger trees nearby.

"Just a moment," he called down. Within seconds, Asgen was high enough in the thick canopy that he was lost to the others, and it wasn't long before he emerged again to the morning skies, unshielded by the thick blanket of leaves. It didn't take long for him to spot Erer. Just as Christophe had said, the eagle was soaring in wide circles not half a league to the southwest. He climbed back down, and eventually dropped from a low branch just beside Faida. "Southwest," he said. "Not far from the fort."

"What do we want to do?" Christophe asked, scratching at his bearded cheeks. "If we could take their clothing and tools, we might be able to go in disguised."

"Aye, we probably could." Asgen grinned. "Stealing from villagers... You've got some real backbone for a scribe. Have I told you that?"

Christophe smiled back and said, clearly in jest, "I was hoping to stop you from suggesting we kidnap them like you wanted to do to that priest back in the city. Or something worse."

"Well that's no fun." He bent down and retrieved his shield, fixing its strap over his shoulder. It was nearing time to set the jokes aside. "We can move from here on foot. The horses ain't going anywhere, and no one's gonna find them hidden in the woods."

"If we disguise ourself as villagers, our things might make us stand out," Christophe said. "Are we gonna leave them here, or near where the villagers are?"

"The closer the better," replied Asgen. "If things go south, I'd like to be able to get back to our gear quickly."

"Good idea." Christophe gave one last tug on the reins of his horse, making sure they were secured to the tree branch. "I'm all set." 

"Then let's be off."

The twins and Christophe started in the direction that Erer had indicated, moving easily through the trees and brush now that the sun was good and up. Asgen whistled a variation of Over the Seas and Far Away for a short while, but stopped when he knew they would soon be drawing within hearing range of their destination. Sure enough, it wasn't long before they could hear two men loudly conversing. Asgen motioned for Christophe to stay low, and then all together, they crept closer, taking great care not to snap any twigs or walk heavily through the dead leaves.

"-wouldn't come all the way down here." one of the men finished saying. It was just him and one other fellow, sitting in the middle of a small glade beside a pair of bedrolls and some logging gear.

"Ya never know with these things," his friend answered. "Hackdirt ain't what it used't be. Could be we've earned someone's ire."

Asgen did not much care what they were talking about. Certainly not enough to sit here and eavesdrop. Leaving his shield behind a tree, he stepped out of hiding. "Hello fellas."

"By the depths!" One of the men leapt to his feet, and the other nearly fell over where he sat. The one who stood, a portly Nord with wispy brown hair and a mustache, instantly scooped up his woodcutting axe and barked, "Don't you know how dangerous it is to sneak up on strangers in the woods, boy?"

Faida snorted. "Yeah, boy," she said, steping into view along with Christophe. "You should really think these things through."

"Oh, har har," grumbled the woodcutter. "Why don't you three just move on along? We're not keen on sharing conversation with strangers."

"I'm Drasgen," Asgen said, placing a hand on his chest. "This is my sweet sister Moira, and our friend, Theodore. There you go. We're no longer strangers."

By now, the second woodcutter had recovered and climbed to his own feet. "We still don't wanna talk to you. 'Specially seeing as how you snuck up on us like you did. So get going."

Asgen glanced at Christophe and shrugged. "Alright then," He drew his longsword, causing the men to immediately take a couple steps back. "I think I can speak for everyone when I say that a conversation is more pleasant than an interrogation, but really, either one works... Oh, and we want your clothes. And gear."

The two men shared a look, one that the twins had seen many times before. When the woodcutters turned to run, Asgen was already coming at them and Faida was already preparing a spell. The Nordic man managed to take all of three steps before Asgen had grabbed him by the shirt and thrown him into the dirt. His friend collapsed beside him, sound asleep.

"Get off me, Cur!" spat the Nord as he squirmed, apparently having forgotten the axe he'd dropped. "Damned Outsiders!"

Asgen ignored the insults and tossed his sword aside so he could wrestle down the man's arms. He looked back to call over Chrisophe, only to find that the scribe was already beside him with rope at the ready. "Good man. Help me tie him up and get a gag in his mouth."

Christophe was still trying to hide his smile from the names Asgen gave the trio. He wrapped the rope around the man's hands and tied it, but had to untie it when he realized he hadn't tied up the man's feet. His tanned cheeks turned soft red and he apologized as he untied the man and then tied him back, this time securing both his hands and feet. He look around for a gag until he settled on the bedrolls. Faida tossed him her dagger and he cut off two pieces. He gave Faida her knife back and one of the strips, then took the other back and stuffed it in the man's mouth. The man grunted and rolled, but couldn't stand or move very well.

Christophe then whispered "Sorry" before he turned to Asgen and said, "Hey, uh, Drasgen, we better put that axe somewhere. He might try and cut himself out." 

"Good thinking." Asgen picked up the axe and studied it for a moment. He then rested it on his shoulder and looked at the gagged logger. "Actually, I think I'll keep it. You don't mind, do you?"

"Mmph," the man answered.

"Much appreciated." The sellsword grinned and hoisted the prisoner by the suspenders and sat him down with his back against a tree. "Now, we've got some questions for you. Nothing too serious. Shouldn't make you feel guilty to answer them. But that means we'll have to take that gag out of your mouth. If you can promise me that you won't scream or cause any other sort of trouble, I can promise in turn that none of us will harm you. Does that sound fair?"

The logger scowled at him, but he nodded nonetheless.

"Good." Asgen removed the strip of cloth from his prisoner's mouth. "Now, word is that a group of Bretons have taken up residence in the fort near your village. Do you know anything about them?"

The Nord's eyes widened. "You're after them? Look mister, me'n Till aren't friends of that lot! We just brought some lumber to help fix some doors!"

Asgen rubbed his temple. "I just said you wouldn't be harmed, didn't I? There's no need to grovel."

"We just want information on the people in the fort," Faida chimed in. "We know you're not one of them. Not tell us, are you and the other workers from the village allowed to enter and leave freely?"

"Yeah yeah," the logger replied. "Pretty much. They let us come'n go as we have to. It's near constant."

"So if some new loggers showed up today, nobody would think twice about it?"

"The other villagers might," replied the Nord, "But the Bretons haven't been around long enough to know us all." He looked from Faida to Christophe to Asgen. "Is that why you want to take our stuff? You're gonna sneak into the fort? I say robbery's not even needed. You could probably get in as you're clothed right now. You'll just need to lose some of the armored bits." The last part was directed at Asgen.

"Heh, good try," the sellsword replied. "We're still gonna take your stuff though. Now, have you got any idea what the place's layout is like? Where the Breton boss is living, perhaps?"

That made the man's shoulders slump, but he answered the question readily enough. "I don't even know who the boss is. But I know that the main complex is underground. I hear tell that's the way most of these old forts are. Don't know much else, 'cept what kind of wood we used for the doors."

"Well?" Asgen asked, forcing himself to appear dead serious, "What kind was it?"

"Oak." The logger looked confused. "Why does that matter?"

"It probably doesn't." Asgen patted the man on the shoulder and turned to face Faida and Christophe. "I do believe that this man has told us everything he knows."

"You really put the screws to him," Christophe said, not trying to hide his smile. "Are you taking his clothes? And what about Fa-Moira?"

Asgen patted the prisoner on the chest. "Famoira will get big boy's outfit here, seeing as it's probably a little on the tall side for you. You can have Sleepyhead's if you want. I'll go as I am, minus the armored bits. I have it on good authority that it'll probably be enough."

Christophe chuckled and went about undressing the sleeping prisoner. The man wore simple clothes, unfortunately pretty dirty, and they smelled like sweat that stained them. He dressed quickly, breath held, and put his old clothes in his shoulder bag and hung it on a branch. "All set," he said. "I got the invisibility scroll, in case we need it." 

"Why do I get the feeling we will?" Faida muttered as she watched Asgen begin unstrapping his bracers.

Her brother shrugged and tossed the forearm guards into the middle of the glade and moved on to his vest. "It's that good intuition of yours, Sis. Always knowing there's trouble ahead." He glanced at the prisoner and said to him, "I'm pretty sure she's a Seer of some sort. Just ain't met a mage who could confirm it yet."

The Nord grunted. "Ya don't say?"

"I do say." With half his armor removed, Asgen walked over to the prisoner and hoisted him to his feet. "Gulibeg's whiskers, you're heavy, you know that?"

"I'm a grown man. Course I'm heavy."

"I could do without the tone, friend." Asgen said as he began untying the man's hands. "Just because I said we'd spare you doesn't mean you're allowed to give lip. There." He stood back with the length of rope in his hand. "Now start undressing."

The man didn't move. "You're not taking anyone's clothes. Why does the woman got to?"

Asgen frowned. "The woman has a name. We're not strangers, remember? You'll call my sister Famoira, and I won't cut out your tongue for asking stupid questions." He turned and glanced back at Faida and Christophe, not because he had anything to say, but because he needed to look away from the prisoner quickly lest the man see the corners of his lips cracking upward.
"Famoira" he mouthed, finally breaking into a grin. He doubted he could say the name many more times without eventually losing it. He took a deep breath and turned back around. "Now, dear Famoira's 'got to' take your clothes because she's wearing robes. Ain't a lot of loggers dressed in robes, are there, genius? Now hurry up and take your shirt off. We'll deal with the pants next."

Faida shook her head and placed a few of her things in a pile beneath Christophe's. Her dagger and potions could be left behind, but she didn't see any harm in keeping her satchel and the charms inside. She turned back to her brother just in time to catch the shirt he'd tossed. It reeked and was matted with sweat, same as Christophe's.
"... Drasgen used to read a lot of those adventure stories," she told the scribe while her brother continued to torment the logger with his quips. "You know, the ones about pirates and monsters and the like. When we left our village, I think he missed those even more than he did the people."

"Seems like he's writing plenty of his own to replace them," Christophe said. "This whole trip will be quite the story to tell. Oculatus agents, wrestling slaughterfish for a woman's head, a scribe with an eagle. Yeah, he'll get plenty of looks when he tells this."

"I'm sure he's already looking forward to it." Faida shrugged. "Well, that and the money. We're gonna have to be careful this time. If Senna ends up the way her sister did, this whole thing will have been far more trouble than it was worth." She paused, realizing how that sounded, given the fact that this job was the reason Christophe was free. "Oh damn. No offense or anything. We just need the gold."

"It's alright. I probably would've escaped even if you two hadn't come along." A lie, and Faida knew it. Christophe smiled to show he did too. He then asked, "What are you planning on doing with your gold?"

"That's... a little complicated," she confessed. "My brother and I see eye-to-eye on most things, but we have different ideas for what the future could hold. He wants to buy a ship some day. Maybe even start an outfit. But that will cost a fortune. And-"

"Faida," Asgen called. "Or Famoira, whatever." He tossed his sister a bundle containing the Nordic logger's boots and pants. "This man is ready for a nap."

"Mmph!" Bound and gagged like before, the near naked man was stretched out in the dirt beside his friend.

Faida gave Christophe a shrug and walked over to them. She knelt over the conscious one's face and closed her eyes, whispering the old words she had been taught. Her right hand moved down to his forehead, while her left fell into her pouch to grip at the water-smoothed bone charm that lay within. When her eyes reopened, the logger's snapped shut. She repeated the process on his friend, and then sprinkled a pinch of a nirnroot extract on each of their foreheads and rubbed it in with her sleeve. 
"That should keep them down for a couple hours, at least." She said, finally standing back up. "I don't think they'll have to worry about wolves or anything this close to town and the fort. Think I should place a ward just to be safe?"

"For these guys? Nah." Asgen gathered all his armor and weapons went off to hide them with his shield. "They ain't worth the energy."
While his sister changed into the Nordic man's clothes, Asgen went over to their equipment and started digging through it. "We'll be needing this stuff to look the part." He grabbed one of the axes and tossed it into the dirt next to Christophe. Then he took the other for himself and tested its weight. "These'll be shit in a fight."

"Hopefully there won't be one." Faida said, frowning at the way the girthy man's shirt hung down so loosely. "Hey, did he have a belt?"

"Yeah." Her brother found it and tossed it to her. "Well it seems to me like every time we hope there ain't a fight, we get one anyway. So I ain't taking any chances." He removed his dagger from his own belt and slid it into his boot. "You keep that scroll handy, Christophe. If things go bad, you're not gonna want to tangle with one of Senna's best using an axe like that."

Christophe grabbed it and turned it over in his hand. "Yeah, I don't think I could do much good with this. I know a few spells though, in case it comes to that." He tucked the scroll inside his shirt, and straightened his shirt back out so no one looking at him could tell the scroll was there. He then motioned for Erer, and the eagle quickly descended to the ground beside them. After making a few markings in the dirt, the eagle took off once again. "He won't be able to find Senna, but he can help if it comes to a fight."

Both the twins nodded, Faida glad to have the backup and Asgen secretly hoping that he would get the chance to see Erer in action.
"Right then," said the brother. He hefted the Nord logger's pack and slung it over his back. "Let's get a move on." He turned and led them out of the glade, in the direction of the fort. "I honestly don't suspect that finding Senna will be the hard part anyway. Abducting her without being noticed, however... That's going to be tricky. If anyone's got any ideas, now is the time to share them."

The trio spent the next half hour walking and plotting. Of course they had discussed their plans plenty in the past weeks, but the fort was a new, unexpected obstacle. Though, strangely enough, there were ways that it may have made things easier. They would just need to be careful. By the time the fort came into view, they had their plan ready.

"Remember," Asgen reminded his sister and Christophe. "Midday. There ain't a cloud in the sky, so don't be late."

"We've got it," Faida told him. She and Christophe continued towards the fort, while Asgen split away from them and headed south, toward the village to get a few things that they needed. Right now, it was their job to find out where Senna had made her quarters and gather any other information that could prove useful. Faida cast Christophe a sideways glance. "You're sure the Brigadiers won't recognize you?"

She could see Christophe swallow, his nervousness apparent, but he smiled in an attempt deflect any worries she had. "As long as we avoid Sir Liric, I should be fine. He's the only one who knows me by sight."

"Alright, well let me know if you see him. Just one man shouldn't be too hard to avoid."

"The problem will be avoiding all of them if he does spot me." Christophe said, looking around at all the Brigadiers meandering about, most of them paying little heed to the workers. Faida and Christophe hardly got a second glance. 

"If that happens, we'll figure something out." Faida did not say it, but she hoped that 'something' would not involve abandoning Christophe. She rather liked the scribe, and she especially liked the promise of coin for his safe return. If he and Erer were not so useful, she'd have insisted that he remain at the camp. "Just keep your eyes open."

As they made their way across the wide courtyard, one of the village workers approached with a weighty-looking burlap sack in his arms. "Hey, could one of you drop these off down in the dining hall? Me'n Kul've gotta get back to Hackdirt."

"Of course," Faida took the sack from him. The distracted man thanked them and turned to leave, but she stopped him. "Wait, you wouldn't happen to know where Senna is, would you? We just got here."

"She's the one in charge, right?" The villager shrugged. "No idea. Ask one of the sellswords in the hall."

Faida gave Christophe a shrug as the man left. "Worth a try."

Of course, Faida and Christophe had no idea where the dining hall was, and neither of them were keen on the idea of searching underground if they could avoid it, so Faida waited until no one was looking and dropped the sack beside one of the unfinished wooden buildings. After that, they continued to try and look inconspicuous while wandering around the big courtyard. The workers from the village were busy enough hammering nails and laying logs that being recognized as outsiders was less of a problem than they had feared. Instead of testing that by speaking to another villager, Faida and Christophe eventually decided that their best course of action would just be to ask for directions like the villager had suggested. The approached a Silver Brigadier as she made her way across the open grounds.
"Hey you," Faida asked, doing her best to mimic the accent of these deepwood Colovians. "We're lookin' for the one called Senna. Supposed't be the one in charge. Jiv said she'd pay for the horse we lost."

The Brigadier looked at the two, arms crossed across her chest. "Why would we pay for your lost horse?" 

Christophe said, "Because we lent it to you lot and it never came back. Stepped in a hole, was what we were told."

"Fine," the Brigadier grumbled. "Follow me."

She led them away from the bustling courtyard, deeper into the older part of the ruins where signs of the original fortress still lay covered in dust and vines. Though most of the tower had fallen to ruin, what remained was still sturdy enough to be used, and was made even more so by the refurbishments that had been performed by the local villagers. A winding flight of stairs brought Faida and Christophe up to a newly-constructed platform that overlooked the entire site as well as linked with the first level of the old tower. The Brigadier brought them there now, stopping in front of a brand new wooden door.
She threw her thumb towards the door, said, "She's in there" and then left, muttering to herself as she did. 

Christophe turned to Faida and asked, "Ready?"

"Aye. And remember, we're just scouting for now. We'll stick to the horse story, maybe even get a few coins out of her, look around, and leave. No need to make a move before Asgen gets here."

The scribe nodded, and she knocked on the door. Listening, they could hear someone inside yell, but couldn't make out what they said. After a few tense moments Faida knocked again and this time they heard a woman yell, "I said it's unlocked!" 

They entered to see Senna standing, leaned out over a table and looking at a map spread out beneath her hands. She didn't address them immediately, but Sir Liric did. "Baron Tilwald?"

Senna looked up from the table at him and asked, "Who?" 

"Who?" Faida repeated back, fighting the urge to look at 'Christophe'. Instead, she just motioned at him and then herself. "Me'n Hern were just here to talk about payment for our horse. Are you Liric?"

Senna motioned with her head at Liric, who hadn't taken his now narrowed eyes off Christophe. "He is. I'm Senna. What's this about a horse? And who is Baron Tilwald?"

Liric answered, "He is."

"No," Christophe said, "I'm Hern."

"No you aren't," Liric said. "That beard isn't enough to hide behind. I served your family long enough to see you grow up. I know gods damn well that you're Baron Tilwald."

"He doesn't look like a Baron," Senna said, though the suspicion was evident in her voice. "What would he be doing here anyway?"

"Don't know about any Baron Tilwald," Faida said, getting mentally ready to cast a spell. "But Hern is here about the horse we lent you." She glared at Sir Liric, who obviously was not buying any of this. "Didn't I see you at Evermor?"

She hadn't, of course, but the statement caught both Brigadiers so off guard that they hesitated. Faida capitalized by closing the door and muttering a paralysis curse. Neither sellsword was able to react before the confused Senna Silver was rendered immobile where she stood.

"Sorry," Christophe said, then pulled the scroll from inside his shirt and read it and turned invisible. The confused and now angry Sir Lirc readied a ward in his left hand and charged Faida, thrusting at her stomach with the tip of his longsword.

She was ready for that. Still muttering incantations, Faida waved her hand and stepped to the side. The dim magicka forming Liric's ward suddenly blazed a golden light, blinding the knight and making it easy to dodge his strike. Unfortunately, the room was small, and Liric wasn't stupid. Having stopped only two feet away from her, he dropped his ward and turned to face Faida. He blinked away the bright light and raised his sword for a strike. It came down, crashing onto the floor with a loud clatter. Sir Liric stumbled forward one step and then fell to the floor, his face taking the brunt of the fall. A revealed Christophe stood behind him, a wood axe in hand. There was not blood on the blade, though, and Sir Liric had a knot already forming on the back of his head. Christophe offered and apologetic smile and asked, "What should we do now?"

"Finish him off," Faida answered. "I'll put Senna to sleep."

"I haven't ever killed anyone before," Christophe said, staring down at the unconscious Sir Liric. "Maybe you should do it."

"Seriously?" Faida took the axe from his hands, lifted it high, and then buried its head deep in the knight's skull. She retrieved her bag and brought it over to Senna. "Help me get her on the floor."

