Civil War Aftermath Chapter 3: Season's End pt3

[The Good Doctor]

Boldir and Mila
Anvil

It was not until he had explained the plan to Mila that Boldir realized how incredibly ludicrous it sounded. Something about Clavicus Vile’s presentation had made the idea of leaving Cyrodiil and pitting a Redguard armada against a magical Thalmor sun ship to steal someone’s soul seem strangely sane. But as they spoke in their room, Boldir realized that this would without a doubt be the wildest thing he had ever done. They were moving from the realm of outlaws to the stuff of songs and eddas.

Mila’s reaction drove that point home even further. Or rather, it was her lack of a reaction. The girl took everything he said like an Eastmarcher takes the cold. It was as if this was just another step in their journey, no stranger than fighting Black-Briars or getting snatched into Oblivion. And Boldir supposed that was true, but he felt strangely different about actively plotting to do something so crazy versus being dragged into it.

Their immediate goal, of course, would be to get themselves a ship. Reaching Stros M’kai quickly was paramount. Besides that, Mila pointed out a glaring issue. "We don’t know how to trap a soul."

Boldir had considered that, but he’d hoped Mila would have a solution. He swore under his breath when she shook her head. "We've still got the rest of Valga’s soul gems. Do you know how to tell which ones are empty?"

Another head shake, followed by, "No, but we’d need a spell on top of that anyway." She shrugged. “We could buy a scroll, but I don’t know how much something like that would cost."

"There were dozens of them back in my manor," stated the voice of Roseloe Valga from somewhere out of sight. "Too bad you stupidly ignored them whilst robbing me."

"Gods damn it," Boldir murmured. He started walking around the room, searching for the source of the voice. "I'm going to kill this fucking bug."

The witch seemed unperturbed. "Even if she is willing to aid you in capturing the soul of this elf?"

"Out of the kindness of your heart, I’m sure," he answered. "No, I think I’d still very much like to kill you. And don’t feed me any more horkershit about being in the Imperial City. You botched that lie well and good."

"Which is why I am now coming clean," said Valga. "You learned all my secrets when I spoke to Lord Vile. So unless the wits of those born in Skyrim are even duller than the stories say, I would gain nothing from lying to you. You know what it is I seek, and I know that your connection to Lord Vile may be my only chance of getting it. That makes us allies."

"Then show yourself, and I’ll show you what I think of "allies" who abduct and mutilate children."

"Are you really still on about that? They’re free now, are they not? Besides, it’s not like I’m the one who did it. I’m trapped in the body of an insect! It was loyal Flavimus who thought the rituals might appease Lord Vile, and you killed him. So that’s two wrongs you’ve righted now, hero. Congratulations. Chance a third and you will find yourself short a powerful friend."

"Not powerful enough to open a door," Mila said.

"I see that low wit runs in the family,” grumbled the witch. "I hope that it doesn’t impede your ability to see logic. I can show you which gems will be adequate for the elf’s soul. I can make the scroll you need, and others. Perhaps even teach you the spells given time. It will cost you nothing but the satisfaction of getting to kill me."

"That's a hefty price," Boldir said. He was not joking. After freeing the children from Roseloe’s manor, he and Mila had spent the better part of two days on the road with them. They were as innocent as Mila had been when Maul had taken her. "We'll pass. Come on, Mila. If you see the bug, squash it. We'll make do without her help."

Roseloe did not speak again as they left the inn, though Boldir suspected that the witch was still watching them. "Are you sure that was a good idea?" Mila asked, once they were out in the streets. "We can't do this alone."

"I know," Boldir replied. "But I'd sooner turn to another fucking necromancer than partner up with that woman."

"I don't like her either," Mila said. "But Valga needs an audience with Vile, and we're the only chance she has. At least we know she wouldn't betray us."

"It's not that I'm afraid of her." He frowned. "She deserves to die, not get another chance at living."

"I know." Mila thought back to when she had put herself in harm's way just to kill Sibbi. Not because he needed to die, but because she wanted him to. Valga had not done them any harm like the Black-Briars did, but that didn't matter as much to Boldir. "But we may not have much choice."

They made their way to the docks. The Gold Coast was as beautiful from down here as it had been from the countryside, but the city's clammer made it all seem less glamorous. A thousand voices were raised in competition to make themselves heard. Bells were chiming, sailers and dockworkers were shoving in throngs, and seagulls flocked in the air and cawed as they darted between the waves only to burst forth with fish in their beaks. The merchants here were even less organized than those within the walls, most being nothing more than peddlers with a box of goods in their hands that they were in a hurry to sell off.

For once, Mila was led the way. Boldir followed her closely as she took him from one building to the next. She eyed each of them over, and then somehow was able to rule them out and move on to another. She let out a little "Aha," when they came to a nice-looking two-story tavern that sat between some warehouses. It was called the Rusty Saber.
"How could you tell?" he asked.

"Guild secrets." Mila winked. "You wait here. It'll be better if I talk to them alone." He must have given his thoughts away with a look, because she held up her hands. "Don't worry, I lived with these types for months. I know how to deal with them. But you will stand out like a goblin in a temple."

Boldir wasn't sure how he felt about that particular analogy, but he conceded that this was an area with which Mila had a lot more experience than he did. "Yell if you get into trouble."

"Of course."

While she went in, Boldir posted up against one of the walls and waited. So many people were walking by that nobody even spared him a glance. He liked that. During their journey from Chorrol, he and Mila had skipped over Skingrad entirely upon seeing their posters among a mess of others posted in a nearby village. Kvatch had been better, but the streets were less crowded, and he had spent the entire time worrying that someone would notice him. Here, it felt like he'd have had to shout his name to the heavens to even turn a few heads. 
A few minutes passed until he heard the Rusty Saber door creak open and saw Mila step out with a grin. "Come on."

Following the instructions the tavernkeep had given her, Mila led Boldir down the dock a ways, to a rundown warehouse. The front door was locked, but they went around to the back entrance, where she knocked. A minute passed, then a rough voice spoke from the other side. "Who is it?"

"One of the fox's kits," Mila recited.

A bolt could be heard sliding out of its latch, and then the door opened. The red-headed Breton who ushered them in was even shorter than Mila, though he made up for it in girth. "You got any papers?"

She handed him the letter she had been given in the Rusty Saber. The man's eyes widened as he read it. "You're friends with Gray Cap?" He pointed at Boldir. "And what about him?"

"Also his friend," Boldir said. "I've got something for you to buy."

The Breton eyed him for a second, then turned back to Mila. "This better be something good. I try not to trade with too many foreigners unless I know 'em."

"It is good," she promised. She extended a hand. "Matilda."

"Uh-huh." He shook it. "Liam." He led them over to a round table. The room they were in was not part of the main warehouse. It was more like an office, though with no desk and only one chair. "Alright, what have you got for me?"

Boldir removed his heavy pack and opened it. "Nordic armor. You won't find it for sell anywhere." He laid out the pieces one-by-one. A gauntlet, two boots, one pauldron, and the cuirass. Their conditions varied, but it was all still worth more than what could be found in most corners of the world.

The Breton looked over the pieces carefully. "Got a lot of Nords in this city who love it when I get things from Skyrim. This quicksilver?"

"Aye."

Liam's eyes lit up. "Something good indeed... I take it there used to be two gauntlets and two pauldrons?"

"There were."

"And some of these straps will need fixing... maybe replace the fur in the collar and boots. Buyers love that stuff... and I assume there was once a helmet?"

Boldir thought back to when Drenim's creature had torn his oldest possession from his head and flung it off the cliffside. "There was."

"Well it's a damn shame you lost bits of it," Liam said. "Good armor like this is worth a lot more as a full set. Small fortune, really. But take out one piece and the value goes down a good bit. Let alone three pieces."

"I know. Used to sell armor, myself. But those pieces are long gone and I need the coin more than I need the protection."

The fence studied Boldir. He could feel the man's eyes on his scars. "You sure about that?"

"Just tell me how much you'll give."

"Well if it was all here and hand't been beaten like a cheap whore in Coldharbour, I'd give you quite a lot. As it is? I'll do two hundred septims."

"Two hundred sep-" Boldir collected himself and shook his head. "The gauntlet is worth more than that."

"Then go sell it to any other merchant in the city. I'm sure they'd love to get their hands on such a recognizably unique armor piece."

"I want eight hundred septims. You'll make double that when you sell it."

"Pfft!" Liam looked offended. "You kidding? You could've walked in here with the Crown of bloody Lysandus and I still wouldn't have given you that much in this shape. I'll do three hundred, and that's only because the lass is friends with Gray Cap."

Boldir was starting to get frustrated. This gear had seen him through two wars, and had stopped the blades of more foes than he could count. His initial demand of eight hundred had felt like a betrayal as it was. But he and Mila needed this gold. "You give me eight hundred or I will find another fence."

"You know another fence?" The Breton looked amused. "You'll have to introduce us. I said I'll give you three."

Boldir scowled. "Seven."

"Listen, Nord. This ent yer Windhelm markitplace," said Liam in a very bad mockery of his Nordic accent. "When people come to me, they sell low and discreet. That's how this whole bloody thing works."

Boldir folded his arms. "Seven hundred."

The fence turned to Mila. "Who are you, girl? What in the name of Molag's bloody balls is a friend of Gray Cap doing with with a man who's clearly not one of us?

Mila crossed her arms and mimicked Boldir's stance. "Seven hundred."

Liam opened his mouth to say something, but then stopped. He glared at Mila, then back at Boldir, then once more at Mila. Then he sighed. "You two are relentless. Good on you. Alright, seven hundred septims." He pushed the armor pieces aside and brought a chest out onto the table. "Let's get to counting."

***

Boldir and Mila returned to the docks lighter in load but much heavier in purse. It did not take them long to find a ship that was bound for Stros M'kai, though the first few they met either did not intend to set sail for another week at least, or they charged a heavy price to leave early. The first captain they met wanted four hundred gold for Boldir and Mila each, and the next several were no better. It took some time, but they eventually found a ship, Nekla's Diamond, that would be setting sail in only one day.