Christophe walked over and helped lower Senna down. He stepped back to let Faida work and said, "Getting her out of here is going to be a lot harder now. You think Asgen will be able to find us?"

"He better. Not like we can carry her out ourselves." Faida knelt down beside her prey, meeting Senna's eyes, the only things that the Silver Sister could still control. She used two fingers to close them, and then produced the same ingredients from her bag that she had used on the loggers. "And you ain't leaving my sight, Baron Tilwald."

"I've guess I owe you an explanation." Christophe sighed and leaned against the table. "My real name is Baron Corrick Tilwald. I came here, disguised as Christophe Sele, in order to get a job with the embassy and...get something for the king from the palace. The idea was to do so quietly without anyone noticing. But then my escape plan fell through, the Oculatus chased me, Sir Liric recognized me, and that's how I ended up in that inn." 

Faida stared hard at him, not quite sure how she felt about this revelation. Surely this was a good thing, right? Whatever returning a scribe would have earned them, a Baron would surely be worth more. But at the same time, she couldn't help feeling somewhat betrayed. She had had confided in a man she hadn't even known. "Lock the door," she said at last. "We'll talk about this later."

Corrick walked over and turned the lock, then sat down on a chest and leaned against the wall. After a few silent moments he asked, "Is she asleep yet?"

"Mhmm." Faida gave Senna a cautionary nudge in the ribs. The Brigadier did not respond. "Now all we can do is wait."

***
 

The Tyne twins had visited many strange places in their travels, but none were quite like Hackdirt. There was something 'off' about the village that Asgen had a hard time placing his finger on. The smells and sounds of the forest were still there, but it was as if they suffered from a faint and foreign rot. And even though the dirt streets were not crowded, he could feel the suspicious gazes of every man, woman, and child falling on him. He was an outsider, and apparently those were not very popular here.

Opting to ignore their glaring, Asgen carried on until he managed to locate a stable with several sick-looking horses and a wagon. The proprietor was a stocky Colovian man with pale skin and wide brown eyes. He grunted when he saw Asgen approaching, "Whadayou want?"

"I was hoping to rent your wagon."

"T'snot for rent. Not for sell. Go away."

Asgen's brow furrowed. "You'll have it back by tonight. I only needed it briefly. And I have plenty of gold."

"Not for rent," The stablemaster repeated. "Get. Lost."

"Fine," Asgen turned away. "Probably plow those horses. Weird backwood ..." He continued his string of insults until he was well outside the villager's earshot. Eventually, he found his way to a general store, which was run by a pale Colovian woman with wide brown eyes.

"How can I help ya?" the woman asked, sounding very unenthused at the prospect of a new customer. 

"I need a wagon," Asgen said. "Even if it's just to borrow or rent."

"You're not touchin' mine, if that's what you're thinkin'," the merchant snapped at once. "I've got plenty of other stuff'r you to buy though."

"But it's important," Asgen lied. "Bandits are about to attack!"

"Oh and I bet they're ridin' on the backs of ogres as well," she answered. "You're not scammin' me outa what's mine, Outsider. Now buy somethin' or make like the Septims and get outa here!"

Asgen sighed. Worth a try. "Can I get some directions, at least?" He produced a couple of drakes. "There's got to be a main logging camp nearby."

The woman stared at the coins for a moment as if weighing her options, and then grinned. "You're right 'bout that. It's just a ways south'a here."

"Thank you." Asgen dropped the coins on her counter and exited the store. Preferring not to startle the already-paranoid villagers, he waited until he was outside the village before he started to run. Time was wasting, and he only had another hour or so before he needed to be back at the fort to meet Faida. Thankfully, the logging camp was not very far, and it did indeed have a couple carriages being loaded down with lumber. The man who sat at the reigns of one was, unsurprisingly, a pale Colovian with big brown eyes. "You there," Asgen barked at the man with a fake Bretic accent. He approached the man with a limp. "I need a ride back to the fort. Senna needs to know about the bandits before they get here!"

"What're you talkin' about?" the driver asked. "What bandits?"

"The ones that just nearly wiped out our patrol," Asgen answered. "They thought me dead with the rest. Stripped my armor off me where I laid. Look, there's no time. I need to get to Senna now. She'll round up some men to take care of them."

The man seemed uneasy, "I, uh, I never heard of no bandits 'round here save the ones you lot already took out."

"Well there are more. Just west of here. Maybe they were friends of the ones we killed. I don't know. Listen, we need to go now."

"Alright," the villager nodded. "Climb aboard."

Asgen groaned as he pulled himself up, tugging his 'bad' leg up next to him. "Now hurry!"
His driver nodded and whipped his horses to move at a brisk canter, never noticing as Asgen slid the dagger from his boot.
 

***
 

An hour had passed, and it would soon be midday. Faida knew that Asgen was probably already waiting for them outside the fort. Hopefully, her brother would be resourceful enough to find them on his own, because she couldn't leave Senna, and there was no way that 'Corrick Tilwald' was going outside unattended.

That meant they were pretty much stuck here. She had taken a few quick peaks out the door, but besides construction and sellswords, there was really nothing noteworthy outside. None of the Silver Brigadiers currently seemed to be in any great need of their leader, and if their earlier search was anything to go by, most of the villagers didn't even know where she lived. All-in-all, things weren't so bad. At least not yet. For Faida, the worst part by far was that she was stuck in here with the man who had so skillfully deceived her. She knew it wasn't completely fair to be angry about this, but anger wasn't always rational. Even now, as the two of them sat silently at Senna's table, Faida contemplated on how this should affect the way she treated this Corrick going forward.
Finally, she broke the silence to ask, "What are you the Baron of?"

Corrick looked startled when she spoke, but settled back into his seat and said, "Cavern Mount. It lies in the western part of Shornhelm, just north of the Kurallian Mountains, with most of my lands within the Ykalon Forest."

"Shornhelm. Those the ones with the black hearts on their banners?"

Corrick nodded. "Pierced with an arrow. Have you ever been there?"

"No. But I've seen their lord. He led the charge at Evermor that broke my countrymen." She waved a hand, "Don't worry. Me'n Asgen were fighting against them too. Got no particular love for any clans of the Western Reach. In fact, your lord's cavalry saved our skins."

"Maybe you'll get a chance to thank him. He was in Camlorn with King Theodore when I left," Corrick said. "Whose army did you serve in, during the war?"

"Lord Traven's." she answered, "That's how Asgen got that shield of his. And you? What was Cavern Mount's role in it all?"

"Guarding the road that runs through the Wrothgar Mountains, in case any forces tried to attack Shornhelm or Northpoint. I commanded those forces, though we never once saw the enemy."

"You commanded men, but you've never killed?" Faida laughed. "And Bretons think the Nords are strange."

"I've been in battle before, leading attacks against Orc bands and pirates and the like. We Bretons just aren't as caught up in personal glory as you Nords. My place is coordinating the battle, not fighting myself."

"Alright then." Faida still did not fully understand, but she had long ago abandoned her attempts at grasping the logic of foreigners. Trusting someone so untested seemed rather silly to her, especially in a society that had no shortage of leaders with experience. "I suppose things work out for you well enough. Can't really deny that. And I suppose Orc bands won't be such a problem in the future, eh? Me'n Asgen already met some of their lot migrating east."

"When I left we were in the midst of the longest stretch without an Orc raid in all of Shornhelm's history," Corrick said. "Though, they've never bothered my lands. The only time I ever fought them was in helping my eastern neighbors."

"I'd wager they-" A sudden knock on the door interrupted Faida's sentence.

"Senna, we got something you need to come look at," the man knocking at the door said. Corrick stood and mouthed, What do we do?

Faida motioned for him to pick up his axe, cleared her throat, and said in her best attempt at a Senna voice, "Not now."

The Brigadier was quiet for a few moments. Corrick inched closer to the door, axe in hand. He was standing beside it when the Brigadier said, "It can't wait."

Damnit. "It'll have to," responded Faida as she prepared a spell. 

"Well it fuckin' can't. The plans you gave us for rebuilding the western wall won't work. You and Liric need to get dressed and come straighten it out."

She groaned. "Fine." She nodded for Corrick to open the door.

Corrick lifted the latch, but the moment he did the door flew open and hit Faida, who by then was positioned behind it. The Brigadier charged in with his sword drawn and Corrick dodged the knight's first strike. The knight swung at him again and Corrick blocked with the handle of the axe, which snapped from the blow of the sword. Corrick stumbled backwards, conjuring an ice spike as he did. He raised it and protected himself from the knight's next swing, but it shattered into countless crystals upon impact with the steel blade. 

By then, Faida had recovered, and looked up just in time to see the knight's blade arcing towards her companion. She snapped her arm as if to backhand, and the man staggered against the wall, losing his sword in the process. She closed the door then, and used her magic to begin sapping his strength. The Breton struggled against her for a bit, taking a few steps that seemed increasingly difficult, and then finally he could no longer support the weight of his armor and crumpled to the floor with a terrified, helpless expression. She quickly motioned at Corrick. "Get his sword!"

He did. He was breathing deeply from the fight when he joined Faida to stand over the Brigadier. Before his breath could settle, he thrust with both hands into the man's neck, which was protected by a chainmail coif. The man died quickly, and Corrick let the blade fall to his side. 

Faida regarded the Baron as he stepped away from the man he'd killed. "You did well. No hesitation. Wouldn't have guessed it was your first."

Corrick didn't say anything and went to sit facing the door, leaving the sword behind. 

Faida almost made a move to say something to him, something comforting perhaps. But then she decided against it. He's a man, not a boy. He can deal with this on his own.
Instead, she opted to use this time to search the bodies for any gold or valuables. If they were stuck waiting, they might as well get something out of it.
 

***

"You two better be fuckin' busy in here," Asgen muttered, looking around the bustling fort. They had agreed to meet just outside the place at midday, yet here it was nearly an hour later and he was now being forced to enter the place completely blind or risk drawing suspicion.

Nobody stopped or questioned him when he brought his stolen carriage up to the open front gate, though there were enough eyes among both the workers and the patrolling sellswords that it would become quickly apparent that he didn't know what he was doing. And so he found an area where many of the villagers were using lumber do reinforce a crumbled wall and started to unload that which he carried. 

Where are you? Asgen continued to scan the fort as he worked. It was a fairly large structure, no doubt impressive in its heyday, though mostly ruins now. The only passable buildings in the courtyard were a 4th era tavern and what looked like an unfinished barracks. Closer to the keep, there were a lot of loose bricks that had been piled up and were being hauled around for reuse. There was a segment of the main tower that had been added onto by wooden platforms supported by the old bricks. There, an eagle flew in small circles. Asgen blinked. Erer?

He looked around, wondering how much he could possibly learn by standing here unloading lumber with a bunch of inbred creeps. It's worth a try. Not like they'll kill me if I happen to be into the wrong area. I'll just tell them I'm looking for my friends. He smiled. It wasn't even a lie.
Asgen announced that he had to take a piss and then wandered into the ruined portion of the fort. Most of the traffic was closer to the entrance, so he knew that he's have stood out if anyone bothered to look. Apparently though, the Brigadiers were not expecting any threats because he made it all the way to the tower door without being stopped. As he approached, the eagle found a perch above the doorframe.

Knock or just open? Faida could be in there...

Asgen knocked loudly and waited. He received no answer, though there was a movement on the other side of the door. Someone's expecting guests.
He cleared his throat, and then said in his best mock Bretic accent. "Senna, we caught an... uncommonly handsome Nord sneaking around outside. He says he's not alone. That he has companions here as well."

A few seconds passed in silence, and then Faida's voice carried through the door in an equally mocking accent. "He sounds like an idiot. Cut out his tongue. I'm sure the companions will appreciate that."

She opened the door, and Asgen finally got to see the mess that she and Corrick had left behind. He let out a whistle. "Seems I came just in time." He nudged the Baron. "You can thank that bird of yours." Asgen then noticed how gloom the young man appeared. "What's with you?"

Corrick opened his mouth to answer while his eyes glanced over at the dead man, then he looked back to Asgen and said, "Nothing. Let's just go. The sooner we get out of here, the better."

"Agreed." Asgen looked over at Senna's sleeping form. "Ready to cloak her? Where's the scroll?"

"We ran into some...complications," Corrick said. "We'll just have to hide her."

Asgen sighed. "Ah well. You've probably come to realize by now that our adventures rarely go exactly according to plan."

"By that, he means never," Faida joked. "Well, aside from Whiterun."

"Aye, we had good times in Whiterun," Asgen agreed. "But back to the matter at hand. I've got us a wagon to leave in. Those peasants from the village will finish unloading soon. If we can find a barrel, or maybe a large sack..."

"A large sack?" Faida frowned. "What in Alrabeg's name do you think the Brigadiers will say if they see us walking out of their fort with a human-sized, human-shaped sack? Or even one of their barrels?"

"I don't know. Security here is rather shameful. They haven't said a word to me since I arrived, and you two massacred a room full of people. We could dress Senna up like a pig and they'd probably think she's supper."

"If we find some rope, we could lower her out the window. This side of the fort is in ruins. Not a lot of sentries. We could leave without her, double back, and then pick her up when we're outside."

"If we find some rope..." Asgen muttered, and then an idea hit him. "How strong is that sleeping charm you've used on her?"

Faida knew where her brother was going with this. In answer, she backhand slapped Senna across the cheek. "For the next two hours, you couldn't wake her if you tried."

"Well then, if there ain't any objections I don't see why we couldn't just drop her out."

"Whatever we do, we should take her armor off," Corrick said. "It'll make her easier to drop and hide. Not to mention safer for us once she wakes up."

"Good call." Asgen said. "Come help me out with that."

While he and Corrick set about removing Senna's armor, Faida went over to the door and cracked it open just enough to peak outside. The yard hadn't changed much since she'd last looked out. It was still crowded with village workers and sellswords. The wagon Asgen had brought now sat half-empty near one of the walls. Should be simple enough. We've just gotta roll out of here and say we're going to get more lumber. Easy.
Of course, lots of ideas sounded easy when they were still ideas. She turned and watched the two men lower Senna's body out the narrow window by the arms. Asgen counted to three, and they let go.

Even from inside, the sound of Senna's legs smashing into the earth made them wince. It wasn't loud, but it still made more noise than would've been preferable. And Asgen was sure that he'd heard something break. "Alright," he said, "let's hurry."

"Yes, let's," Corrick said.

They moved quickly from the tower, careful to hide the bloodstains on their clothes as best they could. They didn't get a second glance walking past the guards in the yard, but it was still a tense trek over to Asgen's wagon. Once they were seated upon it and headed outside the fort's walls to collect Senna, Corrick said, "Are we going to keep her in the cart once we get out of here, or throw her over the back of one of our horses?"

"Cart's too easy to follow," Asgen answered. "We'll ditch it and tie the horse to one of ours, let her ride behind us."

"By the time she wakes up she'll be too sore to move, between riding a horse unconscious and that fall," Corrick said, careful to keep his voice low as they travelled through the yard.

"Aye, we'll be counting on that."
The trio passed through the gate without any trouble, and continued down the path towards the first bend in the road until Asgen handed the reins to Corrick. "I won't be long."

With that, he hopped down, made for the trees, and began his loop back around the fort. Thankfully, the Great Forest was named so for a reason, and the Brigade's logging efforts had not yet reached this side of the fort aside from a summary clearing of the immediate brush. That meant the woods were still plenty thick enough to mask his way towards the tower, and left him with only a twenty yard dash to the unconscious figure that lay at its base.

Senna's forehead was covered in sweat when Asgen reached her, but other than that, the brutal mercenary commander looked more peaceful than she likely ever did when conscious. He took the Silver Sister's arm over his shoulder and hefted her up. As soon as he took his first step, a shout came from above.

Asgen didn't hesitate, didn't turn and look or try to hide. He just started sprinting. All at once, a dozen more voices cried out behind him, all too mingled to make out. A bell tolled, a horn sounded, and Asgen knew he only had mere minutes to reach his sister before someone came looking. This drove him to tear through the forest brush without regard for himself or his prisoner. Thorns and bushes snagged at them both, and Senna was bumped against a stray branch more than a couple times. He exploded back onto the road to find three Brigadier horsemen grouped up beside the carriage.

"There were three when you left," their leader said to Faida. "I saw. Fella had dark hair like you."

Faida started to answer, already having weaved a charming spell into her words, but when her brother suddenly and loudly tore through the brush behind the sellswords, and they turned to see him -and the body he carried- she knew that a simple charm wouldn't be strong enough to sway them. Instead, she settled for hitting the leader's horse with a fear spell. The animal reared and bucked, driving the other two beasts away and its own master to the ground.

Asgen took this opportunity to make a break for the carriage. He ducked past a sellsword's hand as the man scrambled to grab him while also drawing his sword, and then chucked Senna on board before hopping up himself. He shouted, "Go! Go! Go!" And they took off.

Corrick whipped the reins over and over, driving the horses forward toward Hackdirt. The Silver Brigadiers were close behind, and made their presence known as a lightning bolt cracked against a tree beside the road. The horses neighed and turned away from the blast, almost off the road, but Corrick steered them back. He snapped the reins again, the pace of the horses' hoofbeats increasing as the creaking of the old cart did as well. Shouts of confusion and anger mixed together as the cart sped down the old dirt road at breakneck speed. Other carts full of lumber and stone pulled off to the side at the kidnappers' cart headed straight for them, unyielding. Somewhere towards the fort, two blasts of a low horn sounded, and the bell rang furiously.

Other Brigadiers were now catching on, an arrow slamming into the road near the cart a testament to that. Glancing behind them, the Tynes and Corrick could see two more riders joined the chase, making four hot on their trail. The road was just curvy enough, though, that their icy spears and balls of lightning missed, though one ice spear did impale the back of the cart.

Corrick cut across a turn in the road, sending the cart momentarily airborne but landing no worse for wear. The riders behind them followed suit, and were gaining fast. The town of Hackdirt was now visible up ahead. "We need to lose them, or stop them," Corrick said. Almost to himself, he added, "We left all of our things back there."

"Just keep us on the road," replied Asgen. "Don't stop." He hefted up Senna for the riders to see, and lifted his dagger to her throat. He started to ask Faida to amplify his voice, but she already had it covered. "Turn back or she dies!"

Asgen didn't expect that to work. The Brigadiers were smart enough to know that they wouldn't have taken Senna alive just to kill her. But he hoped that putting her body in front of them would at least force the sellswords to stop using magic. He was right on both counts. The horses thundered closer, and the first of the riders drew his sword. Asgen turned as the man arrived on their left. He kept Senna as a shield between them, but the second horseman was approaching from the opposite side, and the remaining two charged at their back.

Faida focused, reaching inside herself until the spark in her burned, and suddenly a grotesque creature appeared from Oblivion and sprung from their wagon, coiling its many legs around the right side horse's neck like a spider attacking a larger insect. While this happened, the next rider pulled his horse back, clutching his face as acid spat by the daedroth burned him.

Turning, Faida barely stumbled aside to avoid another ice spike. Corrick whipped the reins at a curve as they entered the streets of Hackdirt, and the bump was enough to throw her off-balance. She fell and hit her head against the side of the wagon, but managed to stay on. Somehow, Asgen still had his footing, though not without dropping Senna to catch himself and avoid getting thrown off altogether.

Even after almost falling, Asgen held onto his dagger. He used it to parry a wobbly swipe from the first rider's sword, but the man followed up with an ice spike. The projectile flew toward Asgen's chest more quickly than he could dodge, then vanished into thin air. The spear of ice flashed back into existence halfway buried in the Brigadier's own chest, and he fell dead off his horse.

Still on her knees, Faida grinned at her handiwork, then saw her brother hurl a woodcutting axe at the rider who remained close. The weapon struck, but the Brigadier was large and armored, and he batted it away with his shield without being phased. At that point, he was forced to pull away from them as Corrick made a sharp turn around the town well, causing a pair of villagers to dive out of the way as they cascaded past.

With that rider falling back, the one sprayed by the daedroth's acid caught up. Together they rode hard after the wagon, splitting up to attack from either side, but keeping outside the range of blades. They pushed their horses hard and the Tynes and Corrick could hear their pained whinnies as the Brigadiers' spurs dug into them. The mercenaries were trying to overtake the cart and kill the horses pulling it, no longer worrying about the wagon's occupants, now just intent on stopping it.  

Corrick whipped the reins to keep pace with the Brigadiers, trying desperately to not let them kill their horses. The wagon lurched forward, but soon the warhorses would overtake them. He then gave a sharp whistle, and from above a mottle brown blur slammed into the Brigadier who'd been sprayed by the daedroth's acid. Erer hit the man talons first. The man instinctively dropped the reins of his horse to bat away the cliff eagle. Erer lept from the man's face to the horse's neck and dug his talons in there. The horse bucked in pain, sending its rider to the ground with a loud crack as Erer flew off once again. 

Asgen started to laugh, but it was cut short when he saw the remaining Brigadier's hand start to glow. "Faida!"

His sister turned, but not fast enough. The sellsword's ice spike ripped through the air and punched halfway into their left horse's haunch. Corrick pulled on the reigns as hard as he could, but the horse tumbled, then the cart lurched, jumped into the air, and rolled over onto its side.

The impact with the dirt road hit them like a charging troll. The momentum sent Corrick rolling. Faida landed hard on her back, and Asgen skidded onto his side. It took a few breathless moments, but he was the first to recover. As the jarring passed and Asgen's senses returned, he realized that the forest was now loud with the screams of a wounded horse. He groaned and sat up to find the animal squirming beneath the wreckage. The other horse had broken loose and was trotting free about the street.

"Fai?" His head felt about to burst. He turned to see his sister nearby, struggling to roll onto her side next to Corrick. And beyond her, the warhorse. "Ahh... damnit." Asgen slowly climbed to his feet. The Silver Brigadier had already seen him and was whirling his mount around now, placing it between the Tynes and Senna's unconscious form. All around them, villagers were gathering to watch, though none came too close.
With Corrick and Faida down and his weapons lost, Asgen had to think quickly about his options. "Well?" he shouted to the Brigadier. "Do you surrender yet?"

The Brigadier scoffed. “F*cking Nords. She’d want you alive to see who sent you, but I don’t give a rat’s ass about that.”

At that, the horse reared up and the Brigadier charged straight at Asgen, his sword arching high overhead and glinting in the sunlight. It thundered over Corrick’s unconscious body, where Asgen saw the briefest twitch of the Breton’s hand and a bout of flames shot out and scorched the horse’s belly. It screamed like the one that lay dying and jolted away from the flames, causing the Brigadier to lose his grip on the reins. He didn’t fall from the horse, though, instead clinging to the saddle as it bolted towards the crowd of onlookers. 

Corrick lifted from the ground, blood and dirt smeared across his face. “You two all right?”

"Help her," Asgen answered, motioning to Faida. He kept his eyes trained on the rider. Most of the villagers were quick enough to clear out of the his way. Those who weren't got trampled or thrown aside by the massive warhorse. To the Brigadier's credit, he was a good enough rider to bring the animal back under his control.

Seeing this, Asgen turned to find a weapon, and his eyes were immediately drawn to his Skyforge Steel dagger gleaming in the sunlight. Just past where it lay, a Colovian man with pale skin and wide brown eyes was moving as if to pick it up. Asgen moved forward and shoved the peasant onto his ass before reclaiming his weapon. It wasn't much against an armored Brigadier, but he'd felled greater foes with it in he past. When he looked back, Christophe had pulled Faida off the road and the sellsword was preparing another charge. This time, the man held up a ward with his free hand as his horse bounded in Asgen's direction.

Asgen brought his arm back and whipped it forward. There was a glint in the air too fast for human eyes to follow, and then the Brigadier's warhorse tumbled and collapsed, its rider soaring over it face-first. Now it was the Breton's turn to skid across the road, and he halted right at Asgen's feet. Asgen didn't hesitate. He retrieved the Brigadier's longsword and plunged it into the soft spot beneath his arm. As soon as the man was dead, Asgen turned to check on Faida, who was up now and looking past their scribe friend.

"Behind you," she said. Corrick turned in time to see the same Hackdirt local Asgen had shoved approaching with a club in his hand. Beyond him, three more similar-looking villagers followed. Then they suddenly halted, as if transfixed, and Faida stepped up beside Corrick and said in a sweet voice, "Go home".

There was an aura about her that even Corrick could feel. Thoughts of Cavern Mount swirled in his head. Of his mother smiling at him, and of Evelyn's embrace. Like the villagers, he stood still with a serene smile slowing growing upon his face. But they turned and walked back towards their houses, while his thoughts of home and smile faded as Faida's voice receded from his mind. He seemed to emerge, almost like surfacing from under water. His thoughts now clear, he said, "We should go. Erer can lead us back to the horses."

"Aye," she agreed. It would not be long before those who had survived managed to recover and resume their pursuit. She turned to the roaming horse who remained and calmed it with another charm. The animal approached, and Asgen slung Senna over its back.

Asgen glanced at the sky, and spotted the eagle just as he flew over the village clearing. He nodded to Corrick. "Do your thing, Christophe."

Corrick winced, and Asgen assumed he’d been hurt in the crash, as they all had. Faida realized it was hearing the fake name, though. Corrick walked towards the forest and made a quick hand motion to Erer, who circled the party once and headed to the northeast, into the forest. Behind them, the villagers watched, but none made a move to follow, and with their quarry in tow, the kidnappers disappeared into the trees.

***
 

They lit no fire the first night after the kidnapping. The night wasn't so cold that one was necessary, but it was a comfort they went without for fear of attracting any attention from the Brigadiers searching for Senna. She was bound and gagged, with one leg set in a splint and bandages covering several scrapes and cuts. The ropes tied around her hands and legs were staked to the ground as well. They were taking no chances on her escaping. 

Corrick looked up and saw Erer's silhouette pass before the moon and blink out a few stars before it peeled off into the night. It calmed him to know Erer was up there watching. And he needed the calming, his nerves frayed ever since the kidnapping started this morning. Even now, with their quarry in hand and distance between them and the Brigadiers, he was still on edge.

This nervousness, though, had nothing to do with the kidnapping, but what it had revealed. Namely, that he'd lied to the Tyne twins about who he was, and Faida knew. As they rode and now as they sat around their camp, she occasionally shot him glances, her eyes telling him she was waiting for him to reveal the truth. And now that they were stopped for the night, he felt like he had to. He wouldn't tell them everything, since they didn't need to know the contents of the letter he carried, but he needed to reveal who he was. He owed them that after all that had happened, at the fort and in the Imperial City.

He tried to think of some way to bring it up, but ultimately everything he thought of sounded stupid, so he said, louder than he'd wanted, "My name isn't Christophe Sele."

Both Tynes looked at him. Faida's expression was hidden in the shadows of the forest, but Asgen's moonlit features were visibly puzzled. The Nord stared at him long and hard, one brow arched and with his fingers tapping on his knees. "Strange thing to call yourself, then."

"I didn't think so, at the time," Corrick said. "I'm carrying an important message for King Theodore, that much is true. But my real name is Baron Corrick Tilwald. I thought it best to not go around announcing I was Breton nobility. And when I met you two, I just kept the same alias. It seemed easier that way." 

"A Baron?" Asgen glanced at his sister, whose darkened face continued to betray no thoughts or emotions. "Well I'll be damned. That ought to be worth more than a scribe carrying some letter." Turning back to Corrick, he asked, "Why tell us now?"

Corrick looked as Faida too, then back to Asgen. "A knight in the fort recognized me and called me by my real name. Since your sister knows, I thought you needed to know as well."

"I wanted to give him the chance to tell you himself," Faida explained.

"Uh-huh," Asgen shrugged. "Well now that we're sharing secrets, I think it's about time you tell us about what you're really down here for. King Theodore did not send a Baron into unfriendly lands with a false name to pick up the latest Imperial pie-baking recipes."

"Aye," Faida agreed. "We saved you, which is more than he asked of us already. If you are here for something important, we ought to know."

“I am here for something important. But I promise you, King Theodore wants this kept a secret. It’s not even something as simple as stealing Imperial secrets.”

The twins exchanged a glance. "We're good at keeping secrets, ain't we Sis?"

"Very." Faida folded her arms. "Especially the ones we're not supposed to know."

Corrick could tell this wasn’t something they were going to let go, and at this point, he didn’t care. ”Fine. If you care so much, I’m here for a list of ingredients to cure a plague afflicting the royal family. I had to sneak into the Imperial palace to get the list from the Telvanni court wizard there, which is why the Penitus Oculatus is after me.”

Asgen whistled. "The royal family's sick? Theodore seemed well when we last saw him."

"Must be serious if his own wizards ain't enough to cure it." Faida added. "Extremely. Good thing you told us, Corrick, because saving a king's life is nothing like bringing him some criminal sellsword."

"It's the sort of thing that ought to make a couple Nords and their new Baron friend quite wealthy," her brother concluded.

"Yeah, I imagine the reward will set you up for life," Corrick said. He might've felt bad about making King Theodore pay the mercenaries more, except Theodore had more money than just about anyone. He could afford to pay a fair reward. "What'll you do with it?"

"Buy a ship," Asgen said at once. There was a gleam in his eye as he imagined how open the world would soon be to him. "Start an outfit, like Senna here. Sail Tamriel and do whatever we like wherever we like."

“You seem the swashbuckling type, I’ll give you that. And you, Faida? A life on the waves in your future?”

"We stick together," was all she said.

"Aye, we do." Asgen's demeanor had changed slightly, become softer for the briefest of moments before hardening again. "And it won't just be waves in her future. There will be new lands to visit, new people to meet, and new stories to make. My sister will never want for anything, and neither will I."

"I don't doubt that," Corrick said. "If you ever need a safe port, there's a small fishing village on the shores of Orbas Bay. My lands encompass the bay and the village. You're always welcome there, and at Cavern Mount." 

"We'll keep that in mind," Asgen said. "I'm sure our travels will bring us that way eventually. And what of you, Baron? What will you do when we get back?"

“Go home and spend time with my family. Avoid danger as long as I can, until the war comes.” The pale moonlight lit up Corrick smiling to himself. After this adventure, he longed to be home. And though he’d asked King Theodore for a role in the next war, he wondered now if that’s really what he wanted. This trip had shifted his perspective, and he didn’t long for glory or adventure, just to live and be happy with his family. More than anything, that’s what he wanted. 

[Witchking of Angmar]

Baldur

Author's note: This beginning is mainly for me n Doc.  You've been warned.

Location: Between the gills and fibers, where breath is caught, and is filtered between the threads...

 

"Where... where am I... Am I dead? Oh shit... I am, aren't I?"

"Afraid so," said a woman. Her voice sounded very familiar... Baldur opened his eyes to see a great vortex in the sky. At its end was a never ending darkness, a darkness that threatened to suck him into its depths, the depths of obscurity.

But he held firm in this place. For as he stood, he saw that he was in the land of honored heroes. This was Sovngarde.

"Who are you?" said Baldur, looking at the owner of the voice. She was tall, dark haired and wearing a long black dress. Her facial features were small, sharp. And her eyes were a piercing blue.

"Brunhilde?"

She smiled at hearing her name, where before she was wearing a scowl. "So you do remember me."

"Of course I do!" said Baldur, hugging her tightly to him. When she returned the embrace, her warmth and her smell overloaded his senses with a sharp nostalgia and flood of old well healed wounds being ripped right back open. Tears filled his eyes, and as she attempted to wipe them away, Rebec's face entered his mind. 

Backing away, Baldur said, "Brunhilde... I'm sorry. For so many things. I.."

"Shhh... there's an eternity for explanations and catching up. And now that you seem to be here for good... we'll finally be able to. But first, you must help me. One more time."

"With what?" said Baldur. "What could you possibly need help with in this place?"

Brunhilde's long slender arm extended past his shoulder, pointing a finger towards the Great Mead Hall of Shor. 

"I can't hope to defeat Tsun. I can't gain entry to the Honored Halls without the help of a mighty warrior. Will you help me?"

"I seem to recall you being a fair fighter yourself. What's with the dress?" asked Baldur.

"I wanted to greet you with a fine sight," she said, letting a bit of her leg show beneath. Before his eyes, her dress soon became armor of Nordic steel. "But I see your heart lies elsewhere. But we still have time."

Brunhilde marched off, her expression hard. Baldur ran after her in the direction of Tsun who was clearly visible as always, from any distance in this place.

"You know about Rebec?" he asked.

"Of course I do," she said. "You come here often in your sleep, haunting me with the memory of your face, crying out for her instead of me. But life goes on. Such is our way."

"Brunhilde, I'm sorry truly. I was a young man when we met anyway. I do not know what would've become of us even had you survived the Thalmor. But I ache of my failure always. I still remember the date of your death. I avoided coupling with another on those days, except only with my wife. I honored you as best I could."

"I know, Baldur. I hold no grudge. Eternity lasts too long for it. Sovngarde is a terrible place to hold such things close to your heart. I've seen what it does to others. Such as your friend, the son of Jarl Stormcloak, the Bear of Windhelm."

"Ulfric? You've seen Ulfric Stormcloak?" said Baldur. His heart nearly sunk out of his ass at the thought of seeing Ulfric again... "Where is he?"

"Where do you think?" said Brunhilde. "Tsun's thu'um is mighty, but so too was his. He made it across easily enough. If you wish to see him, you need only do the same. Can you?"

"I can," said Baldur, nodding defiantly. Brunhilde smiled, grabbing his arm. 

"Lets do it together, then."

The walk was far longer than Baldur remembered it being... now that he was here, he started remembering the few times he'd been before. First in Falkreath after Lorgar Grim-Maw, the hyper-lethal assassin himself tried to kill him. Then, after Baldur learned of Rebec's dead child. The other times Brunhilde spoke of though, Baldur had no recollection of. She made it sound as though he'd been here countless times before, and yet Baldur could only recall the two.

And another thing... the sky. The Great Vortex above him. Was it always so... dark? Did not Aetherius burn bright above them?

And the stars... there were no stars...

Oh, there they are! He thought. One had to look very closely or else you'd miss them, for the stars, they were black, as black as the void itself.

"And who might you be," boomed the voice of Tsun as the pair finally stepped before him.

"I, am Brunhilde. And this, is Baldur Red-Snow. We've come to challenge you for our right to enter!"

Tsun eyed the two, for an uncomfortably long time. 

"You cannot enter, Baldur Red-Snow. Your deeds bleed even into these lands. Your murder of High-King Ulfric Stormcloak bars you from this place."

Brunhilde seemed shocked. "You murdered the High-King?"

Baldur stepped forward.

"I am Baldur Red-Snow. Baldur the Unkindled. Ash-King. I have earned my right to enter these halls through blood. Halls that honor all Nords no matter their personality or cruelty. I have done nothing that Mighty Shor himself has not. I challenge you in the old way, the way of the Tongue to debate my point."

Tsun's lips twisted in an unnatural and ill suited manner. "You speak true...If you wish to do battle with me, fine."

"Good," said Baldur. "But it will be Brunhilde that goes first. I wish to stay."

"What?" she cried. "But I cannot enter without you!"

"You must," he said. "My heart lies with Rebec Red-Snow, favored of Kyne. I will stay here until the day she enters this place. And my child as well. I must help them enter the halls. It is my duty."

"Hahaha, you know the rules, bitch. You cannot enter without the king!"

"No....no....no no no no no!"

At that moment, things started to turn nightmarish in an instant. Brunhilde who was once a fair beauty began to rapidly age. Her fingers began to grow, her teeth fell out, as did her eyelashes... Her nose grew, her legs bent, and her claws... horrid twisted things... they extended far enough to impale a man. 

Her grotesque raven feathered appendages extended out towards Baldur, casting some spell on him before attempting to claw out his eyes. Before they could, great chains surrounded her like snakes, pulling her away, no longer to be seen.

"WHAT IN SHOR'S TROUSERS!" He cried. "What is..." As he spoke, he could feel the energy sapping from his very bones. His hair greyed, his eyes yellowed...

And memories of his death returned.

"Sorry you had to see that," said Tsun. "We haven't met yet. I am the Priest. Consider me a humble observer, my King."

Baldur watched as 'Tsun' began to shrink and shrivel into the form of an aged Nord warrior, much like himself. Except his hair was painted red with steel protrusions, wild war paint and tired reddened eyes. Well, they were reddened but not tired despite this... More like, wildly aware.

"This... this isn't Sovngarde, is it?"

"Hehehehe... no. Allow me to show you..."

***

...logging in...

...XxObserverOfScarabsxX...

...TheUnderKing1337...

...Running as Administrator...

...Log in successful...

...Signal corrupt...error message...HOAG. HOAG. HOAG.

"I don't... understand... what I'm seeing," said Baldur. All around him were numbers and symbols he couldn't make sense of. There were walls filled with symbols, symbols resembling Daedric letters O and I... or at least that’s what Baldur made of it, what he could comprehend, and a great sound tearing through the cracks, howling with the name HOAG. Baldur knew this name. He wrote a story about an ancestor of his, a descendant of mighty Hoag Merkiller. A demon chieftain of the North, like Brund.

"Brund... the Priest... I've heard of you from Daric," said Baldur. "Back when his father came to Skyrim. When Markarth was attacked. Do you have some connection to him?"

Smiling, the Priest said, "Not as strong as yours. This place... it's his heart. A place I now call home. A place that is now my own. But the witch, the woman you called Brunhilde? She tries to take it from me, even as we speak. This is a problem for both of us."

"How is that a problem for me? And how am I stuck in this place? If I am not dead, then I must return to Skyrim! My wife and child..."

"If you wish to leave this place, then a piece of you must remain. Do not worry, it is a very small piece. Small enough to fit through the cracks...like..."

HOAG! HOAG! HOAG!

The Priest smiled. "Like that."

"Hoag. I don't understand. What does he have to do with any of this?"

"You didn't find it strange how powerful your adversary had grown? How he managed to learn the thu'um?"

"Of course I did," said Baldur. "But there were no answers to be found. And my boy... he died trying to find them."

"Ahhh, the Breton lad. He fought honorably. In fact, he even managed to kill me! Could you believe it?"

"You..." said Baldur. "You fought Daric? Did you harm him?" Baldur's glare fell on the Priest, his thu'um at the tip of his tongue....

"I did, yes. But it was not I that gave the killing blow..."

"Where is his body? Markarth?" said Baldur.

"The Rift. On the edge of Ivarstead in fact."

"So close!" said Baldur. "I must find him. Let me out of this place!"

"Soon enough, my king," said the Priest. "Soon enough. But you must do something for me, remember? The witch, that rebellious whore. She placed herself inside of Brund's Briar-Heart when he first was reborn. And from within she sought to destroy him. Claw at the very fibers of his being. In doing so, she revealed something... strands left behind from the whole... of older fabric. After that, Brund's power poured through, like a broken dam. His power surged, amplified by the natural energy of the Briar-Heart. Which feeds off of the energy of earthbones to sustain the owner. This, was the perfect storm. The perfect combination for a thu'um such as his. How such a thing could come to be could only be destiny, right? And then, as if seeking to balance the chaos in his mind, Brund came searching for me. A fellow Briar-Heart. But not just any Briar-Heart. I have scoured the earth in search for one like he. One who walks the path of He who creates. Somehow these foul people, these Reachmen discovered a way to mimic Lorkhan's power. No doubt by ritual with foul Daedra. But even so, it was a blessing! For I could grow closer to Him by repeating these rituals for the children of Kyne! And so I did, for myself as well. And for this, the Reachmen clans hunted me down until they found me and sealed me away. But Brund saw the warning glyphs. Could read them thanks to knowledge from Her... he found me... freed me. And I finally found what I sought. It was destiny! The gods!"