"Just don't be late," the merchant captain told them. He had agreed to give them a spot for only three hundred and fifty gold, so long as they paid in advance. "You won't be getting any of it back if we leave you."

With that settled, they traveled to the market and purchased a few basic supplies for the journey like extra water skins, some dry food, and lighter clothing. They also found out an enchanter from High Rock. She was an elderly woman, garbed in tattered robes that that bore the faded colors of the rainbow. Her tent was pitched near the street, and inside was sold all manner of magical trinkets and jewelry.

"Soul gems, you say?" The old Breton smiled and beckoned them closer. "Yes, I could examine them for you. For a modest fee, of course."

However, when Boldir placed a few of them on her table, the woman's smile became a scowl. "Do you take me for a Worm Cultist? Away with you both!" She waved her hand, and the soul gems jumped into the air and fell back into Boldir's pack.

"Listen, lady," Boldir met her scowl with one of his own. "We don't even know what it is we're carrying, so at least tell us what it is that's got you worked up!"

"You carry the souls of men in your pocket," the Breton said. "I don't want to know where you got them, just get them out of my tent!"

They took their leave. Boldir did not even bother to ask if she sold scrolls, because he knew that mentioning that he needed one for soul trapping would have only have unnerved the woman more.

"That went well," Mila said, rolling her eyes. She refrained from making a remark about the souls. It would probably only anger Boldir right now. "Think the next one will be more helpful?"

"I don't know how they could be much less."

He soon found out. The next person they visited was less bothered by the dark gems, but the fee he charged for his services was anything but modest. "Sorry," said the young mage. He wore an arrogant grin that reminded Boldir of Marcurio back in Riften. "I didn't spend six years with the College of Whispers to give away knowledge freely. Twenty drakes per gem."

"What about your scrolls?" Mila asked, motioning to an open chest that was brimming with them. "How much for a soul trapping one?"

The mage eyed their black gems, then his grin widened. "Five hundred drakes."

Boldir's temple was pulsing as they walked away from the mage's wagon. "I really wanted to hit him."

"I could tell," Mila said. "I really wanted to snag one of his items while you two spoke."

"You know, we might need to have a talk about your time with the Thieves Guild..."

The voice of Roseloe Valga spoke before Mila could. "Are you two finished tormenting yourselves with matters you barely understand?"
Boldir and Mila looked up, and saw the insect witch hovering just out of reach. She even lit up as though to taunt Boldir with her presence. "Cyrodiil is at war. You'll not find what you seek at much lower prices than the ones you've been offered."

Boldir touched his pack. "What happened to you not having other human souls?"

"Believe it or not, I lied." It was perhaps the most self-aware the witch had ever sounded to him. "I also lied about my lab containing venomous books, wisp children, polymorphed ogrims-"

"We know," Boldir interrupted.

"Right then. Well if you're clever enough to see through lies then you should be clever enough to know that you'll not get what you're looking for without my help. Not unless you're prepared to sell everything you own and hunt this elf in your undergarments."

Boldir and Mila exchanged a glance. Mila saw nothing but annoyance in Boldir. There was nothing he wanted to do more in that moment than kill the witch. But Boldir saw acceptance in Mila. She did not like it, but she knew that this was the best option they were going to get.

Bandits, necromancers, and now a witch, Boldir thought with a frown. Next it'll be the Thalmor themselves. He gave his daughter a nod and looked back up. "Alright bug, help us and I'll resist the urge to squash you."

"And you must speak to Lord Vile on my behalf," Valga stated. "You saw what happened when I approached him myself."

"Not going to happen. I can give you the chance to try with Vile again, but your dealings with him are your own." Boldir hesitated, then added, "That isn’t negotiable. You can leave if you don’t like it."

"Have you always been so stubborn, or has the master’s influence taken root?" The witch sighed. "Very well. Grant me the opportunity for an audience and I will aid you however I can. I am going to come down now. But first I want to hear an oath that neither of you will do me any harm."

"We won’t," Boldir promised. "Not unless you lie to us again, witch."

"You have my word, savage."

The glowing insect came down until she hovered closer to Boldir's face. True to his word, he resisted his immediate urge to crush her then and there. "Tell me, bug. How is something like you planning to help us make scrolls?"

"With words," replied Valga. "I presume that at least one of you is capable of drawing lines and repeating phrases, and of using a soul gem in the most rudimentary manner possible. If not, I can explain both. You will require materials."

"Good thing we're in a market." Mila said. "Just tell us what we need."

***
 

"Two days?"
Boldir couldn't believe what he was hearing. "Just yesterday you promised to leave without us if we weren't on time. Now you expect us to wait two more days?"

"Afraid so." The captain was a portly, sun-scorched Colovian whose head was bald and his cheeks were hairy. He had been very direct with Boldir when they came to their arrangement the day before. Now, the man almost seemed nervous. He tried not to, but neither Boldir nor Mila missed the way his eyes kept trying to divert away. Of course, an angry Boldir often had that effect on people. "We've had complications with a shipment. You'll get your passage."

Boldir was tempted to demand his money back and find someone else, but two more days at was still sooner than most other ships that were bound for Hammerfell. At least the ones he could afford. "Fine. But you’ll give me back a hundred gold."

His tone left little room for argument, and the captain seemed to realize that. "That's fair," the man said. "Not like you're costing me much anyway."

And so with that, Boldir and Mila went to find the nearest inn. "At least I can use the time to get started on those scrolls," Mila suggested.

"Indeed," Roseloe darted through the door just before Boldir could shut it. "With two days we can do far more than just the soul trap. You will be at sea, facing Thalmor no less. With the souls you carry, we can create scrolls powerful enough to help you if the elves prove too troublesome."

"Like a recall?" Mila asked, hopeful. She had seen Endar use Mark and recall spells on several occasions. It had been one of those she'd wished to learn the most.

"I was thinking something a little more... offensive," the witch replied. "However, that is certainly doable as well." 

Boldir watched Mila unroll a blank sheet of parchment and spread out her various paints and writing utensils. He hadn't held a paint brush in years. "Will you need some help?" 

"No thanks," Mila smiled. "It may be better if you leave the painting to me anyway."

The coyness in her tone was unmistakable. Boldir frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I just know painting ain't your strong suit is all."

"You’ve never even seen me paint."

"There was the cow in Whiterun."

"You weren’t there for that."

"Rebec told me. Baldur painted teats and you painted badly."

That was when Boldir found out that women cursed to live in the form of insects could still snort. He frowned. "It was dark, and the damn animal wouldn't stop moving. I'm not a bad painter."

Mila grinned. "If you say so."

She started to hand him a brush, but Roseloe interjected, "I can only direct one of you at a time. It may as well be the girl, since she is the one who will use them."

"Fine," Boldir said, hiding his disappointment. He went over to the bed and took a seat. "Let me know if your wrist gets tired or something, alright?"

"I'll be fine," Mila laughed. "You enjoy your time off. There will be plenty for you to do when we make it to Stros M'kai."

[The Good Doctor]

Boldir and Mila
The Abecean Sea

The air was crisp and warm, and the breeze was gentle aboard the Nekla’s Diamond. Together with the simple prospect of this being her first time at sea, and the clear sense of direction that they sailed with, these things put Mila in high spirits. The delay had been frustrating, but not long enough to stop them from reaching Stros M'kai early, and the extra time in Anvil had allowed her to create three new scrolls under Valga's instruction.

"You are a student, yes?" one of the sailers asked on their first day at sea. The gray Khajiit with short hair had approached her above deck, where she had been studying the runes and incantations atop a sealed barrel.

"No," Mila answered. "Just curious."

"Ah, a wandering scholar, then."

"No," she smiled. "I really am just curious."

"The difference seems thin to Fa'ir," he answered. "This one is curious, what these scrolls are for."

"This one is supposed to place a mark," Mila informed him. "When you speak the words tied to it, you are returned to the mark in an instant." The Khajiit seemed amused by that, so she continued. "This one can heal those who are hurt. I will test it in Stros M'kai." A lie. If the second scroll worked as Valga claimed, it would actually strip the target's soul from his body and trap it in a gem. "This one starts fires," Mila said, placing her hand on the third scroll, the one that had been the most difficult to create by far.

"An unnerving thing to find in a young girl's possession, on a vessel made entirely of wood."

"And surrounded by water," Mila reminded him. "Don't worry, it's for hearths and campfires. Not ships."

He seemed to relax, until footsteps arrived and Boldir's shadow engulfed them both. The Khajiit grinned at Mila. "Magic and scrolls, things that are seldom part of the deckhand's arsenal of knowledge. This one thanks you, friend, for humoring him. Fortune smile upon you."

Boldir watched the cat person leave, then leaned against the ship's railing beside Mila. "What did he want?"

"He was curious about the scrolls, so I told him the same thing we told the captain." She looked out and motioned to the sea. Behind them, the Gold Coast was so faint that it was hard to make out. Soon, it would be impossible. "What's on your mind?"

"This definitely ain't Lake Honrich," he answered with a snort. Then he became more serious. "We're out of Cyrodiil, and we've got a plan that isn't terrible. We'll make it."

"I'd never been at sea before," Mila said as she stared at the waves. "Just heard the tales. Ysgramor, Cyrus, pirates and explorers. It really makes this whole thing feel different, you know? Like we're on some kind of adventure from the eddas, and those stories you used to tell."

Boldir thought back on those days. Most of his stories had been passed to him by other Stormcloaks. Mostly Baldur.

"Now it is time to tell," Boldir recited, "that the heroes left the cursed land behind them." He grinned. "There was a viscous elven warlord whose name was Naarifin. He sailed the seas in secret, but the two brave Nords knew what others did not..."

Mila wasn't sure if Boldir called her a Nord on purpose, or if it had slipped his mind. Either way, it made her smile. "These heroes were hunted by many, for the world threw all manner of dangers in their direction. They could only trust each other."

Boldir stopped. Here we are treating this whole nightmare like a fun story. He was surprised to find that he was smiling at it all. It reminded him of Baldur. They would get along so well, even now. If she'd allow it.
"We'll work on it," he said, not really serious. "After everything we've been through, those legends of old have become a lot more believable."

The second day at sea passed much more slowly than the first. Cyrodiil vanished some time in the first night, and their entire world became wood and water. Boldir helped out on deck every now and then, just to give himself something to do. Mila mostly daydreamed and played her pebble game with the crew, but when things got busy up top, she would go below deck and and find a quiet corner to meet with Roseloe. The witch was always down below on account of the sun's heat irritating her insect body.

"There you are." Roseloe glowed to signal Mila where she was, and then guided her to a spot where they would not be overheard. "I do so despise ships," said the witch. "At home I had a grand library, but here? I am lucky to have even found one man's joke book. Tell me, what is a lady cursed with an insect's body to do to pass the days in a place like this?"

"Teach me," Mila answered. "At least you're making yourself useful."

"Indeed. You should spend more time down here. Now, your tome. Where did we leave off?"

Mila dug into her back, past the scrolls, and found the leather book she'd hidden at the bottom. "I've been practicing my wards. At night, when no one is watching. I haven't been able to get it right, though. It keeps coming to me, and then it stops. I can feel the magicka, even see it in my hands. But when I try to raise the ward, it drops."

"That is because you are a nestling who has only just discovered the purpose of her wings. You must stretch them. Now, turn to the last spell."
Mila flipped through the pages until she reached the last spell Roseloe had given her notes on. The soul trap. Mila had spent very little time with this one. It made her feel uneasy, and besides, they already had the scroll for Naarifin.
"Well?" said the witch, "How have you faired with this one?"

"I haven't," Mila said. "It seemed less important."

"Nonsense. What will you do if you misuse the scroll and your elf escapes? Or if he simply dispels it? For your goals and many others, the trapping of the soul is among the most important abilities to master. So much of a mage's power derives from the soul stuff they have harnessed. They are what will allow you to create tools like these scrolls and far greater, or simply power those that already exist. Most importantly, they are a currency, as you have surely learned. Look at all you and your father have done just to retrieve one soul."

"My soul," Mila said. "And it wasn't by choice. I would never hold someone else's soul for bargain."

"No, you would merely hunt those of others," the witch replied. "The results are the same. What will you do if the next one Lord Vile sends you after belongs to a child those your father condemns me for locking in my home?"

Mila had wondered that many times, and always told herself that they would figure something out. "I wouldn't do it," she told the witch. "Me and Boldir ain't perfect, but we're not like you."

Roseloe groaned. "Ughh. Fine. But you will come to regret your passiveness one day. The gods do not care, and the world won't reward it. You crutch yourself for no other reason than because the imbeciles you grew up around put it in your head that this is the way things should be. Remember this, girl: The world is not a picnic. The world is an Arena. Understanding that is how one becomes a champion."

Mila glared at her, just an insect with a voice. "Like you?"

"Yes, like m- wait, you're being coy again aren't you?" Rosealoe scoffed, "You truly can be insufferable some times, you know. Here I am, trying to help you in every way that I am able, and you continue to mock my misfortunes."

"You'll have to get used to that," Mila said. "From everyone. Still, you ain't wrong about the soul trapping. I can't rely on a scroll against Naarifin. It's too important to risk."

"Well, it's good to know you have enough sense to recognize that much, at least. Now, to understand the magic of trapping a soul, it helps to understand the soul itself. What do you know about souls?"

Mila tried to think back. It seemed like they only ever really came up in two contexts. "Souls are who we are, without the body. They're what goes to the afterlife when we die, like Sovngarde. But sometimes mages trap souls like we're doing, and use them for power..."

Roseloe was quiet for some time. "Wait, is that it? That's all you know?"

"Pretty much. They also can become ghosts, right? Or something?"

"By the Void." If insects had eyelids, Mila guessed that the torchbug would have been rolling hers. "You have so much to learn."

Noon of the third day found Mila and Boldir sitting around a barrel with some of the crew above deck. Mila's mind had been wandering while she'd played the pebble game, and she'd made a mistake that caused her to lose. Now the sailers were convinced that it wasn't as hard as they'd believed. Six games later, they still had yet to beat her. Even the Khajiit, Fa'ir, could not manage a win, which was apparently surprising to the others. Mila never told them that following a specific pattern would guarantee the opening player's victory. It was the perfect game for a swindler, and had already earned her thirteen septims and a glass eye covered in Yokudan runes.

"Girl like you's gonna fit right in at Stros M'kai," said her latest victim, a balding Nord named Galik. He looked from Mila to Boldir. "So what are you two, anyway? Mercenaries or some such?"

"You could say that," Boldir answered.

He pointed at Mila. "And you... some kind of vampire?"

"What?" Mila snorted. "No. Why in Shor's name would you think that?"

"Well," he nodded at Boldir. "You're obviously a warrior. But if she's with you, goin' on adventures and what have you, then she's gotta have some secret power up her sleeve. Elsewise she'd be a rather lousy mercenary."

Boldir heard Valga's voice whisper quietly into his ear. "Send her downstairs. She needs to study."

He sat up. "Have any of you seen a torchbug on here during the night?"

"Torchbug? You mean the firefly?" Galik nodded "Yeah, I've seen one belowdeck at night. Never had one of those come with us away from land."

"I'll give ten septims to whoever can get it in a jar for me," Boldir said. "The light helps me sleep." He resisted the urge to laugh when he heard the insect darting away from his ear. Hopefully she got the message, but if not, well, it would at least be funny to know that she would be living in fear of the sailers and their jars. 

As Mila reset the game, someone up in the crow's nest shouted, "Land in sight!"

People started to gather at the bow to try and make out what they could. That seemed strange to Boldir, since he knew that Stros M'kai should have still been days away. Whatever island they were approaching should have been of little interest. He left Mila to her game and headed up to the wheel, where Captain Hutton waited beside his helmsman.

"Tidings," said the captain. "I take it you're wondering about the island." Fa'ir stepped up beside them. The Khajiit's curious eyes studied Boldir, as they always seemed to be doing. 

"Aye," Boldir answered. "It ain't Stros M'kai."

"Gods no. This one is tiny. Just a small trading port. Place for ships to weather storms during rough spells, and for small ones to resupply if they lack the space for drink."

"Are we expecting a storm?" Boldir asked. The skies were as calm and blue as he had ever seen.

"Matter of fact, we are," said the captain. "Landwalker like you might not pick up on it, but I sure can. Ask Fa'ir. It's the smell on the air. We're gonna have a big one. I'll not be putting the Diamond through that if I can help it."

"I paid you for a straight journey," Boldir said. "You already delayed it once."

"And compensated you for it," Hutton rebutted. "Besides, it'll still be direct. With Kynareth's blessing we'll be back at sea within a day."

Boldir frowned and returned to Mila. He could feel their eyes on his back as he took his seat. "I ain't as popular on here as you," he said.

"They ain't your crowd is all." Mila finished counting her coins and slid them into a pouch at her waist along with the glass eye. "I bet you'll take to the Redguards a lot better. The warrior ones, not the pirate ones."

"Aye, we get along great so long as they stay sober," Boldir said, recalling the night Jodun had crashed a few rum bottles on his head and the women had somehow squeezed him into their ridiculous garb as he'd slept. He had often wondered why they didn't just get drunk and brawl like normal people. He frowned. "Can you smell a storm coming before you can even see it?"

"What?" Mila looked as confused as he expected. "I mean, rain has a scent. But I've never... is that what the captain told you or something?"

"He said that he and his cat friend can smell one, and that's why we need to dock at this island." At the shake of Mila's head, Boldir shrugged. "Sailers are weird."

Even so, as they drew closer to the island, Boldir started to feel a change. Not in the weather -that was still clear- but in the manner of the crew. People kept turning away when he caught them looking at him, and the gray Khajiit remained by the captain's side at the helm. At one point, the man in the crow's nest climbed down and Boldir stopped him, motioning to the looking glass tucked beneath his belt. "Mind if I have a look at the island?"

"Can see it plain as day with just your eyes," said the sailer. He seemed nervous. "I promise, this thing only makes it less clear."

The man smiled, and started to walk away, but Boldir stopped him by putting a heavy hand on his shoulder. "Nevertheless, I'd like to look."

The man's eyes darted past Boldir, then quickly back to him. "Uhh... alright. Yeah, sure. I'm telling you, though, you won't be impressed."

Boldir didn't care. He snatched the tool from his belt and focused it on the island. The place was indeed unimpressive. Just a few buildings and a dock. There were only two ships. One was obviously a merchant vessel, and the other, he was not sure. Curiously, its sails and flag were down. Boldir frowned. That's a war ship... He then felt that he knew why everyone was so nervous. We're being set up. Boldir handed the looking glass back to the sailer, and then turned back to the captain. For once, Fa'ir was no longer by his side. 

Out of nowhere, he heard Mila scream, "Boldir, look out!"

Boldir turned, and only just had enough time to step away as the Khajiit's dagger sliced through his shirt and nicked his arm. It had been aimed for his spine. He threw an elbow, but the cat person somehow danced below it and took a swipe. Boldir couldn't stop it, but as the blade cut across his ribs, he stepped onto Fa'ir's bare foot and grabbed him by the wrist that held the knife. "Mila, get my axe!"

Mila turned and darted for the stairs. There were only seven or eight crew members on the deck at that time and they seemed about as shocked and confused as she and Boldir were. Nobody stopped her as she ran to retrieve the weapons. 

While Boldir struggled to take the dagger from the Khajiit, the would-be assassin extended the claws on his free hand and tried to gouge at his eyes. Boldir was able to keep that hand back, but not without taking a gash across the forehead. He roared and butted his head against Fa'ir's. The Khajiit stumbled then and let go of the dagger. Boldir took advantage of this and got a better grip on him, then rammed the cat backward until his back slammed against the ship's railing. 

"Help me you idiots!" the Khajiit barked, all traces of his previous accent suddenly gone. "He's going to kill-"

Boldir grabbed him by one of his long ears and smashed his face against the railing. By then, Mila had returned. She had his axe in one hand and her sword in the other. On her back was the pack containing the scrolls. To her horror, one of the other sailers was running at Boldir with a hatchet in his hand. She was quicker, though, and managed to reach the man just in time to slice his leg with her sword. He fell, and Boldir looked back at them both. She quickly handed him the axe. "Here."