Baldur's face contorted under the stress of the Priest's ramblings. Shaking his head, Baldur said, "What you're saying is madness. What does this have to do with me?"

"Brund sought a way to stabilize his mind... what the Hagraven did to him left his sanity in shambles. He sought one that might help him do it, and found knowledge of a Nord with their power. Me. A Nord with the blood of Roscrean sages and Reachman slaves. My mind became linked to his the day his restored my briar-heart's life. And in doing so, our combined wills kept hers in check. Though even I could not undo what damage she'd done. And why would I, when that very act had given me life again? The power of three. Nothing is more mighty. Our Lord learned that the hard way when he faced Trinimac..."

"Still waiting for my part in this," said Baldur. 

"My king, you killed Brund! You've ruined the balance, and the power here has become unstable. I need the will of another or that bitch might try and take this home from me. And if she does that, you, will never leave. You were linked ever since Brund began sapping your life away. You see the effects..."

"My youth... he robbed it from me somehow. You know how to return it?" asked Baldur.

"Why, of course I do! Simply take your seat. You are King now, right?" asked the Priest. As he had, a great throne appeared, formed from the walls of numbers and code that surrounded them both. "Take your seat. And do me one more small favor. Carry on my life's work. The work of... the Priest."

"The Priest of what?" asked Baldur. "I don't know, this all seems..."

"The answer should be clear! I am the world's TRUEST Priest...of Lorkhan! I have traveled many places here and there, slipped through the Chaos Shaped Hole. Seen the Gatekeeper and taken his place. I know much. But still I know so little. My journey however, is at an end. Unless I can continue through another. Take my mantle. And then, take His."

"Don't do it! Don't let him influence your mind!"

"SHUT IT, WENCH!" cried the Priest. "You know nothing!"

"He will destroy you... seek to take over you as he did the Demon Chieftain! He holds this place at ransom!"

"I said...." Before the Priest could finish, Baldur interrupted them both.

"Tinvaak... Onikaan... Uth!"

As he spoke, the code around him turned red. The name HOAG ceased echoing through the cracks, and the Hag's voice was drowned out in agonizing screams. 

"Your will, it is strong!" said the Priest. 

"And both of yours are waning. The power of this place. Your power. It is fading, isn't it? I can feel it... without Brund to sustain it, you both grow weak."

"Baldur..."

"Here's what I’m gonna do. I’m gonna go with no. I am not sitting in that chair. I will not be trapped in this place. I refuse my role."

"Baldur!!"

"Screw off," he said. "I won't deny it... I am drawn to it... But this is one of the times I must think... what would Rebec do. And Rebec would probably tell you to shove your offer up your ass and give me back my years. I took Brund's heart. This place is mine."

"SIT IN YOUR CHAIR!" said the Priest. The great chains that took 'Brunhilde' now threatened to take Baldur as well, but when they reached him, Baldur let loose his thu'um once more. 

The great chains' code was corrupted as well, and instead chained the Priest down where he stood.

"Tinvaak. Onikaan. Uth." said Baldur. His will unhindered by that of the Priests or the Hag began tearing through the very walls. Baldur's visage began to leak through like smoke.

"If I am king, I am not obligated to play these games. I'll do as I please, and reclaim what is mine."

"If you do this, Baldur... If you leave me like this, I will make you pay! I swear it!"

"Observe this," said Baldur, extending his fading middle finger. "You helped the man that killed my son and dear friend. **** you. But I will keep my word. I walk the way of Shor's messenger. My message is death to elven-kind. Beyond that, I owe you nothing. Good-bye."

You cannot leave a place that is yours... it remains with you still. Always. You'll come around. You already walk the steps... all you must do, is reach the end. We'll meet again... sooner than you think....

***

"YOL TOOR SHUUUUUUUULLL!!!!"

As Paarthurnax approached the height of the Throat of the World, his throat began to emit a bright green light... the power surging within forced the aging dragon to land immediately, regurgitating the flame of Baldur's thu'um into the air as he climbed out. Bleeding and wet, Baldur climbed out of his throat like a newborn into the world. His power surged as his grip on the Heart of Brund grew tighter. His hair, wild and blowing from the sound of his thu'um began to regain its color, and Baldur's skin began to tighten, his wounds healing rapidly. 

By the time the process was complete, the heart's light grew dim until only a faint pale light remained. High-King Baldur Red-Snow had regained his years and returned triumphant to High Hrothgar.

As he regained consciousness and his vision returned, he saw Paarthurnax staring down at him, uncomfortably close. He could recall nothing of his conversation with the Priest... and perhaps that was for the best. All he truly remembered was killing Brund... and...

"A snake. There was a snake. What happened?"

"I saved you. Took you inside me, and brought you back up here from the skies of Keizaal," said Paarthurnax.

"Took me inside you..." said Baldur. "You...ate me?! If you ever retell this story, please, rephrase it."

Paarthurnax didn't respond, only tilted his head. "Admittedly, I was tempted to eat you. Vahzah. You were bleeding... and I could taste the salt of your tears."

"Okay, that's enough of that," said Baldur as he stood, brushing the snow off and Dragon saliva... "I'm glad you saved me, but... I have to ask. Why? Why do you help at all?"

"Why I help the Joor, or why you?" asked Paarthurnax.

"Are the reasons independent of one another?" asked Baldur.

"Hmm, yes and no. The Joor are not entirely different from us Dragons. I eventually found it beneficial to resist my nature, the same as the more sophisticated societies of the Joor have. Plain, and simple. You have a saying about honey and flies, but I have long forgotten. As for you specifically, Ashen-One. You remind me of myself in younger days. And a student that I once had. Alas, he has not returned for Tinvaak for quite some time."

"I think I know who you speak of," said Baldur. "The man gave me my thu'um. And I killed him. I'm sorry." 

Paarthurnax raised his head away from Baldur, and at first Baldur thought the dragon might've changed its mind about letting him live...

"Hmm. Curious. The Joor are very dov-like indeed. This news pains me... may I ask why?" 

Baldur looked down at the space between himself and Paarthurnax... the Jagged Crown rested half buried in the snow, no doubt having rolled down from the peak of the mountain during the fight. He placed the Heart of Brund in a pouch on his belt, forcibly removing the barbs jutting out of it from his hands.  

He held the crown now, brushing the snow away as he studied it. Almost as though he thought to find the answer to Paarthurnax's question in the metalwork.

"Because... because the greatest fear is the fear of loss. And I am but a man. And as I stand here with this blasted crown in my hands, with the taste of loss fresh on my tongue, knowing what it cost... I see now that some loss is inevitable. And yet, I regret nothing. I'll die before I allow my fate or the fate of those I love to rest in the hands of others. No, I will be the architect of my own destiny from this day forward. No kings, no gods, no masters. And no elves."

Baldur placed the crown upon his head, for the first time since Windhelm, when Ulfric was still alive. He no longer needed flames. The Jagged Crown rested on the heads of countless kings before him, and now it was his. High-King Baldur Red-Snow.

Turning to Paarthurnax, it occurred to him that the Jagged Crown was made with the bones of his kind... ah well.

"So, knowing what you know now, do you regret saving my life?" 

"And why would I?" said Paarthurnax. "Curious. I did it as much for myself as for you. Besides. Death is too easy. Time and contemplation is true suffering. And in suffering comes penance. I know that all too well. Vahzah."

"As you say. Vahzah." said Baldur, thinking about Brund. "Death is too easy. That much we do agree on." As Baldur stepped away from Paarthurnax for the final time, bowing his head and waving his arms... he knew that his words were true. Regret was not heavy on his heart, but the weight of his actions would lean on him forever.

***

As the thu'um duel had grown ever more pitched, Veleda had been forced to rely on her own understanding of the thu'um and mental discipline as a mage to withstand it. Nearby, the Greybeards stood chanting with palms upright and appeared otherwise not to notice anything going on around them. However as the very earth beneath her feet began to move, Veleda began to think she had been foolish to involve herself when her child was yet so vulnerable. How was he withstanding this? Would he be killed in the womb by the thu'um's power, a victim of Baldur Red Snow as much as his father?

As her will faltered, so did her concentration, and on the next blast of clashing Tongues, Veleda was knocked to one knee. She then felt the Greybeards' power extending and covering her like a shield. After that she didn't see or know anything, hands at her ears vainly trying to keep the sound from making her mad. When she came to herself, the world was still again but for the flap of the old dragon's wings. Veleda looked up and saw a wall of snow above them, an avalanche that had been stopped in its tracks by the Greybeards' power. Climbing to her feet, Veleda asserted her will again and this time she was able to help push the snow back and over the ridge to tumble onto the mountain below.

Feeling her stomach, Veleda cried out with relief as she felt the baby give a strong, reassuring kick. Only then did she have the presence of mind to wonder who had won the duel. It seemed unlikely that either man would have survived that maelstrom.

"LOK VAAH KOOR." Master Borri shouted to clear the skies, and as the snow and mist parted, Veleda saw two figures below them on the slope. One was the dragon, and the other she recognized as Baldur Red Snow.

The once-queen's heart sank. Brund Hammer-Fang would have been a difficult king to live with. The kingship passing to the Red Snows, however, meant that if the child inside her lived, there would be enmity between their clans forever. "So be it," she said aloud. The jarls and now surely the gods had spoken, if there were any. She found that she hated them, too.

As Baldur walked away from Paarthurnax, who was quick to take off back to his perch, Baldur couldn't help but think about the thing in Brund's chest... It was a Briar-Heart, he knew that much. But it was nothing like what he'd seen before. 

He recalled at that moment that he'd given Rebec one as a hunting trophy in Markarth. The night of the red dress. That would've been a comforting memory once upon a time, had he not felt so uneasy about the one in his possession now. 

He stopped moving, pulled the heart out of his pouch as he looked it over...

It had a slight green tint to it. Magic, no doubt. And he could swear he heard the sound of beating inside. Not like a drum, more like a hummingbird was trapped within. He shook the thing just to be sure there wasn't. 

A memory returned to him then, or a dream maybe. A place with green walls. Not quite walls though. They had figures moving over them. Or, the walls were made of them. When he tried to remember what they looked like, all that came to mind was odd symbols he had no recollection of ever seeing before. He thought they were Daedric at first, but they definitely weren't. 

They almost looked as though they were written in cursive, with a turquoise green glow. He got the feeling they might've been... numbers. But when trying to comprehend their meaning, it only clogged his memory further.

A voice came to him then, like a deep whisper.

Don't forget your promise. Seek out the truth of Lorkhan. Follow the Walking Way laid out before you by the Sithis Shaped Hole where Chaos is born. 

Baldur was squeezing the heart so hard that it pricked his hands once more. Though his hands were bleeding, he didn't find any blood on the heart itself.

That was enough for him. He placed the heart in his pouch once again, then chucked it off the mountain. Or at least he tried to. He couldn't bring himself to do it. What if it was useful for the war effort?

His head started to pound as he climbed his way back to Arngeir and the Greybeards. Before any of them could speak, Baldur said, "Veleda. You're probably headed to the College of Winterhold, right? Please, I know you owe me no favors, but take this to them. Have them study it. But don't touch what's inside. Please."

Baldur practically shoved the small pouch at her, though his grip was still strong.

Veleda looked as if she might be having a snake handed to her by a bigger snake. After a pause, she did reach out for the sack, and had a small tug of war for a moment until it was in her possession. She glanced inside at the green glow and regarded Baldur suspiciously. "Congratulations are in order, I suppose."

"When we've won the war, perhaps," said Baldur. A wave of relief fell over him now that the heart was out of his possession. He was clearly way in over his head with whatever it was that Brund had done to it. He wondered also if he'd need a mage to look over him as well, after having been rapidly aged back and forth. His beard was still longer in length from the change as well...

He tried clearing it from his mind for now. He'd need professional help to make any sort of sense of it. 

"Look. I know what you're thinking. If I wanted you dead, I'd have attempted to kill you already. Words won't help, I know... only my actions from here on will. When the war is over, find me again. This crown, will be yours."

"Ulfric heard a few of your oaths, too, Baldur Red Snow. Go home to your wife." Veleda looked back to Arngeir and said, "Thank you, for up there." With a nod she turned and started down the mountain towards the Greybeards' hall, the sack with Brund's heart in her hand.

 

Baldur smirked at the comment as she walked away. He deserved that, he knew. 

Arngeir stepped beside him then, ending the awkward silence. "Well, Ash-King. What will you do now?"

"What do you think?" said Baldur, arms crossed.

"I was hoping you'd given thought to our offer. My offer," said Arngeir. "I can't say I approve of how you manipulated our thu'um. A thu'um meant to bridge the gap between two minds. A thu'um of peace. But, it was impressive. You have talent."

"I learned it from you," said Baldur. "The first time you'd used it. You'd bridged the gap, alright. And I felt all of your anger and hate. It was rather persuasive. And I figured it could be useful if someone was trying to concentrate. Like, a mage casting a powerful spell, or a Tongue using powerful thu'um. Even if I couldn't get them to stop casting, or shouting, I could certainly give them pause."

"I'd hoped you'd think to use it for teaching. Sharing ideas of peace. Our Way of the Voice. It's not too late to turn away from the path set before you."

"You know I can't do that. I intend to take up Veleda's suggestion and see my family. And then, it's war. I know you'd hoped to turn me to your ways, but for what it's worth. Your teachings weren't entirely lost on me. They weren't on Ulfric, either," said Baldur.

"And that gives me little comfort. Considering his end. Still, perhaps this time the Nords won't be so foolish with the Gift of the Breath. For what it's worth, you've shown me something as well. We'll not march to war. But if it comes to it, we won't let our home and the Dragon's be overtaken with slavery and slaughter. Which reminds me..."

Arngeir placed a hefty pouch in Baldur's hand. "Take this with you. This silver. It's got too much blood on it."

"All coin does," said Baldur. "I'll take it, and send a donation of gold to your monastery. It's the least I can do, considering..."

"Yes... a meeting of Nord Jarls. It's... eventful. To say the least. Baldur, I can't say that it was a pleasure. Like I said, I can't forgive what you've done. But, you were a good student in the brief time you've been here. By the will of the gods, perhaps you'll be the one to teach the Nords our way of the voice. Breath and Focus."

"Breath and Focus," said Baldur.

***

As he descended down the path to the courtyard, the only thing he could think of was what in the hell Rebec was going to think. He'd leave mention of the heart's... whatever was going on with it out. That Brund was a Briar-Heart, that much would be enough. She wouldn't believe the rest at all.

What happened with Paarthurnax... definitely out. She would certainly never believe that either. Or that he won the moot without uttering a word. 

Come to think of it, he was fairly certain she wouldn't believe anything he told her about the moot. Elisif getting herself killed... that she might believe.

"That thick skulled woman can be difficult to deal with sometimes. No matter. Ragna will believe me," said Baldur, coming down the steps at last to see Vignar, Vrage and Korir awaiting him, surely hearing the news from Veleda.

"High King!" The relief was evident on the three mens' faces. Particularly Vignar, who seemed almost frozen in place. As the other two lowered to their knees, the old man stood there with a look of wonderment in his eyes. "Your voice carried over the mountain," he said. "Not since the Dragonborn have I heard such a thing."

Baldur wasn’t sure how to respond to that except that he wished the Dragonborn was still around to do all of this in his stead.

His eye caught the bewildered look of the old man... he’d never seen anyone look at him in such a way before. Certainly not Nords. He felt the weight of what he was doing in that instant... possibly for the first time since he’d done all of this. The weight of their reverence and hopes on his shoulders...

Then his eyes trailed down to the two Jarls beside him. This was even more confusing a sight.

”I think Brund might’ve given me some memory loss, I’m pretty sure we’re still in Skyrim, not Cyrodill, yes?” Baldur smiled at the two briefly and said, “If so, then rise. I don’t require you to bow, merely stand beside me, as brothers.”

There were few things he could have pleased them more. And so they stood, and met his eyes with a level of respect that even his victory in the moot had not achieved.

As Baldur led them back to High Hrothgar, Vrage said to him, "I must return to my brother with news of what has happened. But I will come to you in Windhelm soon. Dawnstar's ships will be ready at your call."

“I’d have you meet me at my home in Kyne’s Watch first,” said Baldur. “If you’re to stand with me, I’d see that you can do so as proper Nords. Up for a little training before war? Not that I think you need any, Vignar. I bet you could’ve taken Brund had I let you!”

"Ha!" Vignar shook his head. "Perhaps in my youth, High King Baldur. Perhaps in my youth. You can tell the elves that they need not worry, I daresay this climb was the last journey my old bones will make."

“And none will blame you,” said Baldur. “When you return, tell the twins and Aela that their services are expensive, but it was money well spent. I’d like to see them on the battlefield as well, all the companions if they are willing.”

Truth be told, talking with the Jarls was not his first priority... Now that Brund was dead, he needed to be off this mountain. Someone somewhere must know where Daric was. Or, his body rather. For all he knew, Brund could be holding him prisoner, and lied to goad him into fighting, which admittedly worked like a charm. Bardok perhaps, or Falgrum. Neither of which made it up the mountain.... 

He showed him blood on his hammer... blood that seemed relatively fresh. Blood that also could've belonged to anyone, or anything. But it was at least a start. If the blood truly was Daric's then that would mean he was somewhere relatively close by. 

Baldur's thoughts were interrupted when they made their way inside.

"Baldur?"

When his attention returned to the Jarls, they were looking at him expectantly, as if waiting for him to answer a question. "Maybe Brund did knock your head," Korir joked. "Are you alright?"

Vrage scowled at the Jarl, then gave Baldur a look that said that he understood. "Forgive us. You have earned rest, and a break from our ilk. I will begin my descent come morning. Expect to find me in Kyne's Watch before long."

Vrage broke away from them down a side hall. And as he did, Vigar nodded. "Aye, he's right. You know where to find us, Baldur. Come, Korir."

The Jarls left Baldur standing in the main hall, where the Greybeards Borri and Einarth had been meditating until his arrival. Now they stood watching him, silent as always. 

He didn’t have time to feel bad about the Jarls as he watched the two silent sentinels. There was so much to do, so much to plan. So many thoughts running through his head, and a nagging feeling he couldn’t shake. As though there was some thought or memory that escaped him only by a thread...

It felt like the Greybeards watching him might’ve understood. Though if they did, he wouldn know. Their expression betrayed nothing, not even how they saw him. Perhaps they didn’t see him as anything, king or not. Perhaps he was nothing.

It often felt that way. Like he was an ant struggling against a gust of wind called fate that he couldn’t withstand. 

Seeing Fenrald looking grumpy as always, or simply showing his natural facial expression, Baldur’s fist clenched hard. Ant or not he’d resist until Kyne ran out of breath and collapsed from the sky.

”Fenrald. A word.”

The Jarl of Falkreath approached and declined his head. "High King."

“Follow me outside for a spell,” said Baldur. “Somewhere where voices don’t carry as easily. We have a lot to discuss with the coming war and I’d rather do it now rather than having your attitude against me fester for too long.”

Fenrald nodded, but did not say anything. He was honest enough to not disagree.

Baldur hadn’t noticed but one of the “silent sentinels” raised their hands to stifle a snicker. The two had looked like a child following a tutor knowing they were about to be scolded for bad behavior.