Boldir did not hesitate. Fa'ir was too nimble for that. He buried the axe in the Khajiit's skull, wrenched it out, and tossed the corpse overboard. He then swung around to face the rest of the crew. The man Mila had cut was writing on the ground, whining in pain. All the others stood frozen and in shock. Now that the initial momentum of his fight was over, Boldir was able to get truly angry. These fucking snakes!

"Everyone line up!" he barked. "NOW!"

The sailers complied. There were twelve in all, not counting Fa'ir. They all stood in a line looking terrified. Boldir stared hard at Captain Hutton. "Two day delay, huh? Did that shipment ever make it, captain?"

To the captain's credit, he held himself together in front of his crew, despite looking terrified. "The man who came to us said you two were murderers. He worked for the royal family."

"And that fellow I just killed was one of his, am I right?" Boldir asked. "Penitus Oculatus?"

Hutton nodded. "Aye."

Boldir took a step back and addressed the rest of the crew. "If any more of you are with the Empire, I'd suggest you come forward now. It'll be your last chance to try and kill me without getting a lot of others killed along with you."

"He was the only one," Hutton said. "Showed up the day before we left. Said he was here as an assurance. Keep us safe in case you were as dangerous as they made you sound."

"We are," Boldir said. "And if you're lying, and there are more would-be-assassins among you, know this. For every attempt on my life or the girl's, I'll not only kill the assailant. I'll kill someone else as well... Now, you are going to change course and take us straight to Stros M'kai. No more horkershit about storms or any of that. You'll do what we paid you for, and you'll get to live full lives." He paused. "That is, unless there are any more heroes who'd like to see how many people we can kill on our own. My record is eight."

The crew was silent, save for the weeping of the man Mila had slashed. "Well?" Boldir barked. "Made up your minds yet?"

"We'll take you," said captain Hutton. "Nobody else needs to die."

"Good man." Boldir's voice rose to a shout. "Now get to your stations!"

***

Trevis

Trevis did not like the ocean. He never had. His feelings towards open waters had long ago been tainted by the loss of loved ones to a boating accident in Niben Bay. He could not remember their faces and he did not want to, but their deaths had taught him to treat the lakes, rivers, and seas of the world with the same sort of respect that he would a dragon. They were wild, beautiful, and could swallow you whole in an instant. They were also useful.

After his last run-in with Boldir and Mila, Trevis knew that capturing them would not be easy, even with his men and the Grim Ones combined. They could have searched Anvil for weeks, and unless they got lucky, they would have been more likely to alert Boldir and Mila to their presence and scare them away than they would have been to catch them. But searching Anvil was not necessary for finding their quarry. Two foreigners who had no connections on this side of the world would only have one reason to make a bee-line from Chorrol all the way to the only port city in Colovia: ships. They hoped to escape Cyrodiil. 

Armed with that knowledge, it was much easier to send men out to the various captains and learn which ones were sailing out soon, and which ones were taking passengers. Many were, of course, but one ship stood out, the Nekla's Diamond, whose captain informed Trevis' people that he had only hours prior accepted a pair who fit Boldir and Mila's descriptions down to the scars. From there, the arrangements were made. Trevis and the Grim Ones could have ambushed Boldir on the docks, but after seeing the two of them set fire to a village, kill several elite soldiers, and maim every horse but the one they escaped on, Trevis feared that cornering them in the city would only allow them to pull more tricks, potentially at the cost of many innocents' lives as well as giving them the chance to escape. It was the ocean that gave him a solution.

At sea, Boldir and Mila would think they were safe and let their guard down. They would have nowhere to run, and far fewer innocents to threaten. The Oculatus and Grim Ones occupied an old supply port in what was still considered Imperial waters, and prepared a nice, cozy pair of cells for Boldir and Mila to walk into the moment they stepped off Nekla's Diamond.

Trevis felt eased, calm even. This hunt had gone on far too long as it was. He was glad to know that it would have an easy end. In the worst case scenario, Boldir would figure them out and his agent Vanus, going by the name of Fa'ir, would kill Boldir and at least be able to bring them the girl.

Standing on the beach, Trevis watched the dark speck on the horizon slowly become the silhouette of a ship as it got closer. One of his people confirmed that it was Nekla's Diamond, and he could sense the relief among both his own people and the Nords. When it got close enough to make out people, they would take positions to hide. Until then, every eye was glued on the thing carrying their long-hunted prey.
And then it turned.

Trevis swore. Some of his people swore. The Nords swore a lot. But they had prepared for this. Vanus would most likely take Boldir out before he even knows there is a threat, but there was always the chance that even the back up plan would fail, which was why they had commandeered a ship that was built for speed.

"Arm up, boys!" hollered Thorald Gray-Mane. "Boldir wants to run a little longer, so be it. It won't matter. This ends today!"

Grim Ones and Penitus Oculatus agents alike boarded the Morning Glory. The anchor was raised, the sails were hoisted, and the red dragon of the Empire spread its wings for a hunt.

[The Good Doctor]

The Abecean Sea

The calm in the air was deceptive. Mila could see that now in so many things. She could see it in the crew of Nekla's Diamond, who were working double-time under the gaze of her father, axe in hand. She could see it in the ocean, whose waves seemed so gentle from the ship's deck, yet rose as high as a grown man and crashed against the hull in an endless assault. She could see it most of all in the great black sails that had been growing larger all afternoon, and the blood red dragon that rested at their center.

Mila herself felt anything but calm. They had come so far, fought so hard, only for their hunters to find them anyway. When they had first passed the island, she'd been hopeful that the people on it would not be a threat, that Nekla's Diamond had moved beyond their reach and would lose them before a proper chase could ensue. Even when the black sails had first gone up, she had not been all too worried. They were still so far ahead, at the time it had seemed that so they kept to their course, the pursuers would not be able to catch up. She had been wrong. Four hours had passed, and the Imperial ship had closed well over half the gap between them.

Boldir had hoped for much the same. When the Imperials had begun pursuit, he'd ordered Captain Hutton and the crew to go full speed ahead. He had declared that so long as they reached Stros M'kai, they could lose their hunters in the city. The captain did not display a hint of remorse when he explained that they were being chased by an Imperial caravel, and that there was not a chance in Oblivion that they would make it to Stros M'kai with it on their tail. Looking at it now, Boldir doubted they would even make it until nightfall. 

Aboard the Morning Glory, Trevis watched his prey slowly grow closer and closer, taunting him with how long it was taking, yet powerless to stop his approach. Vanus was dead. Trevis could not prove it, but the fact that there was still a chase at all was all he needed. If the Khajiit had succeeded, he would have already delivered Mila in chains and Boldir's head in a sack. Vanus had not been a friend, but he was loyal and steadfast all the same. One more reason to relish in the knowledge that justice would soon be had.

Around him, the soldiers were geared up for war. Most of the Grim Ones even wore their heavy armor. When told that this would surely cause them to drown if they went overboard, one of them said, "You saw what Boldir can do with an axe. I'll take my chances with drowning." 
The man had said it jokingly, but Trevis knew that there was plenty of honesty in the statement. The Grim Ones were not foolish enough to think their numbers meant Boldir would not be a threat. They were more likely to die by his axe than the water. Although, Trevis had a feeling that most of them feared neither. These were men who had prepared to die long ago. The prospect carried little weight with them.

For his part, Trevis did not want to die. He was not ready, and he had no intention to, by drowning or by axe. And so he was perfectly content to let Gray-Mane's men capture Boldir as they so badly wanted. The Nords had already agreed to return to Anvil when this was over, where the two criminals could stand trial for their crimes against the Empire. Thorald had not liked the prospect, but in the end, they agreed that the results would ultimately be no different than a trial in Skyrim. There was no ending for Boldir that did not involve his death, and after she killed Cadmir and Luthmar, it seemed likely that Mila would fair no better.

And so the chase went on. Hour after hour, the Morning Glory closed in on Nekla's Diamond. Trevis' men loaded their crossbows. Boldir sharpened his axe. Mila worked with Roseloe to make sure she would use the scrolls correctly. Thorald and his men sang a song of death.

‘Twas a little lad,
Went to join the war,
Marched to distant lands,
Axe and sword in hands.
Let flow the blood of foes,
Let them taste the curs,
Shor awaits in heaven,
The young lad marches home.
The young lad marches home.

The moons were high when the Imperial ship drew close enough for Boldir to hear his old brothers' song. He recognized some of the lyrics. They were Baldur’s. With Axe and Sword.
He readied his axe, and Mila drew her sword. It was time. Boldir turned to Captain Hutton. "If any of your people interfere, get in our way at all, I'll make it a point to kill them. Make sure they know that."

"You mean to fight?" The captain looked stunned. By now, the hunters were close enough to see in the orange light of the setting sun. There were a lot of them. Nine had been counted in the armor of the Grim Ones, and there were at least another ten without it. "You’re mad."

Boldir did not respond to that. He motioned for Mila to get in position, then returned his attention to the captain. "Keep us moving, but let them approach."

Hutton did not seem to understand what Boldir was doing, but he barked the orders nonetheless. Half the sails of Nekla’s Diamond folded in, and Morning Glory reached them in no time, matching her broadside to broadside. Boldir stared across the gap, at Thorald and the men he’d considered family, at the Inspector who had shadowed him since the Imperial City. And they stared back. Nobody made a move. All the planning, the contingencies and tactics, they had led to this moment, but no further.

Boldir took a deep breath. A great many things could happen next, depending on what he said, and how strong he could be if words were not enough. He let out the breath. "Gray-Mane."

"Iron-Brow." Thorald stood stiff. In his Nordic armor, and with that skyforged greatsword over his shoulder, the man looked more like the statue of a Grim One than the actual thing. He embodied them about as perfectly as a Nord could.

"You've made some interesting friends," Boldir said. "Even after making peace, I would have never expected to see a son of Clan Gray-Mane working alongside the Legion. You, least of all."

"You gave us little choice when you turned traitor," Thorald answered. "And not only a traitor, but a coward, who runs instead of looking his family in their eyes and explaining his crimes."

"My family is on this ship. And I'm running toward something, not away. If you lot could leave us be, you'd never hear from us again and nobody would need to get hurt."

Trevis saw Thorald digesting those words, and spoke up before the Nord could reply. "Not the servant in Valga Estate. You killed him and freed those children. Why? How did you even know what was happening there?"

"The same way I know about a Thalmor ship that will soon be in Redguard waters. And for the same reason I mean to intercept it and kill one of the mages onboard."

Trevis had not known what he expected Boldir to say, but it certainly wasn't that. The Stormcloaks were equally confused. "There is clearly a lot more to this than a couple of criminals on the run," he said. "So explain yourself."

"Mila's soul has been stolen, and these are the things I must do to get it back." Boldir did not want to mention that it was by a Daedric Prince, but that wouldn't be necessary to make his point anyway. He looked at Thorald, "That is the only reason I haven't gone to Baldur and turned myself in already. She cannot afford for me to fail, so whether it's witches, Thalmor, or my own kinsmen who try to stop me, you'll all fail."
Boldir tried as hard as he could to make sure his sincerity shone through as he spoke his next words. "I wish you would help me, Thorald. Do you not think Baldur would want you to? He and Rebec would come themselves if they only knew!"

Thorald was hard to read, but the men around him were not. A Nord Boldir recognized but could not put to name spoke, "High King Baldur may have helped you before you burned down Riften and slaughtered hundreds of your brothers and sisters on the field. Not after, traitor!"

Several of the Stormcloaks shouted their agreements, and and Trevis knew that whatever Thorald decided, they would still want justice. He wasn't sure about all this talk of Thalmor and souls. If it was an attempt to stall or mislead them, it was a very strange one, but all of that could just as easily be figured out through the bars of a jail cell as it could out here, and his mission was to capture Boldir and Mila, not help them. He turned to his men. "I've had enough of this. Board the ship. Find the girl. If Boldir moves, put a bolt in him."

The Imperials started lobbing over grappling hooks, and a pair of wide boarding planks were lifted into the air. Boldir looked at Thorald, ready to beg, but by then many of the other Grim Ones were already joining in. Gray-Mane made no move to stop them.
You made me do this.
Boldir turned to Captain Hutton and shouted, "Full speed! Raise the sails if you know what's good for you!" He then saw the first Imperial take aim with his crossbow, and raised his shield in time to catch the bolt. Two more followed, and Boldir ducked behind the railing. "Now, Mila!"

Mila stood where she'd been hiding near the helm, the open scroll her hands. As Nekla's Diamond started to speed up, she read the incantation and activated the soul-bound runes. The parchment became flame in her hands, and she manipulated the flame into a ball. While the Imperials and Stormcloaks all clambered with their ropes and weapons, none seemed to notice her as the ball grew larger and hotter.

None except for the mage, Bentrius. Trevis was drawing his own sword when he felt his friend’s iron grip on his shoulder, and a transparent cocoon of magicka suddenly formed around him. Trevis had just enough time to question what was going on when he saw the girl release her spell.

Valga was not some novice hedge witch who would give them a plain fireball. This spell was crafted using the power of more than a dozen captured souls. The Thalmor had been its intended targets, but it made no difference. A great and wicked force collided with Morning Glory, crashing into the hull like a ballista missile. The blast sent wood and men flying, only to be engulfed in the terrible inferno that followed. Grim Ones who had only moments ago feared no death now screamed as they cooked inside their armor. Many Imperials wailed alongside them. The ship cracked, split, and went down in flames.

They hadn't killed everyone. Not yet, at least. Most had been caught on the Morning Glory as they prepared to board, but a couple of Stormcloaks managed to make it across, and even after what had just happened, they climbed over the railing with more hatred in their eyes than fear. Boldir did not look away from them. "Mila, get below deck." His tone brokered no argument. "Now."
As Mila obeyed, Boldir went forward to once again meet his Stormcloak brothers in combat.
 

Away from the ship and far below, Trevis opened his eyes. He was underwater. Around and above him, the bodies of his comrades still burned. He saw one of them flailing desperately as a Grim One grabbed at his foot to save himself from sinking, but the Nord's armor was too heavy, and he slid down into the darkness all the same. The burning corpse of the Morning Glory still remained above water, barely, but it was broken down the middle and quickly going under.

That fucking kid. Trevis mustered up his energy and kicked against the water until he surfaced. He spotted two of the Grim Ones climbing over the surviving ship’s rails, and saw a third clinging to the lower end of her hull. The Nekla’s Diamond was already sailing again, and would soon leave Trevis stranded at sea among the wreckage if he did not act fast. 

He started to swim. The explosion had thrown him surprisingly far, but thankfully it had been in the direction that the Diamond was now sailing, so he was able to reach the back of the ship just before it could leave him behind. He grabbed some hanging netting and pulled himself out of the water. The netting was easy to climb, so it did not take him long to reached the top. There, he found Boldir clashing with the two Grim Ones. The speed and strength of all three combatants was incredible, but only one of them was able to fight like that without any armor. Trevis knew better than to try his luck there.

He grabbed one of the craven sailers by his shirt and growled, "Where is the girl?"

"Down below," came the man’s frightful answer. He pointed out the portal that led below deck, and Trevis shoved him aside without another word.

Boldir caught a glimpse of the Inspector heading below deck, but there was nothing he could do. His foes were not fighting to apprehend him at this point. Every strike was aimed to kill. If he'd had his armor, the fight would have been much shorted, but as it was, he could not fight like they did, absorbing strikes on their arms and torsos to press their assaults. Still, Boldir was faster, and better at detecting openings. He guided the fight toward the ship's mast, watching the Grim Ones' every move for mistakes. They made very few, but as they neared the mast, one finally proved critical. As the Nord closed in to bring down an overhead blow with his sword, the ship lurched, and he lost his footing. It took less than a second for Boldir to step in front of the man's shield and drive his axe into the man's thigh, slicing it deep.

As the first Nord fell, the second pressed even harder, and the body of a third suddenly appeared over the rail. Not eager to be outnumbered again, Boldir answered the second Nord's aggression with some of his own. He caught a strike on his shield, but instead of dancing away as he had been doing the entire fight, he side-stepped his foe and threw his weight into him. The Stormcloak's metal back smacked into the ship's mast, and before he could collect himself, Boldir's axe found his unprotected bicep. The man dropped his sword, and let out some kind of growl before Boldir's pommel smashed him in the eye.

Boldir turned, then, and saw Thorald's mighty greatsword whirling through the air. The pack leader of the Grim Ones had closed the distance between them with surprising speed, and Boldir only just managed to duck out of the way in time to escape. He raised his shield to catch the follow-up swing, and then took a swipe of his own that pushed Thorald back, but had no effect against his quicksilver armor. The two faced one another with the strangest mixture of fury and sadness. There would be no more words. They both understood that much, at least. The Grim Ones resumed their clash.

Mila had gone below deck as Boldir had ordered, but she did not hide. When the Inspector found her, she was waiting among the hammocks and bunks with a sword in her right hand, a shield in her left, and a scroll gripped in her shield hand. The sailers had cleared to the edges of the room, having now seen what she was capable of. Even at that moment, with her hunter closing in on her, Mila could hardly believe it herself. All those people... she had thought in her brief moment of quiet after the explosion. My people... 

The arrival of Trevis had forced her to stash the guilt away for later, if there would even be a later. The Imperial's dark eyes were filled with an unnerving rage she had not seen in them during their last run-in. Indeed, nobody had, for nobody had ever earned Trevis' anger quite like her.
When he found her there, just waiting in the open, it was so unlike their last encounter that it made Trevis hesitate. Mila had proven to be both crafty and dangerous, but not a warrior. He suspected a trick. But when he took his first step and nothing happened, he took another, weary of any possible magic around him, and ready to raise a ward. 

"I have hunted more people than you have seen winters," he said, his voice cold. "Traitors, conspirators, necromancers, all horrible people. But you and your father are the first to make me feel..." He frowned. "It doesn't matter. Drop the scroll, Mila. And the sword. That'll be your best chance at getting out of this alive. The same chance you gave my men."

He knew she wouldn't, of course. So he conjured a sword of his own and continued towards her. Once he was in range, Mila made her move. To Trevis' surprise, she knew how to use that sword. He deflected her blow, and stepped away from her shield bash, but when he delivered a counter strike, the shield was back up to block it.
"So that's what you've been doing all this time. Boldir has been training you to fight like a Nord. What about the magic? A spell like the one you used out there would cost a small fortune on a scroll. Did you get it from Valga's place? Is that why you went there?"

Mila didn't answer. She couldn't. Her brain was too busy following the Inspector’s every step, every bend in his knees. He was trying to distract her with conversation, but she would not let him. They continued to circle, and she tried very hard to remember Boldir's teachings. Find the heartbeat of the fight. The tempo. Mila pressed forward, slashing right, left, down, and right again at Trevis, until the ring of their weapons started to develop a pattern she could read. Trevis' own attacks did not match it perfectly, but as they danced throughout the ship's underbelly, Mila was able to take note. 
What is the one thing that you want your enemies to do?

Mila caught Trevis' phantom blade on her shield and ducked around a beam in time to avoid a follow-up swipe. Whatever I want them to do.

She countered, though only with enough force to make the Inspector step back, then she fell behind her shield and allowed him to approach. 
And when do you want them to do it?

Mila slowly back-stepped as Trevis hammered into her shield. The wood was starting to splinter, and she knew that before long he would be slicing open her forearm. Whenever I want them to do it. 

Trevis did a two handed flicking move that batted Mila's shield out of the way, and then prepared to strike her again. It was what she wanted him to do, and when she wanted him to do it. Mila clutched the scroll in her hand and mouthed the spell. Before Trevis' eyes, Mila vanished. Only, she had not vanished. She had merely recalled to the rune she had placed just behind where the Imperial now stood. 