And sure enough once they had been outside once again amongst the howling winds and scolding snow, Baldur indeed seemed about to do just that.

He walked towards him, backing him up into a stone pillar in the courtyard until Fenrald could smell his breath.

“If we were in any other place, Fenrald, anywhere at all... for the things you insinuated, the things you said... I’d have likely punched you in the throat. I killed my own father for being a legionnaire. And for that comment about asking foreigners to take a piss... I’d have cut your neck, and pissed down your throat.”

Backing away from Fenrald, Baldur turned around, reflecting. 

“Then again. Admittedly, it was funny. And, luckily for us both this attitude is exactly what I need.” Turning back to Fenrald, he said, “We haven’t been properly acquainted yet. Allow me to tell you exactly who and what I am. I’m the man that’s gonna pull the wool over the world’s eyes. But to do that, I’m going to need help from men like you. Men that never forget...”

The Jarl of Falkreath's first response was one of utter disbelief, but the longer Baldur spoke, the more it faded, replaced by something else entirely. For the first time since his arrival at High Hrothgar, Fenrald smiled. It wasn't a joyous "I'm having a good day" smile, more the vengeful "Tell me who to kill" sort. By the time Baldur's plans were laid bare, the Jarl was so excited that his breathing had turned ragged. "You mad bastard. Do the other Jarls know?"

“Not yet,” said the Mad Bastard, with a smirk. “And that won’t change, either. This moot served the purpose of seeing exactly who I can trust to truly help me win this war, and to be on the winning end of it post aftermath. You and Veleda Fire-Hand are the only ones. You understand the gravity of what I’ve revealed. This will take sacrifice. But there’s nothing I wouldn’t sacrifice to see the elves burn. All of them, if need be. Skyrim has gone on too long without proper reparations for the Great War and the Civil War after. All of our enemies will pay dearly for it.”

Baldur extended his hand. “And after it is done. After the Wild Hunt is released on a scale no one’s ever seen... our children will finally know peace. From this day forth, we are brothers, Fenrald. Will you help me?”

"Aye," Fenrald clasped his hand. "I will."

Baldur’s face was stern as he took his hand, then gave way to a big childish grin as he shook his shoulder and embraced him.

”Haha, good! That’s one thing off my mind. We’ll soon begin this war in earnest then and **** the elves right in the ass. I’ll see you in Kyne’s Watch and share some of my own mead before preparations. Gods be with you,” said Baldur finally, turning away to go back inside.

He did not get far before Fenrald's voice stopped him.

"Wait."

Baldur turned back to find that his new ally still looked troubled by something. Fenrald went on. "I fought at Falkreath. But you commanded. Spoke to them. Does the name Lorgar Grim-Maw mean anything to you?"

The answer was plain on his new king’s face.

”It’s been a long time since I’ve heard that name. The man put an arrow in me. Nearly in my wife too. And... your predecessor Dengeir of Stuhn.”

"So you knew." The Jarl nodded solemnly. "I only learned this morning, from the Empress's own lips. I stand by you, High King, no matter your answer, but I ask you now for permission to kill this man."

“He’s not a man. He’s a monster, a werewolf. I have limited intelligence on his whereabouts and even less time to spare. However...”

Baldur brushes his beard a moment. 

“We’d be fools to think he wouldn’t get involved in the war, or even attempt to take my life, or my family’s. And, I’ve wanted his head for a long long time. The Imperials likely know more than us, and if you really wish to kill him... you’re going to need special preparations. I’ll have to ask you stay in Kyne’s Watch longer than the others if you’re serious. I have something in mind.”

"I'm serious," Fenrald responded. If he was deterred by the revelation of what Lorgar was, he hid it well. "That is all I wanted. I'll see you at Kyne's Watch, brother."

“I’ll hold you to it. Steel yourself, Fenrald. Falkreath was the birthplace of my Grim Ones, And now her Jarl will join our ranks. If you don’t survive, well. You weren’t gonna kill Lorgar anyway. See you in Kyne’s Watch.”

With that, Baldur left Fenrald for the second time, this time before he could interrupt.

His business here was finally over. There was no more need to stay in this cursed place. Once upon a time he’d have died for the chance to be here, and now he couldn’t be away from it sooner. 

Jeleen and his boy found him on his way in. He embraced the new fellow High King so greatly that the much taller Baldur was lifted off his feet.

After that, and some farewells he was nearly to the hall’s great doors when...

"My my, the Lord of Cinder can no longer associate with us dirty imps? Tsk, tsk. And not even saying goodbye? I may have got the wrong impression. In girl terms, I believe braiding your hair is a sign of friendship. As our piggybacks.  Am I wrong?" The sly face of Dales peeked behind him, with a slight grin, her blue eyes uncharacteristically soft. Her grin turned into a soft smile, as she offered her gloved hand forward, saying, "I suppose some congratulations are in order, High King Red-Snow."

Baldur stopped in mid step, hoping to whatever gods he hadn’t pissed off yet with his blasphemy that no one was within earshot.

Just in case they were...

”Haha, you sure have an active imagination Dales.” Baldur shot her a look. “The only woman I’d give a piggyback ride to is my wife. But you know that.” 

Baldur highlighted his words with two knocks on the top of her head before finally grasping her by the forearm. He finally let a grin trail on his lips.

”Thank you, Dales. You did better than I expected. I was a little worried in there... Brund’s tongue was surprisingly sharp.”

"I'm sure my tongue...was softer." She said with another grin, "I've been called carpet muncher plenty of times, Baldur. Wasn't the first, won't be the last. He could have come up with something more creative." She chuckled a little, "But the important thing is this carpet muncher is alive, and he's dead. Impressive work. Wasn't worried for a second, your tongue is sharp enough, even when you can't use it. You had those Jarls wrapped around your little fingers."

“Were we attending the same moot?” said Baldur, with a laugh. “Most I believe merely saw I was the obvious choice, but I doubt they were swayed by my Nordly charm. Doesn’t matter though. We’ve both got our work cut out for us. We can discuss the war once we’re off this mountain. The sooner, the better. I have a personal matter to attend to as soon as possible.”

"Wait." The Empress's features darkened. "If you don't mind, I....believe there is something we must discuss. Better it under the shadow of the mountain and away from prying eyes.

Baldur gave a heavy sigh. “Damnit girl, my friend and my boy are both possibly dead above the earth! What sort of important matter is this that you’d pester me with it so right now?”

Dales sighed. "I was debating with myself if I should bring this up, do the words "I forgive you" have some special kind of meaning to you?"

Baldur didn’t say anything, only gave her a ***** look. “What in Shor’s balls are you on about? Look, I’m of course greatful for your help but you have to understand, I must...”

Baldur stopped mid sentence.... 

Looking at Dales with a venomous glare, Baldur said, “It means nothing to me. Why? What is it that you want?”

He was about to ask if it was blackmail but didn’t want to give her anything in case she knew.

"It does I can tell by your face. And I didn't know  until  I scaled the mountain." Dale's face became blank and her eyes changed, they were....serene. "I had a dream before I left the Imperial City. Something formless approached me while I slept. A... feminine presence, I think. It labelled you, the Ash King as a "betrayer" and told me you would find deep meaning behind those words. You think I'm crazy?" She asked, sounding genuine.

Baldur’s face was blank.

”I’m leaving now,” he said, turning to walk away.

I guess I am pretty crazy. But not in this case. The young Empress called out, "Wait Baldur hear me out okay?" She paused "Whatever secret you have I really don't care about it. God's know I have plenty of skeletons in my closest. The voice told me you could help me get something. A weapon that could assist us in the war!"

Baldur turned around and quickly dragged the Empress by the arm outside where he’d discussed with Fenrald not too long ago. And just like before the Greybeards watched in silence equally as amused as before.

Once outside, he said, “What sort of weapon did this... voice mention? And what did she look like?”

"I don't remember. She was formless, like a never ending abyss, a expanse of overlapping shadow." I aint telling him an elf corpse talked to me...she thought. "I remember her voice clear as day though. It was...arduous? Wrathful? But soft...almost predatory. As if it was seducing me. Luring me...." She shook her head, "A weapon wreathed in flame, the voice said. I didn't know what it meant, until I fazed upon grey wings shadowing the mountain." Her eyes darted around, as she lowered her voice.

Baldur had to step away to think, quieting Dales on occasion when she’d gotten impatient.

Bo-Et-Hia... have you forgotten her, son? She hasn’t forgotten you...

Baldur shook his head to banish the thought. Why, why is this happening now? Stay out of my way you fiery bitch.

The weapon wreathed in flame, it had to be the sword, he realized. But the detail about wings, that was throwing him off. That was certainly in reference to a dragon. But how was Baldur to help get a dragon for the war effort? And better yet, did he want one?

”This is all crazy,” he finally said. “It’s just a dream, girl. I don’t even know why I’m considering this.”

He knew full well why...

“Anyway, even if I considered that you weren’t crazy and also not trying to play me for a fool, why would I help with this? I don’t know for certain but it seems you think I can help you gain a dragon...”

"The debt I have for you unshackling me will never be paid in full, Baldur Red-Snow." She gave him a soft smile, "I loathe to ask you for more, since you gave me something more precious then any other gift. Freedom." But she paused, "We our allies. And friends, I think. We should not call upon favors from one another for things we did for each other." Her smile grew to become a devilish grin, "But you would be foolish to think if your silence alone was what gave you all those votes at the moot." 

“What’s that mean?” said Baldur, quick to move past the rest of what she said. 

"Sorli. I bribed her with a few chests of Imperial gold to get you her vote."

“Of course you did,” said Baldur, visibly disgusted. “Godsdamnit, hate to say it but Veleda was right. But if she was gonna take Imperial gold as a bribe at a moot, she’d have taken it anywhere. At least now I know who I can and can’t trust. You did well Dales, very.”

His eyes diverted away from her a moment... then returned with resolve.

”We’re at the throat of the World, with access to an actual dragon, a friendly one. And we need something to even the odds with the Thalmor. No telling how many Sunbirds they have. It’s a long.... long shot... but might be worth a try. I do have an idea. But if I help with this, allies or not, it is gonna cost. Since we’re already taking Imperial gold and all, I’ll have terms. I helped release your soul as a favor, but it also serves not to have my ally be a mere puppet. Favor for a favor unfortunately is the nature of alliances. World leaders can’t afford to be friendly for its own sake. It’s more than you’d get from any other self respecting Nord in Skyrim.”

''Of course, I wasn't expecting freebies." She gave another grin, "For all your talk about disgust, you Nords really seem to like Imperial Gold. Vignar told me that Brund was offering her chests of silver for her support in the moot, and when I finally met her, I knew the stench. She smelled like a politician from back home. And I knew right away, how to deprive Brund an ally, and give you one. Do you find my actions distasteful?"

“Yes,” said Baldur. “But that’s politics. Like I said, you did well, and I don’t fault you. As for Imperial gold, you’re not wrong. But know this, Dales. I may have dabbled in politics to get where I am, but I am a soldier. The only thing I care about is winning this war. I will not be bought, and I will not be swayed by how things look politically. Politically can suck my big fat **** as far as I’m concerned. Understood? This transaction, our friendship, it won’t make me do anything that isn’t in Skyrim’s favor. And helping you with this crazy dragon idea without payment for the war effort would not be in Skyrim’s favor. So unless you object to anything I’ve said, I’ll start laying out the terms of this hypothetical plan.”

Before Dales could say anything, Baldur said, “I have three. The first, gold of course. I don’t care how it’s delivered, or what people say, but let the official story be payment for a deal I’m about to propose. Which takes me to term number two. The Orcs. In the near future I’m about to visit every Orc stronghold in Skyrim. I’ll make a deal with them to work in the derelict mines dotting the land in their vicinity, giving them a cut of the ores to sell and pay them to help make more weapons for the war. The ores we receive from the mines, I’ll sell to you, at a fair price. I know the Empire’s best source of ores is right here in these lands. We’ll benefit from the coin, and your armies will benefit from good Skyrim steel and quicksilver, amongst other things. And the orcs that do not agree will be slain or sent out of our borders. I heard Gracchus was harboring them in a new Orsinium. You’re welcome to them. Those are the first two. Agreed so far? The last one will cost you nothing.”

"I have no problem with the first two. What is the third," said Dales.

“Good,” said Baldur after a hesitant pause. Whether he was expecting her to object or not, he didn’t say. “In the future, I will ask a favor of you. This favor is unconditional, and cannot be refused, within reason of course. I’ll not ask you to do anything that puts the Empire at risk or to risk your life. That’s it, that’s all I require.”

"Look before you leap, my knight"  I dark whisper arouse from her mind, which she swiftly cast down. The Empress thought for a few long moments. Did she truly trust, Baldur? The words of the she-elf, along with Baldur's purely venomous reaction, combined with the mysterious nature of his ascension to the crown made her feel...he had something to do with Ulfric's death. Maybe he...no could he? 

It was all well and good he actually though the Empress was a friend. But what was the word of a man to his friend, if he was able to...ursup his king and sworn blood brother. Dales...needed more.

She uttered, "I will make an oath to fulfill your request, if you make the same oath that this request will not harm the Empire and her people, along with my life." She said firmly.

“I swear it,” said Baldur. “I’d not be so stupid as to risk this alliance, not when we’re so close to war with the elves. If you can’t trust me, trust that at least. I crave elven blood, and I will have it.”

"Then we have a deal, Baldur." She offered her hand again, while saying, "Now fill me in on this plan of yours. I doubt the Greybeards will be very receptive."

Baldur took her hand to seal the deal. “Hopefully we won’t need to involve them. You’re familiar with the Dragonborn of course. When Ulfric was still alive, he told me the Dragonborn learned the name of a dragon that he supposedly captured in Whiterun. I asked Vignar about this once and he said not only is this true, but the Dragonborn convinced that dragon to help him. And all he did to gain this dragons attention was say his name.”

"Hmmmm. You can use the thu'um to summon a dragon?!" She asked with surprise. 

Baldur laughed and said, “Well... not exactly. At least I don’t think I can... from what little I understand, the Dragonborn didn’t summon it, not magically. He simply spoke the name and it heard it in the winds... that would suggest that Dragon names are words of power. Paarthurnax for instance means... ambition, lord, cruelty. Hmph, doesn’t sound like him at all really.”

"******* weird." She paused looking inquisitively, before she had a "eureka" moment, "There's a few recorded cases of Dragons serving in the Imperial Legion as high class mercenaries. We don't we try and summon one of them?"

“If you got a name, then toss one my way,” said Baldur. “I have read of one dragon in particular that served as a mercenary to Tiber Septim himself, but he was killed by Cyrus the Restless... He might still be alive. Perhaps Alduin resurrected him? It’s a long shot though. I heard Alduin only brought back to life dragons that died here in Skyrim, but there were dragons in Solstheim as well, which the Blades did not know about...”

"Nafaalilargus" She said plainly, "The Red. Scion of Tiber Septim. He's an imperial hero."

Baldur couldn’t resist laughing. “I’m sorry, can you say that name again?”

She rolled her eyes, "Does it look like I speak Dragon?!"

“Well you better or we’ve got nothing. Is that really his name? It’s not even three syllables. Unless it’s not his true name. I was a mercenary once, went by Wulf. Other mercs had reason to use fake names and monikers. Maybe this dragon adopted a new name. Sounds almost like there’s Cyrodiilic influence in it. We’ll have to speak with Paarthurnax. We’ll go in a few hours once the other Jarls have cleared out.” Baldur walked away from her to the courtyard’s edge, sitting cross legged in meditation. “If the Greybeards ask, we are simply praying.”

"Yeah, yeah." Dales sat down beside the Nordic general turned king, and tried to cross her legs like him. She sullenly gazed upon the stone floor, "Not going to find any tavern wenches up here, might as well just gaze at the floor." 

“They’re not gonna believe you’re praying if you’re talking to me about tavern wenches.”

Curious, Baldur turned to her, cracking an eye open and said, “What would you do with a tavern wench anyway? Especially a Nord wench. Our women ain’t delicate like those scrawny Imperial women you know. They don’t buck as easy from a tiny prick’s prodding. Or a small finger, for that matter.”

"Tongue. It's all about the tongue. They all squirm. I hear some girls fancy wooden...ehem tools, but those are just wooden dicks. A phallus is a phallus, no matter it's material, flesh or woo. If you want that, then why are you begging for me?" She giggled. 

“Pfft,” said Baldur simply. “A phallus is a phallus indeed. My mead spigot won’t leave splinters. As for tongues, I know how to use my tongue. I am one, after all, ha! But nothing beats the feeling of sheathing your sword deep in a woman, and I know I’m better than some blasted tree branch. But anyway, you’re distracting me. I’m trying to concentrate.”

"Contemplating your morality?" She snickered. Her grin turned into a smile, as she closed her own blue eyes, letting the cool snowy breeze hit her on the face. "It's very peaceful here though. Extremely. I feel the breath of the cold wind on my face, and my spirit feels refreshed. I disagree with much of their philosophy, but perhaps the Geybeards have a few points. Such tranquility."

“Peaceful and boring,” said Baldur. “The sooner I’m off this mountain the better. I need a woman’s touch, and I need to tend to my boy and my friend.”

"I forgot to offer my condolences. You have them. I did not know you had a child with someone else other then the good Admiral though."

“I don’t,” said Baldur. “None that I know about at least. I’m just being honest to what he means to me. Daric is my son. I’m just happy I got to tell him that before he died. If he’s really dead.”

"You think he survived? Baldur....I." She paused, "Brund was...drowning in black magic. He felt...wrong. Like Lorgar, but somehow worse. I'm not saying he's dead, but it's not good to have false hope. Not many things could beat Brund, or hell from the sounds I heard from your duel, survive him." 

“I’ll not believe he’s dead until I see his corpse on the pyre. That is that,” said Baldur.

Dales remained silent, knowing when she should stop speaking. She just let the howling of the mountain top consume her, as she embraced the tranquility.

Baldur had no such feelings of tranquility. Instead all he could think of was his duel with Brund. Even with his wounds somehow healed... what Brund has done to him had left its mark all the same. Even if he physically looked fine he wondered if his life expectancy was still in tact. He could feel it, the exhaustion, and he soon passed into the dreamworld of Vaermina as he sat. 

He dreamed of Brund, except this time he was Daric, fighting well but desperately, barely keeping head above water as Btund toyed with the boy. He kicked his sword away, and laughed as it fell off the mountainside. Daric struggled, grasping for stone, ice, anything as Brund’s boot planted him facedown in the snow.

Finally he found something... another sword with a black hilt and a long, fine blade of gold with only one magnificent edge. 

But before he could do anything with it, Brund, or was that someone else... a winged fiend... stomped his head into mush. 

Thats when Baldur bolted up to find himself in his original bed. Dales was in her old bed as well, and it was still dark outside judging from the lack of light coming from the window slits.

“Dales, you awake?”

The young girl sheepishly yawn, as she muttered, "I am now. Wait...." Her eyes suddenly sharpened, as she looked around in confusion, "Do you remember leaving the mountain top?"

“No... I think I fell asleep. I guess you did too. Arngeir must’ve shouted us here like he did to me before...” turning so his feet touched the ground he said, “Why the hell are you so tired anyway?”

"Like I said, there wasn't anything to do but stare at the snow. If my golden lady of Solitude was still here, I would be having pillow fights right now, half naked. Life sucks..." She said bitterly, as she got out of the bed.

Baldur said, “From the looks of it, Brund beat you to it. I’m sure they had plenty of... pillow fights. Anyway let’s get up that mountain already. With any luck Arngeir hasn’t blocked off the path yet.”