Trevis realized what was happening only a moment too late. He spun, but not in time to deflect the slash that should have opened his neck. He staggered over in surprise, and took the full force of Mila's sword across his shoulder. The iron cut deep, and the wound burned. His arm seized up and his bound sword dissipated. It took everything he had to keep his wits despite the pain, but he had no choice. Mila drew back her blade and prepared another strike, so he did the only thing he had time for, and dove into it, catching the surprised girl by her wrist and forcing her to drop the sword. Her shield came between them, but as they grappled, it eventually fell too. From there, it was only a matter of time. Even wounded, Trevis was far stronger. He pinned Mila to one of the ship's beams and started to choke her. The girl's hand's scrambled for her sword, but he managed to pin one down with his knee and grab the other with his left hand. His right hand never left her neck.

Mila's face began to darken. It was the face of a child. And when he looked into her eyes, he did not see a viscous killer. He saw fear. He saw a girl who was terrified for her life. He started to relax his grip. 
Then, plain as the moons in the sky, a woman's voice spoke to Trevis. "You fool! Kill the girl and be cursed!"

"What in the-"

His weight shifted, just a bit, but it was enough for Mila to free her hand from under his knee and rip her dagger out of its sheath. The blade glowed dimly, not unlike the torchbug that whirled behind Trevis' ears. And as the Inspector's eyes widened, she drove its tip into his stomach. Trevis gasped, a look of utter shock in his eyes. But to Mila's surprise, he did not release her. She moved to pull the dagger free and stab him again, but he let go of her other hand and grabbed the blade himself, wrenching it free of both her grasp, and his own torso. The smells of blood and searing flesh met Mila's nostrils, and the Inspector used his grip to slam her head against the beam.

Mila's eyes crossed for a moment. Trevis had only dazed her... Gods, he was hurting. He needed to end this soon, all of it, while there was still time to heal his wound. He held the enchanted dagger to Mila's neck. Somewhere behind him, the woman's voice continued to threaten and even plea with him, but it must have been another trick, some illusion that would not work twice. Trevis delivered a punch right between Mila's eyes, knocking her out cold.

Neither Boldir nor Thorald had ever faced a foe quite like the other. Boldir was larger, but Thorald was younger, and like the others his armor made him far more versatile. Each time they met, Boldir's axe found a mark, but never one that could hurt the Stormcloak, whose greatsword moved faster than such a weapon ever should have. Every time Gray-Mane's steel struck Boldir's shield, the wood creaked, and the metal rang. Around them, the crew of Nekla's Diamond watched in fearful awe. The victor could very well determine the course of their lives, though they were not certain which one would be better for them, nor were they brave enough to intervene.

Despite their distraction, despite the threat his opponent presented, Boldir remained calm. He was not the best talker, not as clever as Baldur, or magical like so many wizards. But he was a good warrior. Alongside Mila, it was just about all the world had not managed to take from him. And like her, he did not intend to give that up. And so, as Thorald rained blow after blow down on him, Boldir dodged and deflected, blocked and parried, countered, attacked. He lured Thorald into strikes that he knew how to punish, and adjusted on the fly when the Stormcloak managed to see it coming.

Their weapons rang again on and on. Their feet danced and battled for purchase on the swaying deck. Their shoulders rose and fell as they heaved heavy breaths between clashes. When Boldir's axe found an exposed spot on Thorald's left arm, the Stormcloak ground his teeth and attacked all the harder. He hammered away at Boldir's shield until there was little left of the thing. Once Boldir caught a break, he discarded it and took his axe in both hands. Their dance continued, until during a fatal moment, Nekla's Diamond hit a large wave and lurched once again. Both men were thrown off balance, but where Thorald planted the tip of his greatsword into the deck, Boldir stumbled, and crashed into him. The two wrestled for a moment, too close to even use their weapons, but when the ship rocked back, their brawl went to the ground, and both men's weapons were lost. Things got even more brutal then: Fists and elbows flew, teeth sand into hands and arms, and at one point Boldir landed a headbutt beneath the rim of Thorald's helm. When the ship rocked again and gave Boldir a chance to throw the Stormcloak aside, blood filled his mouth and smeared his face. His arms were gashed in places, and several of his ribs were certainly bruised if not cracked. But he had dished out just as much. Thorald's nose was bleeding, and a couple of his fingers might have been broken. The man's eyes were blackened, and he looked dazed.

And that was all Boldir needed. His strength was just a little more than Thorald's. Enough that he was the first to recover. Seizing on that opportunity, Boldir pounced, pinning the Grim One to the deck with his own weight, and then he started punching. The first blow broke Thorald's nose, and the second busted his lips. The third, made his eyes roll back, and the forth knocked a few teeth down his throat. When Boldir stood, Gray-Mane made no move to follow. The Stormcloak had lost, and was beaten so badly that he did not even notice Boldir walking away, or Boldir returning with his skyforged greatsword.

For once, Boldir did not feel remorse. He had said his piece, and it had failed. Now he would finish this the way he knew best. He lifted the greatsword.

"STOP!" It was the Inquisitor. Boldir turned and found the man with a bloody handful of Mila's hair and her own dagger at her throat. "I swear by all the gods, Boldir, if one more person dies, so does she!" He was not bluffing. "Drop the sword, Boldir!"

"Mila," Boldir took a step toward the Imperial. The Imperial was only a few feet away. If he could just-

Trevis touched the enchanted steel to Mila's neck, just deep enough to draw blood. And to burn. "Drop. The. Sword!"

Boldir dropped the sword. As he did, Thorald stirred at his feet. Trevis, however, did not budge. A thin red line was was now trickling down his fingers, accompanied by a soft hissss.
"Stop," Boldir said. "We can-"

"No more talking from you!" the Imperial demanded. "No more tricks. This is the part where you listen, and obey every word I say or your girl fucking dies."

Thorald started to rise behind him, but there was nothing he could do. Boldir started to speak, but something hard struck the back of his head, and he fell to his knees. When he looked up, Mila's own eyes were starting to open. "Please," he begged. "Don't hurt her."
Another blow landed. This one sent Boldir face-first onto the wooden deck. Everything was fuzzy, and his head felt like a nail had been driven into it, yet he still kept his eyes on Mila. At least until the third strike landed. That's when everything went dark.

***

Trevis had never felt more relief in his life than when the Nord's eyes finally flickered closed. Of course, that was immediately followed by the girl squirming even with a dagger at her throat. It was in vain. He and Thorald tied both her and Boldir up and tossed them into the ship's brig, if it could be called that. Unlike the Morning Glory, Neckla's Diamond was not designed to carry prisoners. The room was just a place for storage, but after clearing it of barrels and crates, it served well enough. More important were the ropes and chains, and Captain Hutton had plenty of those. They bound up the Iron-Brows like they might have tied up a pair of dragons and then some, sparing them no room for movement or comfort.

When that was done, they tended to the wounded. Thorald's two men had not faired well. One was already dead, and the other was very likely beyond saving. Even so, Trevis tried, but not until after he had seen to his own wounds. Mila had come very close to killing him. Had her blade gone a few inches higher, or had he waited a few minutes longer, Trevis' meager healing spells would not have been enough. Even as it was, the job he did was messy and not especially clean. If the girl's weapon had not seared him so good, he might have even bled out. Small blessings.

While Trevis worked to heal the fallen Nord, Thorald had the captain turn the ship around and return to the wreckage to search for survivors. It took longer than expected to find, mostly because there was little left. But in the end, they succeeded when a voice shouted at them from the distance. They found it belonging to a Grim One, who had rather miraculously managed to remove his armor while sinking in it, and now floated on a piece of wreckage with a burned body next to him.

"He's still breathing," the Nord insisted as they lowered a rope. "He needs a healer!"

As they brought the man up, Trevis realized by the tattered outfit that it was one of his own. "You saved him?"

"Aye," the Nord sputtered as he pulled himself onto the ship. "Can you fix him?"

Trevis did what he could, but the burns were too severe. He could not even tell which of his men it was. He died in Trevis' arms, leaving him as the last surviving member of the team he had set out with. Thorald was happy to see one of his friends still alive, though it was hard for any of them to find much joy after losing so much. All to catch a couple of outlaws.

Regardless of how he felt, Trevis slept better that night than he had in his entire life. He was exhausted, physically, mentally, and emotionally, and in pain to top it off. But at least he did not go to sleep and dream of failure. He awoke the next morning with the consolation that at least he had finally completed his task. Those who had died were good men. Some were even friends. But that was a part of their lives. Trevis hoped that he could catch some kind of break after all this. Even if it was just a day. A war is about to begin. There will be no breaks.

Trevis was still thinking on the future when he made it topside. The three surviving Grim Ones were already up, Thorald at the helm with the captain, and the other two over at the edge of the ship, watching the sun rise. Trevis started to join them, when a realization dawned on him. We should be sailing into the sunrise. Not alongside it.
He turned to Thorald, who was watching him with his arms crossed, and a smirk on his lips. And that was when Trevis knew he had been deceived. They were not going back to Anvil. They were going to Skyrim.

[BigBossBalrog]

General Martullus, 
Elsweyr, 
Evening 

“To kill Man is to reach Heaven, from where we came before the Doom Drum's iniquity. When we accomplish this, we can escape the mockery and long shame of the Material Prison.

To achieve this goal, we must:

I Erase the Upstart Talos from the mythic. His presence fortifies the Wheel of the Convention, and binds our souls to this plane.

II Remove Man not just from the world, but from the Pattern of Possibility, so that the very idea of them can be forgotten and thereby never again repeated.”

III With Talos and the Sons of Talos removed, the Dragon will become ours to unbind. The world of mortals will be over. The Dragon will uncoil his hold on the stagnancy of linear time and move as Free Serpent again, moving through the Aether without measure or burden, spilling time along the innumerable roads we once travelled. And with that we will regain the mantle of the imperishable spirit-

“Dar'ssa, fetch water!” 

“This Khajiit is busy!” Yelled the young Suthay-raht as the girl flipped another page of the tome she was reading, the Altmeri Commentary on Talos  as a good Dominion citizen. The hefty book was a first edition copy. Very rare, and it was one of her treasured possessions, the great black tome heavy and thick with the arduous smell of aged paper, remained in her arms as she hugged it. Once she was of age, the young Rhajar wanted to join the Levy, and fight against those treacherous apes to the North! Surely her mother could wait.

“Well, this Khajiit will make sure to give you extra chores tomorrow, unless you go now!” She almost growled.

Dar’ssa sighed, calling out, “Yes, Mamma…” before dropping the old book, and getting off her Khajo tree bed, stretching and yawning tiredly. Her room was pretty bare, besides her small bed, a simple wooden drawer, and the various stacks of unkempt books that littered the floor. Thinking about it, at least she had books to occupy her, most girls her age in these parts were not literate, and couldn’t enjoy the pleasure of reading. Gripping her hair band, the young Khaajit yawned, barring her mouth, and showing her fangs. This one better do it now...She gloomed, as she hurried left her small room, entering the family living space. A dry air hung inside, as did clomps of dust, The wind would normally sweep the dust out of their dwelling, but it had been unusually hot the last few weeks, and the wind hadn’t had any respite. Dar’ssa paid no mind to her family's basic furniture, or her mother tirelessly working in the kitchen to prepare grilled Khar’go’s , as she just muttered, "This one shall hurry..." 

Her mother wasn't a patient women. And she was quite the sight when disobeyed.

Dar'ssa didn't really care about the clothes she wore, a simple dress made from brown linen passed on to her by her mother. A peasant girl wore hand me downs, as her father told her. She didn't really care about clothing anyway

She pushed her way through the Mako tree doorway that lead out of her family's dwelling. Alas, they lived somewhat close to the Imperial-Dominion border  and the more densely forested (and much more temperate) jungles lay to the south. She couldn't really complain though, her villages community was suited in a somewhat fertile part of the mostly desert covered landmass, near the city of Riverhold. For all she knew, she could have been born in the shifting desert sands that lay beyond. She hated the heat. A cool breeze awaited her, as the great sun above hung lower then she had last seen it, the last remaining vestiges of the light beginning to be consumed by the melancholy of twilight.  Her family's house lay near the community center. A moderate sized house, [[https://vignette.wikia.nocookie.net/elderscrolls/images/4/44/Khajiitarchitecture.png/revision/latest?cb=20140430071839 built with a classic cropped roof]]. The place was bigger then a normal village, but smaller then almost every town, so both terms we're used interchangeably. Dozens of houses of similar build stood beside each other, making the farming community of Sujahetr-nanir, a miserable little place we’re nothing happened! 

According to Dar'ssa anyway. The farming community was pretty big all things considered. Big enough to warrant a sharpened palisade to be built around the small town, and, defensive wooden towers to be placed around. And a small, but somewhat noticeable presence of guards. They we're near the border after all. As she left the town itself, and wandered outside, the surroundings finally changed. The vermilion sky shone down on all the farmland. Khajiit farmers blissfully worked with billhooks, knowing their working day was almost over, and they could relax, if only for a little, with their families. Before her eyes, stocks of grey stood out, so vast it was almost like a sea of farmland Khajoon crops only grow in the "winter". Not that "winter" was much a real winter in Elsweyr. It was still pretty hot. 

"Moonling!" Dar'ssa turned her head to see her uncle, Captain Bajoo of the village guard. His hulking figure practically blocked out the dying sun, as he heaved his large Ebony sword over his back. Even for a Pahmar-raht, the captain was massive. Easily six and a half feet tall, made even larger by his hulking mass of muscle. Covered in scars, the veteran was still quite able to rip a coast lion in half with his claws. His white and black striped fur made him look like a snow leopard on the prowl ontop a mountain. The young girl placed her hands to her shoulder, doing a customary greeting. She muttered, "Uncle, this Khajiit is happy to see you!" 

The great hulk of cat , rubbed her head with affection with his free hand as he muttered, "Has this ones sister sent you to do something?" 

"Yes. Mother needs some water."  Bajoo nodded. "Well get to it! This one knows how she can be!" He laughed.

Dar'ssa giggled as turned around, waving goodbye. However, she was suddenly stopped. "Dar'ssa wait!" 

The young girl turned around. Her uncles face seemingly grew sad for a second, before he let out a deep growl. He grinned once more, "The well is by the trees, there's some of the watch there, but be on your guard the same! Be quick, and come home safe, understand niece?" 

She grew confused, as she could only nod in response, "Run along now." The old Pahmar-raht sighed, as he turned around. Forgive me, little moonling. I do this for the glory of  Summerest and Elswry. The Dragon shall choke on this meal...

Uncle acts very strange...Dar'ssa walked for half an hour, waving to the people still in the fields, toiling away, attributing the oddness to her uncles age. It was boring to the young girl, but she still considered it an honest way of life. Harvesting crops. Simple, but rewarding work. And someone needed to do it! She was sure her brothers and father we're still out and about. A few times she had helped with the harvest but her father seldom asked her as of late. She continued to walk her path, her only companion the fading sun.

Until finally, the well came into view. It was a stone well, bare, and simple. A duo of town guards lay beside it, right behind a wooden guard post, which held a large bronze warning bell, gazing into the forest for any sign of danger. One of them, a Cathy-raht by the name Ajhataj nervously kept a hand to his sword,  a simple steel longsword. They nervously glanced at each other, before they noticed the little girl approaching from behind, wooden bucket in hand. Ajhataj spoke with a thick accent, "Little one! Here to fetch some water?" The girl nodded her head, saying, "These ones look like their spooked pups, is everything alright?" Dar'ssa herself approached, dropping her bucket onto the grass, as she glanced around the forest. Her keen ears perked up, when she attempted to figure out what had scared them so.

Nothing but dark silence. No birds singing. No Hyenas laughing. Not even the leaves rustling. It was...very strange.

"Are you-"

"Hold."The leaves we're suddenly thrown back, blown by some force, and an unknown voice arose near the trees. A wave of air hit the trio of Khajiit, as Dar'ssa mouth dropped.  A discharge of magic. Like a desert mirage, the air infront of them rippled, becoming various shapes of different colors. Octagons, hexagons, triangles, squares and dozens more flew around, changing color every second. The air shimmered, glowed, danced, before the streaks in the sky vanished and collapsed on itself. The beautiful display of colors and shapes left the young girl awed. She had never seen anything of the like. And suddenly before her...

....stood a small army of horsemen. 

Dozens. Maybe a hundred? A hundred and fifty? They wore gleaming armors of metal, and even their horses, clearly bred for war, we're clad in steel plates. One of them, stood out the most to her. The leader. His armor...was silver? It shimmered, reflecting the dying sunlights rays onto the ground. It was heavy platemail, most certainly, very ornate , trimmed with gold edgings, the outer edges, now that her eyes had narrowed, seemed more...white then silver, and the intermost parts we're a strange...almost oily, black. For a helmet, he wore a knightly great helm, though it's shape was that of a snarling dragon. In his hands, he wielded a very large, Warhammer. [[https://vignette.wikia.nocookie.net/elderscrolls/images/0/0a/Champion's_Cudgel.png/revision/latest?cb=20130303234903 It's material was steel, but it glowed an otherworldly shade of purple, under the darkness, as if the weapon was enchanted by some curse. The hammer's head had dozens of smaller metal nudges on it's front, like a meat tenderizer, and it's back was a large spike, presumably to help get through armor. The man lifted the massive weapon into the sky, and pointed it forward. 

"Advance." He simply said.

Dar'ssa only noticed what was embossed onto the Hammer's steel head on the side this very second.

The Black Drake of the Empire.

Dar'ssa body filled with fear, as the riders spurred their horses onward, a massive pile of dirt being thrown upwards, as they all charged at once, the Rider the first to be upon the group.

The lead horseman, swung his warhammer from the side with frightening speed, his red cape billowing in the wind, and in one foul swoop, crushed Ajhataj’s chest, before the Cathay-raht warrior could even bring his sword into a guard, his splitmail offering little protection from the attack. The momentum behind the swing ensured that Despite the horrific sound of bones crushing, the ornate silver armor remained untarnished. “You have been judged wanting.” The warrior’s deep voice was muffled by his helmet, as his mount went  around the falling corpse, and attacked Gradih, who slashed at the towering soldierwith his Falcata. “Dar’ssa flee, be swift!” The young girl wasted no time running as fast as her legs could carry her, getting past her fear her auburn tail trailing behind. She went to the side, away from thundering riders, and into the blackness of the forest.

She didn’t glance back, and she tried her best to close off the heavy screaming in the distance. She wouldn’t be returning to the village.
****

The riders formation was impeccable.  Even as they stormed through the fields, with blade and torch, they remained in perfect formation. No one could fault the Imperials for there organisation skills. They retained that obsession with control even when they we’re doing something so chaotic as a raid.

Thundering, the [[https://vignette.wikia.nocookie.net/elderscrolls/images/4/42/Knightofthehour.png/revision/latest?cb=20170703161313]] gleaming armor of the Imperial Knights, faded in with the regular cavalrymen, both sweeping into the farmland as the camouflage spell dissipated, zigg zagging lines of magic lingering  here and there in the red bathed sky . Most of the riders [[https://i.imgur.com/r7DhpPO.jpg?1]] wore a cross between classic Lorica and platemail, which was actually quite similar to the Knights equipment, barring the ornate design itself,  alongside bare closed helmets. which contrasted the Knights own red horse haired helmets. Besides there crimson plumage, another way to tell the two types of soldiers were their tunics. The savage Knight Draco wore crimson tabards, and the Second Legion Veterans carried their light blue dyed tunics

Not that it mattered to the locals what they wore...

With blade and javelin, the Imperial Riders plunged their weapons into the backs of defenseless, screaming Khajiit villagers. The fields, even though the sun was about to fall, we’re still being tended. Meaning plenty of the village folk lay outside the, admittedly meager, defenses of the village palaside. Riding in a semi wedge, the cohort of armed riders ran down any "cat" that fled. 