The Empress quickly gathered what equipment she elected to bring with her, before going beside Baldur, as they duo walked the stone halls of the monastery quickly, "I suppose all the Jarls and the foreigners besides me and my escort have left." She saw Elsief's broken corpse in her mind once more before locking it away with a shrug. 

Baldur hadn't said anything, quickly pacing through the halls and to the double doors leading into the courtyard. There was a dim light in the horizon against the parting clouds, exposing what remained of the stars of Aetherius. The snowfall halted and the winds were stilled. It was a quiet morning. Baldur predicted that it wouldn't be so for long.

Sure enough Arngeir had blocked the path to the top however, leaving the two stuck at the path's entrance.

"Paar... Thur Nax!" said Baldur, several times in fact, but nothing came of it.

"AMBITION OVERLORD CRUELTY!" The small Empress screamed at the top of her lungs!

Nothing happened again, but Baldur did give her an odd look as he shook his head. He grinned after he couldn't see his face.

"Well. Guess they've had enough of us. We'll either have to figure it out on our own or drop the idea entirely I'm afraid."

"Wait. Try shouting the Red One's merc name. Maybe he responds to it..." The Empress said, breathing hard.

"I don't even know how to break that mess of a name up into three words, it's not even three syllables," said Baldur. "Naalifilargus? Naafalilargus? Every time I say it I feel like I have a **** in my mouth."

"Wait...three syllables..." She looked thoughtful for a moment, before a childish smile played on her lips. She yelled, "Nafaalilargus! Try that!"

"That's still not three syllables," said Baldur, sighing in frustration and losing faith in the whole thing. "Naf... aalil...argus? Naf Aalil Argus!"

 

Still nothing.

"Okay," said Baldur. Nafaal. Maybe you Imperials really did just goof up the Dragon's name. At least I hope or there's no way we'll guess his real name. So. Nafaal. It sort of sounds like Nah Faal. Nah is fury. Faal means... the..." Baldur scratched his head, then kept pondering.

"It also could be Fah... Nah Fah Lilargus, which sounds like nothing at all. Fah however means... For. Fury for the.... Empire maybe? The name might not be a typical dragon name, rearranged to have some hidden meaning more appropriate for our language instead of the three syllable names they typically take. But that's the name we need, not this Cyrodiilic one. Fury for the... what? Perhaps...." Baldur walked away from Dales, talking to himself.

"**** this is stupid. There's no way a dragon would needlessly hide such a meaning as that in a name that no one else would understand but them. Maybe it's some inside joke, with him and Talos? Fury for the... and then the rest has no meaning. No way that they'd take the Cyrodiilic ending to mean or represent Empire. That's just way too convoluted to be right. And it doesn't help me anyway because it's the Dragon name I need. Nahfaal or NahFah... then something that could feasibly be turned into lilargus..."

Dales sat down, thinking hard, "It's like naming your child Shit Piss ****. Why do Dragons have these weird names?" 

"They're not weird," said Baldur swatting at her but being too far out of reach to wack her good enough. "I believe Nords took on the tradition of monikers and having names with meaning from translating their draconic names to their own language. That's what these essentially are, three syllable monikers. And from what I know of Nord words and their relation to draconic, we often add fluff to what once was a rather simple word. I wouldn't be surprised if Lilargus was simply Nahlil with argus thrown in at the end. Or Arges. Hell it even could've been... Laar. Nahfahlaar, or Nahfaalaar. Hmm... But Laar, that as far as I know means nothing at all...But.... there is a similar word... Laan. Request. Another that means life. Laas. Fury for life... Fury for Request... now that sounds like a mercenary name. Nahfahlaas. I can see that corrupted into Nafaalilargus. But that's so... stupid. Or, Nahfahlaan. But there's no N in that unless the Imperials didn't give a shit and just butchered the name and made it as Imperial as they could manage. Hmm, sounds just like them actually...."

"Wait..."  Dales stopped for a second, as she muttered, "I remember reading about another Dragon Mercenary. That name you said...Nahfahlaar. I've heard it before.  The Dragon in question apparently, served a King of High Rock at one point. Maybe there one and the same?"

"You sure? Ah well. I was actually hoping for Nahfahlaan. Fury for Request. Pretty great name for a mercenary dragon if you ask me... maybe I can convince it to change its name..." Baldur seemed to have forgotten the entire point of what they were doing, instead thinking of how much he liked "Fury for Request".

Dales began to tap her feet impatiently, as she placed her hand close to his head, and lightly flicked it, "Ehem, focus!"

Baldur slapped her hand. "I'm focused, I'm focused. So, Nahfahlaar huh? That's what we're going with? And you're sure that's the name you remember reading?"

"Yeah. I am. Just make sure you say it right!" said Dales.

 

"Yea yea. I bet the damn dragon himself couldn't pronounce that other one right. What's wrong with Nahfahlaan or laar, whatever?" Sighing, Baldur said, "I guess Imperials gotta Imperial. Well, here it goes.... NAH...FAH...LAAN!"

Nothing happened once again. Baldur didn't even notice air pushing away from his mouth, or anything "shouty". Surely he wouldn't have to meditate on the words? The dragonborn didn't, but that was the dragonborn. Still, from what Ulfric told him, it shouldn't require meditation. Merely knowing the words meaning should be enough, or even just knowing the words.

At least he hoped, because he didn't know the meaning for Laar.

"NAH....FAH....LAAS?" said Baldur, praying that wasn't the right one. He actually seemed relieved, pumping his fist in celebration when nothing happened.

"Well lets give him a few minutes. Maybe he's chowing on some Nordic Cow herder..."

"He better not be or I'll put him in a fresh burial mound, and I doubt I can spell that name correctly on his tombstone," said Baldur.

"Wait have you even ******* tried Laar, yet?!" She asked angrily.

 

Baldur let out a sigh, and said, "NAH... FAH... LAAR!"

...

...

Baldur waited a good long ten minutes before he raised his hands out in frustration. 

"This was stupid, I feel stupid... lets go already. Nahfahlaa whatever can go **** himself."

Thunder rolled out in the distance as clear as day. Which it no longer was. Clear, that is. 

The clouds that had dissipated before began to gather again, with arches of lightning coiling within like so many serpents as the air began to fill with a charge...

There was a rush of air, as though a great sea storm was brewing right above their heads. The air itself was warm and heavy, thick. 

"I think I did it..." said Baldur. "Not sure which one it was though!"

They heard him before they saw him...

"NAFAALILARGUS ANSWERS YOUR CHALLENGE, JOOR! NAAL FAH DINOK? Ready for death, upstart Tongue?"

"Holy tomatoes it worked!" Dales screamed out in response, getting visibly excited, "Calm yourself mighty wyrm! We simply seek an audience with the mighty Scion of Tiber Sepetim, are you him?" 

"I WAS CHALLENGED! I SEEK SATISFACTION! I WILL HAVE IT!"

As he said this, the great red dragon Nafaalilargus descended from the clouds at the center of the storm. As he breathed, smoke and soot flowed from his throat, a low rumble emitting from its mighty gullet.

"I was just trying to ask for your aid!" said Baldur. "Nothing more!"

"You are right to be afraid, coward! No mortal can compete with my might! No mortal can slay me! Certainly not one with such a weak voice. Where is the other one? Perhaps he will challenge me instead!"

"Is that so? Does the name Cyrus mean anything to you?" asked Baldur, evidently pissed at the insult.

That was a mistake.

Nafaalilargus came crashing down before them both, letting out a roar so great that it sent a shockwave rushing towards them, knocking them both against High Hrothgar's doors.

"CALM YOURSELF," said another great voice, which Baldur recognized as Paarthurnax. 

"Where the **** are the greybeards," said Baldur.

"Holy ****, Nafaalilargus the Red!" Dales who had dusted herself off from the impact rushed forward waving her hands like a mad woman. Her eyes sparkled, like a schoolgirl, "I've read about you in history books! You're even more impressive in person!"

Nafaalilargus ignored her. "Paarthurnax... I see you take such exceptional company these days. Seeing as you'll let anyone upon your mountain nowadays, you won't mind if I stick around for a bit."

"For what purpose? Curious, I thought you'd be busy selling your thu'um to the highest bidder," said Paarthurnax as he hovered above Nafaalilargus.

"No more. The Joor are more trouble than they are worth. I see that now. I've come to kill the one that challenged me but I see he is weak. Where is the other one whose voice resonated from this place?"

"He is dead," said Paarthurnax. "That weak mortal killed him."

"Hmm. Interesting. SHOW ME HOW!" said Nafaalilargus. He studied Baldur a moment, the words Yol Toor Shul on the tip of his tongue. But for some reason he stopped himself... as if he sensed something...

"Strun...Bah....QO!" Cried Nafaalilargus, the very skies bending to his will. Baldur looked up as lightning from miles away seemed to gather before them, angry and rattled, ready to strike him at any second.

"GIRL, UNLESS YOU WISH TO DIE TOO, YOU'D BEST MOVE," said Nafaaalilargus.

"LOK VAH KOOR!" cried Paarthurnax.

"Stay out of this you pathetic wyrm! Ack!" Just as Nafaalilargus uttered the insult, Paarthurnax landed on his neck with a crash, pinning him to the ground.

"I am still PAAR...THUR...NAX. Remember it's meaning. Remember me."

"Curse you, curse all of you! Damn you, and damn your pet Joor!"

"This is so ******* cool!" Dales looked like she was having the time of her life, before she came back to her senses. Clearing her throat, Dales pressed it down, as her hands glowed a shade of deep red. Alteration was her specialty after all. Almost as loud as pure thunder, Dales voice thundered across the mountain, "Nafaalilargus, I wish to form a contract with you, if you are willing to hear this small mortal out." Dales touched Baldur by the arm, and whispered, "Leave this to me."

"I hate dragons," said Baldur, gladly letting her do the talking.

"I'LL MAKE NO SUCH CONTRACT! I'M DONE WITH JOOR! DONE!" proclaimed Nafaalilargus.

"You are the legendary mercenary-Dragon of Tiber Septim, are you not? You fought for him, and the King of Wayrest before him. I am Empress Dales Dracous, I wish to enlist your services."

"He doesn't wish to fight. One or two mortals he apparently will fight with everything he's got. But armies? Even a dragon fears armies," said Baldur.

"I fear no army! I fear no mortal! I'll kill you all! I've consumed many a mortal in the desert lands since I've returned! My belly is filled with the children of Cyrus the Restless! I am indeed Tiber Septim's hired Dov, as mighty as the day that time was conceived! And even before then!"

"So, when you're not challenging tiny men to one on one combat you're eating children?" asked Baldur.

"That is not what I meant. Come closer and I'll show you..." said Nafaalilargus.

"Okay," said Baldur, taking the heavy pouch of silver Arngeir gave to him originally from Brund. "Maybe this, you'll understand."

Baldur tossed the entire bag of silver at the dragon's head. As the silver fell over his magnificent blazing red scales, Nafaalilargus laughed despite the weight on his neck.

"I require much more silver than this to equate to what I really prefer... GOLD. And LOTS OF IT. As gold as the lion's mane upon your head, mouthy little wretch.

"And gold you shall have. Not my gold. Hers," said Baldur. 

"Good. I don't like you," said Nafaalilargus.

"I can offer you plenty of gold...but..." A smirk appeared on the Empress's face. I have an idea. "One as mighty as yourself, I think, deserves something far more worthy of his name. If your willing to hear my offer out..."

"Wuld!" cried Nafaalilargus, zipping forward just enough to have enough leverage to be free of Paarthurnax's hold. He was right above them now, glaring. "Calm yourself, old friend... I'll hear her out. But if this is a waste of my time, I'll gobble them all down like cows. Go ahead Joor. Tell me. What will you offer me in place of your life? Why would I degrade myself once more in dealing with the likes of you sickly devolved sacks of excrement and rapidly rotting meat?"

"It is clear to me that you..." Careful now Dales don't insult him, "Are worried that another mortal, like that....decrepit Redguard will use...unfair tactics to remove the life that you so rightfully deserve prematurely, and just after you've been resorted to the pleasures of Tamriel? That is why you seek to disassociate yourself with us mortals. Am I wrong?" 

"Disassociate... yes. Now that your consumption of body and soul by Alduin the World Eater is no longer on the table, or at the very least greatly delayed... yes. And? What, will you make an oath to me? Will you grovel, bow, and plead your case? Swear not to resort to foul trickery? And make no mistake, that is the only reason Cyrus the Restless did not rest in my belly!"

Nafaalilargus turned, thinking he heard him snicker, but Baldur's face seemed as emotionless as stone...

"A word of a mortal to one as mighty as yourself is not enough. Let my actions speak louder then empty promises of protection. I wish to give you a shield, and something more valuable then Gold, which you shall receive anyway. As the Holder of the Ruby Throne, I wish to offer you a fiefdom, Nafaalilargus. One of my lieutenants betrayed me half a year ago, and he left behind the land I granted him. That would include all of it' lands, incomes and titles. You would be an Imperial Dux, and hence, under Imperial Law, under the protection of Cyrdoilli, we're no dragonhunter would dare try to take a single scale on your glistening hide." She said with gusto, "You wish an arrangement more permanent? Here it is. You lend your services to my legions in war, and...be my enforcer, and I am offering you a place in imperial nobility, with all the comforts, and prestige that ensures."

“Hmmm... that sounds like it has potential... my own lands again. I could rule over them like the good old days. But... alas, it’s not enough. I have terms,” said Nafaalilargus. “If I’m even to consider such a deal of course. The first, that Nord there takes back what he said and declares I the mightier voice. Second...”

”Are you ******* kidding me,” said Baldur.

”SECOND, I’ll require more gold EACH time you call upon me for a new campaign or service. Third, I need something to sweeten the pot. I want compensation from him as well! I know you humans have formed some agreement or group, you come to me as one and so it’s only fair I charge you as one.

”Godsdamnit forget the dragon,” said Baldur. “For all the gold you’re slinging you could’ve bought Elsweyr. I’ll not pay you a single coin.

"We need his flame to counter those ******* sunbirds." Dales said resolutely. But she added, "Howbout this. You will fight for the Empire primarily, but Baldur, and only Baldur can outsource you, as long as it dosen't clash with Imperial interests. And then he can pay you." 

She scratched her chin, "What do you want? I think I have a few magical swords lying around somewhere."  

“Who says I’ll pay him?! I told you, not one Septim, not one silver. Not one gold ******* nugget!” said Baldur. “My people hate the dragons. The last thing I’ll do is pay gold that can go to my armies or the sacred land of my people. We’ve seen what dragon rule looks like...”

”Those are my terms,” said Nafaalilargus. “I’ll accept you both as contractors but I want something substantial from him. Otherwise, well, I am pretty hungry.”

Paarthurnax spread his wings in warning.

”In any case, I’ll be waiting, Joor. Offer me something. Or die.”

Dales whispered, "Baldur maybe you have something besides gold? Cant you offer him some kind of enchanted weapon or shit?" 

“Dales...” Baldur gave her a look. “He can have my enchanted dick. Nothing more. This was foolish, we can’t trust this thing!”

”My word is my honor, mortal... if you can’t trust the word of a dov, then this is a sad world indeed... but I’ll not just take any mere enchanted sword or some rusty shield. I want something substantial. A true rarity that man and elf will come seeking me for... a steady supply of fools.”

”That seems unwise....” said Paarthurnax. “Isn’t that how you ended up being-“

”Hold it....” said Baldur all of a sudden. “Something substantial. A rarity. What if I could promise you something in say... two to four years’ time? Maybe less?”

”No deal, no deal! I want it here and now.” said Nafaalilargus.

“Come on you stinking skeever with wings, What is two to four years to an eternal dragon?” said Baldur.

Nafaalilargus’ head fell low, down to Baldur’s level as the High King approached him. “I thought I was a stinking skeever. Which is it? Take back what you said. Proclaim my thu’um greater than yours, and I’ll consider it. But I must know. What is it you are proposing... exactly?”

Baldur’s face came very close to the menacing red dragon before them, close enough to have the smell of his soot filled breath seep into his furs and hair.

“Tinvaak Onikaan Uth.”

As Baldur spoke, he began to describe the blade... black hilt, golden edge so fine it made the air whistle as it was split with every movement. It’s metal containing a flame that rivaled the dragon’s. Or perhaps even was dragonfire itself.

”How would I know you’d give this up? How do I know you could even obtain this?” said Nafaalilargus, Baldur’s thu’um showing it in his mind’s eye as clear as day.

”Its wielder haunts my path,” said Baldur. “You’ll be doing me a favor by taking it and keeping it locked away.”

”I see...” said Nafaalilargus. “We have a deal. Once you’ve proclaimed my thu’um greater and swear that if you do not deliver by four years’ time.... 16 seasons from now...”

”If I don’t, you can burn me alive,” said Baldur. Nafalilargus laughed.

”I’m no fool... I sense the thu’um resonating off of you. I see the words. I know what that means. Trying to trick me will get you killed, mortal...”

”Fine,” said Baldur. “I am the High King of this land. Aid us in this war, and if I don’t deliver in at least four years, you can do what you will with this land’s High King. I swear it.”

Nafaalilargus raised his head and said, “Good! Now proclaim my thu’um the greater voice! And take off that helmet! It is an insult!”

Baldur crossed his arms.

”Don’t test my patience... you know how many defiant Kings have rested in my belly?”

”Not enough to keep this crown of dragonbone from being made it seems,” said Baldur. “Take the deal or leave it.”

”Ashen One, it is best that you humble yourself,” said Paarthurnax.

”I am his co contracter. It wouldn’t do for me to submit in such a way. And the days of bowing to dragons is over and it will not return in my lands.”

”Fine, Fine,” said Nafaalilargus, growing impatient. “I’ll take the deal, but I want a mountain in Keizaal to call my own. And you must name it after me.”

”I told you I’m not giving away land,” said Baldur.

”My kin already claim the peaks of mountains without your consent. I want one that’s officially mine,” said Nafaalilargus.

Baldur didn’t say anything for a moment, rubbing his beard. “******* greedy dragon. If I do this, you must tell me your real name. I’ll not have a mountain named after a Cyrodiilic dragon. Which name summoned you?”

”It is none of your concern what my true name is, I am now Nafaalilar-“

”I’m calling you Nahfahlaan. Fury For Request...”

”Hmmm... I like that better. Fine. Agreed,” said Nahfahlaan.

"Well splendid. We have an accord then, Dux." She said giving a wink.

“Hold it,” said Baldur. “I’ve got one more demand.”

At that Nahfahlaan whipped his tail, crushing one of the stone pillars in the courtyard. 

“Who’s greedy now? What is it already?” 

Baldur raised his hand and said, “Easy there, ‘Fury’, it’s simple. I’m not getting nearly as much out of this as Dales here, seeing as how you’ll be mainly taking or- requests, from her. So you’ll need to first swear your thu’um or your dragon might, or wit, will not be used against your ancient home Keizaal. And, on the day I give you my promised reward, I’ll require a favor from you. It won’t compromise your deal with the Empress and should be fairly simple for the Great Nahfahlaan. Agreed?”

Baldur stuck out his hand to shake.

Nahfahlaan looked at it quizzically, then bumped him with the brush of his wing before taking to the air again beside Paarthurnax.

”You better deliver what you promised. Both of you. Now, if there’s nothing else...”

Dales yelled, "Wait! If it's all right with you, when I return home to Cyrodiil, I want you to accompany me on my return to the Imperial City! There will be adoring crowds looking at you in awe!" 

“I’ll require sacrifice in my honor. Have Minotaurs for me to snack on. And.... Redguards,” said Nahfahlaan.

"You can have the rapists and murderers rotting in prison if you crave mortal flesh. But yes once we arrive I'll declare a festival in your honour!

“And petty thieves. I want to feast on them the most. Or else I’ll have to entertain myself with villagers instead. That is all. See you in Cyrodiil... Empress...Hehehehehahahahaha!”

As Nafaalilargus the Red aka Nahfahlaan, Fury for Request took off before anyone could protest, he said, “And my thu’um IS greater, Ashen Morsel! Remember that!”

Dales grinned, as she patted Baldur on the back, "Look? See that?! We have a Dragon in our service! Now we have our own secret weapon! I bet those pointy eared fuckers are wetting their beds! We have our own weapon of the skies! We can immolate entire armies! And more importantly..." Her grin grew even further, " I have a symbol Cyrodiil can rally behind."

Baldur bowed to Paarthurnax one last time, then stepped away and began walking back inside. “He’s your problem now.”

Just as he was about to leave, Baldur sighed and said, “Well come on. You got what you wanted. We came together, may as well leave together. Can’t have you dying when I’m the last one to see you.”

Dales followed behind the Nord, bowing to the great dragon as Baldur did just before, "Well that was eventful trip, wouldn't you say? Hopefully we don't run into any Frost Trolls like before!" She gave Baldur an annoyed look, as she placed her hands to her hips.

“What Frost Trolls?” said Baldur. She couldn’t see his smirk. “I do remember you killing a Yeti. Now that was eventful.”

Dales just smirked, as the duo walked through the stone halls, of the legendary Monastery High Hrothgar, and soon, back down the Throat of the World, back to the outside world.

They never did see the Greybeards on the way out. Perhaps they really had gotten tired of the outside world’s meddling and decided to let the two solve their own problems. Baldur assumed they simply weren’t as ready as Paarthurnax to defend them since they antagonized Nafaalilargus in the first place.

Whatever the case, whether he’d admit it or not, he’d miss Arngeir’s scoldings and his annoyingly incessant teachings. But it was time to find Daric if he could, and to scold him for worrying him so.

[Witchking of Angmar]

Morane

When Morane returned to Camlorn she was still brimming with confidence. Besides one of the two books missing from the School of Julianos’ library, she couldn’t imagine how the theft could have turned out better. And the trip back was icing on the already sweet cake, as the carriage’s suspension meant she rode in comfort the whole way back.

The carriage dropped her off in outside Camlorn castle’s massive outer gatehouse in the early afternoon. She stepped down from the carriage with help from its guard and paid the driver. The brown cloak wearing Camlorn guards, flanking the thick wooden gates, recognized her and waived her through. She walked through the small courtyard, where up on the walls she could see archers and mages patrolling. Ever since that Thalmor mage appeared in the middle of the great hall, the guards were more numerous and more watchful. Almost a dozen stood around the inner gatehouse, and after confirming who she was, let her through.

She made her way to Winvale’s tower and up the winding staircase to his study. When she entered, she saw three people seated in a semicircle facing Winvale. The closest to the door was a tall, lithely built Redguard about her age. He had a stubbly beard and dreadlocks swept back that reached just past his ears Morane knew he was Zuhkal, and probably the next best shadow mage. She didn’t know the other two, though.

The next person was a Breton woman, shorter than Morane, slightly older than her as well. She had her brown hair shaved short on one side, while she kept the top and other side long. The last was the oldest, probably pushing forty, another Breton. His reddish brown hair was tied back in a ponytail and his cheeks were clean-shaven. He was about average height and build. Morane instantly recognized him. He was the one she had speared with a book. He scowled at her.

Winvale looked at her as she entered. “Did you retrieve the books?”

Morane pulled the one out from her satchel. “The other was missing. Had been for some time.”

“Missing?” Winvale said, floating the book over to him but staring off into space. “Interesting.”

“Can you scry on it?” Morane asked.

“Maybe” Winvale said. “I have a few guesses, but I doubt my scrying would glean much from them. They are generally careful. Wards prevented me from seeing the books in the first place, which is why you had to go to the Glenmoril Wyrd.”

“Hm. Right.” Morane didn’t know who these people were, but considering the man and the company she knew he kept in the Wyrd, she imagined they did have protections against that kind of magic. “What’s going on here?”

“Progress,” Winvale said, now looking at her. “They’ve all pierced the veil and can see the infinite possibilities, and have been able to affect change in those possibilities.” Turning to the three people seated in front of him, he said, “Show her. Zuhkal, you first.”

The Redguard man stood and took a deep breath. When he exhaled, he appeared next to Morane in an instant. He smiled at her and said, “I guess I’ve scratched the surface now, huh?”

Morane glared at him, but she could feel the edge of her lip curling into a smile despite herself. Good. Now I’ll finally have some competition. “Who’s next?” she asked.

Winvale said, “Your turn, Laure.”

The shorter Breton woman stood from her chair and swept her hair over to the side. Rather than teleport herself, though, the chair she had stood from and Zuhkal’s chairs were blinked back into place around the table across the room. Lastly was the older man, the first one besides Morane who had been able to see the infinite possibilities, the multi-temporal world of shadow that overlapped and lay beneath their own. He repeated what the first two had, standing and closing his eyes. Morane thought that, with practice, that wouldn’t be necessary, but for now she knew how draining the process of casting shadow magic was.

Watching the man, Enrick, Morane felt something. She felt a wrongness about her. She blinked her eyes shut, and as she did, she could feel the shadow around her was being manipulated. By Enrick. Though it lasted only a second in the real world, in the realm of shadow, she could see him manipulate a book from a nearby shelf to impale itself in her shoulder, just as she had done to him. Poetic, she thought, but she wasn’t going to just let it happen.

An entirely new sensation crept over her. It felt like a fistfight, the punches being thrown by magic. Or a race, where the competitors were pushing and shoving one another as they approached the finish line. She and Enrick were each willing the book to do opposite things, he to place it in her shoulder, her to leave it on the shelf. It was taxing and draining, and she knew it couldn’t last long. In a spur of inspiration, she relaxed her pressure on the book. She let him push it towards her, through the shadows, until the last moment, when she willed it to appear in her hands.

When both their eyes opened, only a moment had passed. Bu there it was, the book resting in her hands. She smiled at him and his scowl only deepened. It was then she noticed the others were watching the two of them, and they seemed aware of what had happened. Someone, she knew they’d felt their minor shadow magic fight. Winvale was looking at them both, a smirk on his face.

“Good, good. You four are on the right path. Take the rest of the day off, and we will continue, the four of you together, in the morning.”

And so went the next several days for the shadow mages. They trained in the afternoons, spending the mornings with the rest of the prospective shadow mages reading through Winvale’s books. Though Morane was resistant at first, she relented, as there was a certain wisdom in learning to work together, as Zuhkal had said. And she didn’t mind getting to show the others how far ahead she still was, even if they could now use shadow magic.

After the better part of a week of training, Winvale called her and Zuhkal into his study. Morane knew this was about Solitude, and guessed Zuhkal would be going with her. She hoped he could sneak well enough to not get in the way.

Winvale magically pulled two seats across from his own, and Morane and Zuhkal sat down. “You two will be going to Solitude.” He looked at Morane, and she knew he had expected some protestation, but she offered none, and he continued. “I expect this to be a more dangerous trip. Unlike with the School of Julianos, if you are captured, I cannot guarantee your release. So do not get captured.”

“What’re we going there for?” Zuhkal asked.

“Books,” Morane said.

Winvale nodded and produced two enchanted books with a small piece of parchment laying on top. “Shadow and Dawn and The Nature of the Shadow of Conflict are the two books you’ll be looking for, in the library of the Blue Palace. Morane will explain how these books work on your ship.”

He turned and looked at a device stationed below the southern window. Light was refracting into it from the window, and hands on a clock face showed the time. Morane guess it was some sort of sundial clock, but must be able to read time based on a minimal amount of sunlight given it was inside. It showed just after midday. “It will have already left, though they were expecting you. I suggest you gather your things. The longer you wait the more likely you’ll end up splashing around in the ocean somewhere. It’s called The Bard’s Benediction.”

He was smirking as they ran from the study and down the stairs to their barracks. Morane hadn’t unpacked her bag from her last trip, so she took out one pair of clothes and put in another. She took the extra gold from her Shornhelm trip and put it in a pouch on her belt, and then the parchment in the second pouch there. She left the School of Julianos robes in her pack and placed the two enchanted books on top.

When she turned around, Zuhkal was finished packing as well. Without a word, they headed for the ship.

Morane closed her eyes and reached out to the west, towards the harbor, then past it to the open ocean. There were several ships coming and going, but only one heading north. As she looked closer, she could not make out its details but she could feel the pull of the magicka towards its shadow, its current existence. She grabbed that and substituted herself upon the ship. She could have looked inward, toward her own shadow, to try the more advanced teleportation, but that was still an unsteady method for her. This other, simpler way was faster, if limited in range. The ship was still close enough, though, so when she opened her eyes, she was standing upon the deck of The Bard’s Benediction.

She felt a something in the back of her skull a moment later, something she realized was her sensing the use of shadow magic nearby. But Zuhkal was nowhere to be seen. For a second, she thought he had teleported himself into the water, but then he came walking up from below deck, shaking his head.

“I guess I still need some practice,” he said with a self-deprecating smile. “So, what’s this all about, this mission?”

“We’re looking for two books. Winvale needs them to train us. So, as a test, we’re going to steal them. I already took one from the School of Julianos,” Morane said.

“So that’s where you were. One was missing, though, right?” Zuhkal asked.

“Yeah. Don’t know who took it. Someone else with an interest in Shadow magic, I guess.”

“Or someone who has an interest in textbooks.”

Morane looked at him sidelong. “When you put it like that it doesn’t sound too exciting.”

“He did say it was more dangerous than Shornhelm. So how dangerous was that?”

Morane recounted the story of her heist, emphasizing how easily she managed to sneak into the school and how easy it was, in general. Zuhkal laughed when she talked in her Marien persona, and mocked her for the unoriginal alias. She wanted to be mad, but she had to admit, it wasn’t the most creative name to take.

Once she finished the story, Zuhkal said, “I wonder what he thinks could be more dangerous than a school of mages guarded by as many, if not more, knights.”

Morane shrugged. “I don’t know. I remember when I told him that two of the books were in Solitude, he said ‘I should have expected as much.’”

“Sounds like he has some experience with whoever has the books. Or reason to believe they would have them.”

“You think it’s the Lady of Solitude? Or whatever the Nords have?”

“Jarl. And I don’t know. Did you go in this blind last time?”

Morane was silent for a moment before she said, “I think that’s part of the test. Last time I spent a day learning what I could about the School of Julianos. And I knew a little about it from living in Shornhelm. This time he didn’t give us a chance to learn anything. Dick.”

Zuhkal chuckled. “He’s hard to read. I don’t even know why he’s training us in the first place. Doesn’t strike me as the type.”

“Me either. I asked him about it once.”

“What’d he say?”

“Said the King wanted us, and he wanted to pass the knowledge on.”

“As old as he is, I assumed he had done that already.”

“Me too.”

They were quiet for a moment, leaning against the railing of the ship as Camlorn disappeared to the southeast. Not long after a crew member came up and expressed surprise that they had made it onboard, but neither she or Zuhkal engaged with him and they waved away his surprise with a story about getting situated below deck.

Once he left, Zuhkal said, “So, master thief, what’s your plan this time around?”

“Don’t be an ass,” Morane said. She wasn’t arrogant enough to think she was any sort of master thief, just clever enough to trick the gullible. She didn’t think that would work this time around. Palace guards, she knew from her time in Camlorn’s castle, were a more discerning lot than drunk mages. “I think I could get into the palace. I don’t know from there.”

“Oh yeah? How do you plan to do that?”

“I’ll ask,” she said. Zuhkal’s face, the mixture of disbelief and anticipation was exactly what she’d expected and she laughed.

Zuhkal leaned against the railing, his arms crossed. “Go ahead, explain your brilliant plan.”

“Yeah, I think it is brilliant. I’ve still got the robes and mask from the School, so I think I’ll wear them, go up to the palace guards, and ask to see the library. Say it’s important business or whatever. I think that’ll at least get me in the door. If not, they’ll probably ask someone in charge and they’ll meet with me. Then I improvise.”

“You’re right, it is brilliant. You’ll dress up and then try to bullshit your way in. I can’t see any reason that wouldn’t work.”

“So you’ve got a better plan, then?”

“I do, actually. If you’re going to bullshit your way through this, you’ll need to do more than act and dress the part. You need something official, like an invitation or request.”

“I didn’t realize I was in the presence of an expert document forger.”

“No expert. But my father is a court mage in a Duchy, and I’ve seen him prepare documents like we’ll need. I can write in that sort of official language. It’ll certainly be better than a rainbow robed mage in a silver mask just walking up and demanding an audience.”

“One thing we haven’t considered is how you’ll get in. You may not be able to.” Morane hoped that would be the case. Though she found Zuhkal less annoying than she expected, and she recognized this mission was more dangerous and could lead to her being in a cell in Skyrim, she still wanted the chance to do it herself. And she also didn’t want to have to worry about anyone but herself if things went poorly, and going into the palace alone would mean she could make her escape without concern for anyone else.

“Right. Let’s just keep thinking. Maybe we’ll come up with something.”

As the ship sailed north to the point of High Rock and then around to the east toward Skyrim, Morane and Zuhkal took some much needed rest. They trained a little, but not much, as they didn’t want to disturb the crew or alert anyone to their use of Shadow magic. They mostly kept to themselves, and enjoyed the fact they had nothing to do for a few days. By the time they arrived at the port of Solitude, though, they were ready to be back on land and have something to do. They hadn’t, however, found a way to get Zuhkal inside the palace with Morane, which she wasn’t too concerned about. Instead, he would be staying hidden as close to the palace as possible, with plans to try and help if needed.

Sailing in under the massive stone archway, Morane couldn’t help but wonder what had possessed the Nords to build in such a location. Solitude hadn’t collapsed into the sea so far, but it seemed likely to happen eventually. Walking up the road from the docks, though, she could tell the rest of the city was more conventional. She hadn’t expected it to, but it looked similar to a Breton city, with its tall towers, thick stone walls, and multiple gatehouses. Of course there were Nordic elements, namely the roofs of the houses, the intricate carvings on wooden structures, and the fact they preferred square towers as much as cylindrical ones, but she was still surprised the city didn’t seem as foreign as she expected.

There was an air of melancholy about the town, though. No black banners hung or obvious signs of mourning were displayed, but there was an edge to the guards in the way the flicked their eyes about, and a solemnness to the citizens, who walked with slouched shoulders and worn expressions on their faces. There was a sense of a burden piled upon every citizen that spoke to something bad having happened. It reminded her of Evermor, after its capture during the war. Morane made a note to ask about that when she got a chance.

They made their way to the first tavern they could find, a place called The Winking Skeever. The occupants of the bar spoke to the city’s cosmopolitan nature, as Morane saw a few Argonians, a Breton bard singing, and a pair of Colovians manning the bar. Morane and Zuhkal headed there to get their room for the night.

As they approached, the older, mustachioed Colovian caught sight of them and said, “What can I do you folks for?"

“You have any rooms to spare?” Morane asked.

“You from High Rock? Your accent sound like Lisette’s when she first got here. She’s our bard over there.”

Morane didn’t bother to glance at the bard she’d already seen. “That’s all very interesting.”

The man leaned back and the smile slightly faded from his face. When it came back, it was noticeably forced. “Right. Well, we’ve got two rooms available. Will ya need both or just one?”

“How many beds do your rooms have?”

“One’s got two.”

“We’ll take that one then.”

“Alright. Ten gold a night.”

Morane handed over the coin as the man led them to the room, which was on the second floor and away from the balcony that overlooked the first floor. After he unlocked the room for them and gave them their key, he mumbled as he walked away, “Name’s Corpulus, if you need anything.”

After Corpulus was back downstairs, Zuhkal said, “You’ve got such a way with people, you know that?”

“Shut up. You can’t honestly say you wanted to have a conversation about our accents and where we’re from.”

“No, but I’m not rude enough to tell someone that.”

“I’m not rude, just honest.” Morane went in and threw her bag on her bed, and Zuhkal did the same. Neither one bothered unpacking. She lay there for a moment but she knew they needed to find out some information about the town before the enacted their plan.

She sat back up and said, “Let’s go grab some food downstairs. Maybe we can learn something you can put in those documents.”

Back downstairs they found a table near the bard and ordered some mead and crab legs. Once they’d finished, the bard was wrapping up her song, and Morane called her over.

“Corpulus was telling us you’re from High Rock,” Morane said.

“Aye, from Jehanna. Came over here about fifteen years ago, to join the Bard’s College,” Lisette said.

“Sounds like that’s been good for you,” Zuhkal said.

“Why thank you,” Lisette said.

“You want a drink?” Morane asked. “On us.”

Lisette smiled and called out to Corpulus, “Two bottles of mead, on my new friends over here.”

Morane suppressed a scowl at the woman ordering two drinks, but it was a brief moment of displeasure. After all, two drinks might help them get the information they wanted. The drinks arrived quickly and were sat down on their table. Lisette raised hers to Zuhkal and Morane in a toast. “To free drinks.”

Morane and Zuhkal toasted back. As Morane set hers back down, she asked, “When we arrived we noticed people were real sad looking. Something happen?”

Lisette started to answer, took another drink, then said, “Just some rumors. But based on how Firebeard, the Jarl’s steward, is acting, we’ve got reason to think Jarl Elisif died at the moot.”

Zuhkal cocked an eyebrow. “Really? Was she trying to become High Queen again?”

Lisette leaned back and shook her head. “No, nothing like that. She was supporting Jarl Brund from Markarth but it was between him and Red-Snow. Red-Snow won, apparently. Or died. Depends on which rumors you believe. One I heard said a dragon swooped down and ate both of them.”

“So who’s in charge now? The steward?” Morane asked.

“He’s done. Quit, retired, fired, who knows. Thane Bryling is in charge now.”

“I would’ve thought if Elisif survived the Civil War she would’ve made it,” Zuhkal said.

“Has this Thane Bryling made any changes?” Morane asked.

Lisette took another drink. “Not besides Falk stepping down. Sybille Stentor is still around. She’s the court mage.”

Morane, thinking fast, let out an audible sigh. Zuhkal shot her a glance but she ignored it. “Good to hear. We’re here to meet with Stentor and I was worried she might not be here.”

Lisette looked skeptical, which Morane figured she would, considering neither she or Zuhkal was wearing anything beyond common clothing and bits of leather armor. Not exactly the type to come calling on a court mage. “That so?”

“We’re from the School of Julianos. We have a meeting to discuss some research she’s doing,” Morane said.

“The School? I remember them from Jehanna. You don’t exactly look the part, though,” Lisette said.

“You remember their robes?” Zuhkal said.

After Lisette thought for a moment, her eyes went wide and she said, “Oh, right. Rainbow colored."

Zuhkal chuckled. “We try to wear them as little as possible.”

“Understandably so,” Lisette said. “Well, I wish you luck. Word is Stentor isn’t exactly the nicest to deal with.”

“We’ll keep that in mind,” Morane said.

With that Lisette rose from the table, thanked them for the drinks, and went back to playing for the tavern.

After listening to one more song, Zuhkal left to gather the supplies he’d need to forge the documents, while Morane stayed and thought through questions the guards, court mage, and even the Thane running the city might have, just in case. She wasn’t bothered by the background noise of song and conversation. Eventually she went back upstairs to go over the finer parts of her plan while Zuhkal was gone.

When Morane opened the door she saw a Breton woman about a decade her senior leaning up against a bedside table, arms crossed across her chest. She was wearing blue mage robes, the hood pulled up even though she was indoors. The woman looked at Morane from head to toe. “Well, you aren’t here to assassinate me. He would’ve done that himself, not sent a lackey. But you are his, that much is obvious.”

The woman’s calm, if condescending, manner made Morane hesitate a moment. The woman didn’t seemed primed to attack her, but Morane wasn’t sure what was going on, and so remained cautious. She entered the room and shut the door behind her, confident that she could teleport out quickly enough if things took a violent turn. “I’m no one’s,” Morane said, matching the woman’s condescension with disdain.

“But you are a shadowmage,” the woman said. Morane nodded, and the woman continued. “I thought I could feel the way you warp the limen around you. There’s two of you, though. I didn’t expect that. What’s Winvale up to, training you two and sending you here?”

“How did you know we were shadowmages?” Morane asked. In this moment, her instincts for self-preservation were kicking in. The implications of someone knowing she was a shadowmage through feeling could only put her in danger. But no one at the School had taken notice of her, and none of the mages guarding the castle in Camlorn did either. She still felt like she needed to know this, though, before she went too far down this road.

Seemingly reading her minds, the woman waved her hand dismissively. “Oh, no need to piss yourself. It’s not something most mages can do. But I have a familiarity with shadow magic that gives me a much stronger sense of it than most. You needn’t worry. Now, if you’ll answer my question, what’s Winvale doing?”

“Why do you care?” Morane shot back.

“Don’t be a fool. D you really want to do things this way, or shall we have a conversation?” The woman didn’t move, not so much as twitch, but Morane could feel the magical energy begin to form around her. If there was a magical equivalent to unsheathing a blade, this was it.

Morane tensed, as she could feel this woman was a powerful mage, so she said, “He’s training shadowmages for the King of High Rock.”

The woman raised an eyebrow. “That doesn’t sound like him at all.”

“How do you know him?” Morane asked.

“I was you, once. A long time ago.”

“Me?”

“His apprentice. Back when he only taught one student at a time, though.”

“You’re the court mage. Sybille Stentor.”

“Maybe you aren’t an idiot after all. And who might you be?”

“Morane.”

“I would say it’s a pleasure, but I’m not sure that’s true. Why did Winvale send you here?”

Morane hesitated and almost didn’t answer, especially after that backhanded compliment, but at this point things were so beyond what she’d expected she didn’t see the point in lying. “We were to steal two books from the Blue Palace’s library.”

“Now that seems like Winvale. He could do that easily, you know. I doubt my wards would stop him for long. But he’s always testing people, making sure they’re good enough for him.” Something in Morane’s face must’ve given it away, because the woman said, “You already know, don’t you? So, this isn’t your first errand.”

“I stole a book from the School of Julianos,” Morane said, a hint of pride still in her voice. Even if this was just Winvale testing her like he’d done others, it didn’t take away from her accomplishment.

“Well, I suppose that is impressive. Their wards and protections are nothing to scoff at. Why does he have you robbing libraries?”

“For books on shadow magic.”

“Ah, he’s looking for his master’s old books. I thought keeping them around would elicit a visit from him someday. I should’ve known he’d just send someone in his stead. It’s been a long time since that collection was split up, though. A few centuries, at least.”

Morane was sure Sybille misspoke, but the woman didn’t seem sarcastic, just stared off into the middle distance, thinking. Morane was silent long enough that Sybille looked at her and saw the shock that was plain on her face. Sybille smiled, and in the low afternoon light, Morane could see her fangs. Sybille said, “Oh, had you not figured it out. He’s a vampire, dear. A very old one at that.” She waved a hand toward her fangs. “The only good thing he ever did for me.”

Morane just stayed silent, unsure whether to flee or ask the questions that were pouring through her mind. Sybille chuckled and stood from where she was leaning. “Why don’t we head back to the palace. There are a few things I think you should know.”

Sybille vanished, and after a moment alone where Morane asked herself if she should go, she teleported to. As she did, she realized Sybille hadn’t used shadow magic to do so, which was strange for her having been Winvale’s student. Just another in a long line of questions Morane had. She arrived in the palace, in the room she saw Sybille in. Morane could feel the wards had been momentarily lowered to allow her entry.

Sybille was seated in a plush chair around a low table, on which rested a wine glass filled with a dark red liquid that Morane knew in an instant was blood. Sybille saw her looking at it and said, “I didn’t want you to get skittish, thinking I was going to drain you at some point. So, sit down and feel at ease.”

Morane sat as the vampire took a sip from her glass and licked the excess of her lips. As she was setting it back down, Morane asked, “Do you know shadow magic?”

“You noticed. I find shadow magic not to my liking. Its unpredictability and danger doesn’t suit me. I prefer having control where I can.”

“You’re scared?”

“At your level, I’m sure there’s nothing remotely scary about it. But once you start down that path, it is difficult to stop. Soon you’re dealing with magic you cannot control, and it consumes you. There are few who can become a shadowmage, and even fewer who can stay one.”

Morane couldn’t help but feel under attack. She felt nothing but power in shadow magic, power like she’d always wanted. Its unpredictability and danger only made it more exciting, more challenging. And that’s what she craved, after all. Sybille seemed genuine, like she truly feared the effects of shadow magic, but Morane only saw cowardice in that.

“Besides,” Sybille continued, “it is dangerous enough being a vampire. I would like to enjoy my longevity, not waste it on some fool magics.”

“Only foolish to those that cannot command it.”

“Don’t presume that I cannot. I chose not. That is a distinction that makes all the difference.”

“Right,” Morane said. “So if you don’t use shadow magic because you’re a vampire, why does Winvale?”

“Vampirism is not enough for him. Whereas for me it is my ticket to immortality, for him it was always a means to an end. He craves more, always had. And resented me for ‘settling,’ as he put it, for vampirism.”

“So why is he training us?”

“I don’t know. He never told me more than I needed to know. He’s spent his whole life trying to find a way to live forever. This could be part of his next path. But I think he’s finally realized that he has everything he needs. Vampirism, for the intelligent, is immortality. Especially if you can insert yourself somewhere, make yourself useful. Find a patron, help them, and you can live forever. I’ve served for decades here, and though I will need to move on eventually, it truly is astounding how much people will overlook so long as you do your work. Even if they do forget my contributions, at times.”

Thinking back to her conversation with King Theodore, Morane said, “With the war about to begin, raining shadowmages would certainly endear him to the King.”

“Yes, the war. Here’s hoping what happened in Windhelm doesn’t happen here. This city couldn’t take much more misfortune.” Sybille turned her gaze from her room, probably thinking of all she’d lose in an attack, and looked at Morane. “What about you? What will you do?”

Morane’s plans hadn’t extended that far, not once her shadow magic training began. She was committed to studying shadow magic, though, and she supposed that if fighting for King Theodore enabled her to further her training, she would do it. “Whatever I need to.”

Sybille offered a small smile. “As good an answer as any, I suppose. Though I do not endorse what it is you seek to study, I admire your commitment. Which means you’ll need these more than I will. ”A pair of green, ethereal hands floated over to a bookshelf and plucked two tomes from it. “Whether you give them to Winvale is your decision. Shadow and Dawn and The Nature of the Shadow of Conflict. Not light reading, by any means, but you know that.”

Morane took the books and looked at Sybille. She wasn’t sure what to make of the court mage, even after this conversation, except that she liked her. And she got the sense the feeling was mutual. “Thanks.”

“The least I could do for such enlightening conversation.”

Morane stood and Sybille made a few motions in the air to lower the wards. Before she did, though, Morane said, “You don’t have Ruminations on the Reflections of the Infinite, do you?”

“I don’t. Why do you ask?”

“It was supposed to be at the School of Julianos, but it was missing, and had been for some time. I think someone stole it.”

“Possible. There are other shadow mages out there who would desire such a book.”

“How many others?”

“Who can say?” Sybille’s eyes drifted into the middle distance as she thought. “The Reach clans have some practitioners, though I do not think they would call it shadow magic. I know certain wise men and women have utilized it, though infrequently. And then there are a handful of hermits and witches studied in some aspects of the art. Few powerful practitioners, though. It is a rare magic, after all.”

“Right. Thanks.”

Sybille gave only a slight nod as she lowered the wards, and then Morane teleported to her room at the tavern. Outside, the sun was just beginning the set. Zuhkal was busy at work with on the documents, a few crumbled pieces of parchments on the desk beside his inkwell. He jumped when she reappeared in the room, and his quill marked across the page.

“What the f*ck?” he said. “Don’t you think it’s a—are those the books?”

Morane set them down on the desk and he flipped through their pages. Over the course of an hour, she explained what happened and her conversation with Sybille. She left out a few things intentionally, but not that Winvale was a vampire. She thought he deserved to know that, at least.

“This changes things,” Zuhkal said, his brow furrowed and his voice full of concern.

“Does it?” Morane asked.

“Maybe. I don’t know.”

“The way I see it, this doesn’t change the fact he’s the only one who can teach us shadow magic. If anything, it means he’s better equipped than we thought. He’s centuries old. He has to know what he’s talking about.”

“Yeah, I understand that. It just made me think…why are you doing this? Learning shadow magic?”

“Magic is power. We’re drawing from what the gods left behind and using it to change the world into what we want. And shadow magic is the best way to shape things how I want them to be.”

“I don’t think that’s what I want.”

“What do you want, then? Why did you want to learn shadow magic?”

“To kill the Thalmor. And whoever else needs killing.”

“Huh.”

“What?”

“It’s just, I didn’t expect that from you.”

“Why not? Is it so bad to think that those who would kill us need to be killed first? You’re right, magic is power, but I don’t care about shaping the world. I just want it to be safe.”

“So, what, you think you can’t do that anymore?”

“Winvale seems more of a threat now than before. I’m not sure I trust him. Or believe he’s doing this out of the goodness of his heart.”

Morane almost said she didn’t trust Winvale, but she knew that wasn’t true. She did trust him, to a certain extent. Enough to do what he asked, so long as he kept teaching her. What was that if not trust? “He was a powerful shadowmage before. Now he’s just an older one. Any other worries you have are only because all the tales say vampires are scary and evil. But I met that woman. She wasn’t any worse than half the nobles and mages in High Rock, and she wasn’t dragging commoners off the street to her lair to suck them dry. And neither is Winvale. So if you still want to kill the Thalmor and whoever else, and you think shadow magic is the best way to do that, then I don’t see how this changes anything.”

Zuhkal closed his eyes and sighed. “I guess so. But I don’t know that I can trust him.”

“It’s probably better that way. We shouldn’t be too trusting of him, since we don’t really know him.”

“Yeah.” He gave a half-smile and added, “Thanks for telling me. It would’ve been easy to leave that out.”

Morane mirrored his smile. “I can’t have the person watching my back in the dark about this. We all know Winvale likes me best. I need you to make sure he doesn’t stick his fangs in my neck and turn me into his vampiric thrall or something.”

“Are you sure you wouldn’t like that? Brushing his beard everyday, ironing his robes.”

Morane glared at him and he started laughing, and she chuckled too after holding the glare for a moment.

The next day they packed up and headed back to High Rock with the two books in tow. The sea spray was cold but Morane stayed on the top deck most of the day, thinking about how far she’d come in her training and what the next challenge might be. She’d be headed to Anvil next, and she didn’t have a clue what that might hold, but she looked forward to it nonetheless.

[Witchking of Angmar]

Ubbe

Velothi Mountains, near the Refugees Rest, during the Moot

The cold wind blew across Ubbe’s back as he waited, watching. His prey hadn’t moved in days… perhaps it knew it was being stalked… perhaps it had just gotten complacent. He didn’t mind, he enjoyed the hunt, the waiting, and the surprise of the attack. It made it all worth it in the end. Ubbe was about to move closer to his targets roosting spot when storm clouds began gathering over head and booms of thunder could be heard from the east. It was strange, almost like these clouds where forming directly over the Throat of the World. 

Doesn’t matter. Focus on the task at hand. A little storm can’t hold you back. Ubbe inched closer and closer to the crumbling tower that guarded the road from Morrowind. He approached the tower from the back where he was able to climb, albeit very carefully, to the top. From here he could look down on his prey and observe, wait, strike. Ubbe waited patiently as the night went on, eventually the thunder and clouds faded away revealing bright, starry night. Then his prey decided it was time to hunt for itself.

Some time had passed since one of the creatures departed to look for food. The beast the remained behind had fallen asleep and didn’t notice as Ubbe slipped down into the tower. He slowly and quietly approached the sleeping mass. He carefully pulled out his paralysis-coated dagger and got ready. In one fluid motion he covered the victim's mouth and plunged the dagger into its shoulder. The victim attempted to scream and fight back, but began to freeze up shortly after and could do nothing, but look at Ubbe with pleading, fearful eyes…

***

“Damn this blasted cold! I swear when I get back to the Isles I’m never leaving again!” Arendiil proclaimed as he walked through the frigid Northern mountains looking for small game such as rabbits and foxes. These past weeks had taken a toll on the elf and his female compatriot. The frigid air, the fear of being found by Baldur’s Grim Ones, just being in Skyrim in general scared the life out of him. Shortly after the battle turned south for the Thalmor he and his friend took for the hills, but the weren’t lucky enough to get away unscathed. Aldwyn caught an arrow from a farmer outside of Windhelm, they of course slaughtered the fool, but the wound was festering and neither of them were particularly skilled with restoration magic.

They had posted up in a broken down tower in the mountains where they believed no one would bother them until Aldwyn was healthy enough to move and then they would attempt to head south through Morrowind and link up with the Thalmor spies in Cyrodiil, but lately Arendiil was getting uneasy. He felt like they were being watched. He assumed it was wolves or maybe one of these bears the nords talk about. He pushed those thoughts out of his mind when he saw a fox darting across the fresh fallen snow.

With a quick flick of his wrist, he sent a bolt of lightning into the poor creatures body, killing it instantly. The trek back to the tower was uneventful, just the way he liked it. As he neared the tower he noticed that the fire had gone out, but didn’t think anything of it. Aldwyn had fallen asleep and let the fire die plenty of times before. As he entered the entrance he was greeted with a grotesque sight.

Aldwyn was strung up in the air with her back cut open and her lungs resting on top of her shoulder. On the rocks surrounding their fire pit laid two ears and a tongue. “Aldwyn! No no no no! This isn’t happening!” He screeched as he ran towards her body.

Before he could get close, though, a figure dropped from the ceiling, brandishing two axes. Instinctively the elf raised his hands and began charging up fireballs. As soon as he started unleashing his spells, the figure darting with incredible speed towards him. He brought on of his axes down hard and severed Arendiil’s left arm from his body. The elf screamed and jumped back, shooting lighting from his right arm. The figure raised his axes to block the spell, but the force of the lighting ripped his axes out of his hands. The unknown assailant, now disarmed, charged him and with a vicious scream, took him to the ground. Arendiil could see briefly that this attacker was in fact a Nord, before his eyes were taken from him by the Nords fingers and his head smashed in by the Nords forehead.

***

Ubbe sat back on his legs after he got done head butting the elf’s skull into paste. He took a deep breath and whispered a prayer to Kyne and Shor before he stood and grabbed his dagger. He grabbed what was left of the elf’s head and cut the ears off of its sides and cut the tongue out of its mouth. He laid the trophies next to the others on the fire pit and started working on getting the fire going again. He decided he would stay the night at the tower and head back to his grandfather's cabin in the morning. 

As the fire lit and grew bigger, Ubbe took a moment to examine his work. No doubt Shor would be proud. He thought to himself. He pulled out some horker jerky his grandfather had prepared for him and began to chew on it while staring into the flames. Before long he was out, dreaming about normal things like Sovngarde and gutting his father if he ever saw him again.

The next morning he awoke to a hawk attempting to steal his trophies. He managed to scare it away by waving his hands and making and “oooOOoo” sound. He chuckled and said, “Nice try Kyne! But these are for another.”

He gathered his trophies and put them in his leather pouch before he grabbed his axes and departed the tower, leaving the elves broken bodies for whatever creatures or travelers happened upon them.

“Did your hunt go well, Ubbe?” his grandfather asked him as he entered the longhouse. Ubbe could feel his eyes scouring him and examining the blood on him. Without saying a word Ubbe simply raised his trophies and and walked to his room. 

In his room, he took his amulet of Kyne off and strung the elf ears and tongues to it. Afterwards he put the necklace back on and went back into the main hall. He looked at his grandfather and said, “I have my offerings. I’m going to Windhelm. I don’t know if I’ll be coming back.”

“First your father, then your mother, and now you! It’s as if I’m being punished by the Gods for some unknown crime. So be it. One thing before you go, boy. The moot has met. I haven’t heard who has been chosen as King, but be mindful of who you speak to.” His grandfather sad with a sad look in his eyes. Ubbe turned away from his grandfather then and made for the door.

Windhelm was bustling with people. Many were going about their daily routines and many more were assisting in the rebuilding of the broken city. Ubbe walked into Candlehearth Hall to grab a pint of mead and flirt with his favorite bar maid when a stormcloak runner burst through the door. The shouted, “Jarl Baldur of clan Red-Snow has been named High King by the Moot! Following the decision he was challenged to a duel by Jarl Brund of clan Hammer-fang. High King Red-Snow emerged victorious. All hail the Ash King!”

With the declaration, the tavern erupted. Nordic yells and cheering could be heard all throughout the city and the mead flowed that day. Ubbe wasn’t going to let this opportunity pass and proceed to get hammered before passing out in one of the open rooms in Candlehearth Hall with his favored maid.

The next day he made his way to the Palace. As he approached the doors a stormcloak guard ordered him to halt and asked, “What’s your business with the Kings court?”

Ubbe eye’d the guard and said, “I’m here to speak to the Ash King.”

“High King Red-Snow isn’t here, nor will he return here for sometime. What do you wish to speak to the king about anyhow?”

“That is my business and his. Do you know where he is or where he is going?”

“I only know what I am told. He is still at High Hrothgar last I heard, but word is he will be headed to Kynes Watch.” The guard looked disgusted all of the sudden and muttered to himself, “Damn my blasted tongue.”

Ubbe turned around at that moment and walked through the Grey Quarter to the docks. He ignored the scowls and looks of disgust he received from the Argonian workers as he walked across the docks over to a little boat manned by a Nord named Gort. Gort had ferried him up and down the banks of the White River in the past. As Ubbe approached him, Gort stood and asked him, “Where’ll it be today, friend?”

“Kynes Watch, Gort.” Ubbe said plainly. He instinctively sat down in the boat without waiting for Gorts answer. Gort looked at him for a second and shook his head, “No can do. That’s way too far for my little boat. You’re better off buying passage on one of the longboats.”

“Come on Gort. You know I don’t have that kind of coin. How far can you get me?”

“I suppose I can take you to Dawnstar, but it’ll cost you extra!”

“Fine, just get me there.” Ubbe said. Without another word the boat departed, leaving Windhelm behind.

***

The trip to Dawnstar went smoothly and Ubbe was able to hire another small boat to get him to Kynes Watch. As they neared Kynes Watch, Ubbe could make out the outlines of a fort and a sprawling village. It was late so there wasn’t many people out and no one paid any mind to a young Nord arriving on the docks. 

Ubbe walked up to one of the merchants who hadn’t close up her shop yet and asked, “Excuse me miss, where can I find some mead and a bed in town?”

The merchant turned to him and answered, “The Howling Harpy, it's just down the road over there.”

“Thank you miss.” Ubbe said. Kynes Watch was surprisingly cold, even colder than Windhelm. For the first time Ubbe felt like the cold was getting him. This was a strange feeling. He didn’t know what to make of it and simply wrapped up tighter in his cloak. He walked down the road until he reached the Harpy and walked into the big overturned boat.