Even under there steel helms, the Riders faces remained expressionless. Whatever thoughts that came in their minds, a dissonance of complete serenity remained.  No cries of rage. No screams of pleasure. Detached actions of destruction. Just serenity, among a backdrop of horrible shrieks. The Legion at its most horrifying. A white haired farmer ran, sprinting on all fours to the safety of the forest, only to get an imperial pilum in her back, the same rider, revving up to slash at another running farmer. A mother screamed, holding her crying baby, as they we're both trampled by a barded Imperial Warhorse, their bodies crumpled underneath it’s hooves.  A husband and his wife, were cut down as they tried to hid among the tall layers of Nhajur grass, their throats cut out by steel Spartha’s. A trio of Tojay, armed with billhooks, charged, trying to buy time for the other Khajiit, there stand in vain as all three were slain in mere seconds.

The wave of farmers scattered towards the village center, the riders close behind, any straggler picked off by a sword slash, or a pilum throw. Crops we’re being put to the torch, as lances of Imperial soldiers set fire to their livelihood, erasing months of hard work and toil. Soon the smoke rose from the earth, blanketing the air with a thick smog, as flames arose, consuming everything it touched. 

As if they we’re hounds leading a deer to their masters arrow, the group of mounted legionaries broke off the chase. A few of the Khajiit who noticed prayed to S'rendarr for their good fortune, only for their prayers, to turn to the wails of the damned. 

A second wedge of Imperial Riders suddenly broke from the cover of the trees, and came upon the fleeing villagers, furiously charging them head on. With a flash of Imperial Steel, dozens we’re cut down in an instant. Others who tried to push through the wedge of heavily armored warhorses were trampled on, others who fled, veering to the right we’re impaled upon thrown Imperial Javelins. A horn sounded, as the first group of imperial riders, went around the killing field and the second cohort, bypassing both, entirely and headed towards the town. 

In the village itself, pandemonium  had taken hold, as Khajiit townsfolk screamed, rushing to the townscenter.  The guards tried to restore order, as they yelled at everyone to keep calm. Alarm bells were ringing from the wooden towers, as they smoke from the burning feels began to rush forward and blanket the village itself. Babies cried, fathers tried to console their crying children, and a cry of panic had practically erupted all over.

Bajoo pushed his way through the crowd, alongside a group of forty or so guards, before they took position at the villages front, right behind the palisades gate, the fortification relative protection doing nothing to quell the fear that brewing inside all of them. The Captain lifted his mailed claw into the sky, yelling, his voice, deep, as if it was a lions roar, “Hold! These warriors shall rend the False Empress’s soldiers, for we are the defenders of the Dominion! None will pass our steel, brothers!” The assembled guardsmen, despite being terrified, roared in defiance, lifting their weapons sky high. Many villagers had formed up behind the guardsmen, armed with farming tools and the occasional weapon. They weren’t trained soldiers, but they we’re just as willing to give their life to defend their homes.

Curiously, the Imperial Raiders had stopped, and lingered just beyond the town’s tiny force. As if they we’re waiting for something.

A searing sphere of flame suddenly appeared behind the group, and just as it materialized, it erupted in the center of the guards line, right as a shockwave rushed forward, knocking the wooden gate flat down The formation evaporated with the explosion of fire.  Most of the Khajiit defenders we're bathed in searing flames, the few who weren't still suffered blistering burns from the sheer hotness of the air that hit them, the ones who weren't...rolled on the ground, letting out terrible shrieks of pain as they burned alive, their fur catching ablaze, charring their flesh underneath. The unlucky ones who carried heavy armor we’re cooked alive by the sheer hotness of the air, boiling them from inside, their protection, now their horrible grave. Besides the Captain...who knelt, the pain so great, but inconsequential. He did not scream, just uttering a low growl. The old Pahmar-raht, gripped his ebony scimitar, as his massive body collapsed, the magical flames consuming his white and black striped fur. A small...smile lay on his lips, as he was devoured by the hunger fire. For….the Aldmeri Dominion. Before fading away, he saw the waving black banner of the Aldmeri Dominion above them, consumed by the ever expanding wave of flame, before he himself was turned into nought but cinders.

As if on cue, the Imperial horsemen charged in over the destroyed gate, on their mounts, and began to cut down the surviving Khajiit guards; some of which hadn’t even picked themselves off the ground yet. Others feverishly put up some kind of defense among the roaring flame, but we’re cut down just as quick.

For all their fervor, and loyalty to the might of the High Elves, they were but pigs to the slaughter.

In mere seconds, the magical fire extended...only backwards, away from the charging horsemen, and towards the village itself, consuming both buildings, and villagers who were unlikely enough to be caught in the seemingly magical blast. More howls of agony, as the magical flames burnt both wood and flesh in unison

A hooded man lead the second Imperial group, who for now, just watched his comrades slaughter. Blue robes, dyed like the deepest depth of the ocean, he was mounted on a black warhorse, the horse in question bare of any kind of armor, unlike his fellows. He had his hands outstretched, as they pulsated with burning flames, whom he rolling into a circular ball of flame, the consuming inferno growing stronger every second. The roaring fires around, set in the fields by the mounted legionaries had spread around, dyeing the area in crimson red, the fading sun’s red sky matching it’s surroundings fully, as the darkness of night crept around. The man’s hands, as he stroke the flames into the air we’re like a conductor, conducting a dark symphony, a symphony of blood and slaughter. 

Breathing in heavily, the General of the Second, Octavia Martullus finally, with a solemn push, unleashed the spell from his control. As if a wave, the fire suddenly expanded into a blazing inferno of destruction, as dozens of villagers we're incinerated in a single instant. The blaze swept through the first half half of the village. Those not caught by the fire, would soon be taking care of by the Imperial Raiders. A few of the Horsemen, underneath their helmets gazed at their general with a mix of fear and awe, but they remained silent. Most...hadn't expected to see a display like that. 

Honestly most we're still in shock from before. None of them knew the General had accompanied them, or that he had decided last minute to personally lead the raid. Not even the Knight-Tribune. He had apparently only told the Legates.

Martullus began to salivate, his breath quick and deep. Cold sweat formed on his brow, dripping into his helmet, intense heat falling over his body, not helped by the warm nature of the clothing and armor he wore. That spell had taken alot out of him him. He needed a breather. Gulping a mouthful of air, Martullus reached for his large waterskin and gulped a large quantity of the blue liquid inside, just after he took off his hood and helmet. A powerful draught of Magicka. 

Tasted like lemons mixed with shit. But eventually you got used to the taste. 

We’ve been on the defensive for decades. No longer. It’s there peoples blood which is spilling. Not ours.  Blowing into his whistle, Martullus ordered his lance to attack, drawing his sword and waving it in a circular motion, ordering an attack, shouting, “Cohors Corvum, advance! Butcher every cat you come across!”  Spurring his horse, Martullus urged it forward, following closely behind the first group, as did his horde of Imperial Raiders, descend upon the now burning village.

******

This is war. Nothing to glorify. Just plain horror. But oh Talos...payback is delicious. Such horrific sights. And Martullus...didn't even care. This was Cyrodiil’s villages years ago. And they would have be this again, if the Empire hadn't striked first. Which...they didn’t really even. The Dominion had attacked Cyrodiil’s ally, Skyrim. This was just a logical response. Blood demanded blood.   At the surface, Martullus remained unmoved. And so too did his men, lack a hint of compassion, seemingly at any rate. Was there any doubts? Any private, treasonous thoughts? Perhaps. But nobody said them. Anything, really. The officers commanded their men with whistle blows, and the Legionaries carried out their dark orders without a word. As if they were automatons. 

This was an objective. Nothing more. Ravage their food and levy supply. Herd the survivors up like cattle into cities and refugee camps to starve the population and cause unrest. 

Rinse and repeat, until the countryside was nothing but charred ashes.

The Legion's way of things took the intimacy out of killing, and battle. Half of the General thought it helped him sleep at night. The other half, wish he could see angered faces among his men as blades fell, and darker urges being fulfilled. At least that was more human than this, slaughter without hate. 

Flame arose from the burning village, as imperial steel and screams acted as a backdrop to the display. The General himself wore little to identify him as an officer of such rank, wearing a simple set of heavy imperial armor, over a deep blue robe, alongside a blue horsehair helmet, with his cloth hood over it. The only way to identify him as the General of the Second, was the silver amulet he wore around his neck, which depicted a silver Dragon, laced with amethysts, and two sapphires for eyes. His trusty mare, Bastallion, trotted along the pavement slowly, as the warhorse neighed occasionally, oblivious to the wanton horror before him. Martullus gently rubbed the horse’s neck, with a snicker, he muttered, “A loyal horse is all you need. I still don’t envy the High General for his “special” relationship with his trusted steed. Heheheheheh.” At both his sides, an Imperial Knight rode alongside him, their eyes seemingly vacant of all thoughts. His eyes intentionally trailed away from the ground Bastallion trotted on. Dozens of corpses. Didn’t really matter though, he had already gotten a good look, before

Some, the lucky one (lucky was relative in the general’s view in this case), we’re simply crimson stained Khajiits with grizzly wounds, motionless and unmoving, others we’re burnt out husks, withered and black, their bodies contorted in horrible pain. This probably happened to a few of them post-mortem, but at the very least, a few had been hit by Martullus’s spell when they were alive and well. Burning was one of the worst way to go. Maybe his dreams were haunted by the pain he caused, but hey, didn’t really matter to him when was awake. Death was death. Ultimately, it didn’t really matter how they died. 

As he trotted along with his two bodyguards, he came across another horrible scene. Before a burning general store, three Imperial soldiers, dismounted, wrestled on the ground with a female Khajiit, a very average looking one, with blondish fur. She was screaming curses in her native tongue, though her defiant words we’re offshoot by her tear covered faces. Her clothing ripped and torn to shreds, exposing her all of her crimson fur. The two on her side, both Second Legion Soldiers we’re holding her down, while the lead legionnaire...mounted her. He thrusted, his face covered in sweat, as he spat at her, pulling on her hair tightly  “Filthy fucking cat, you like that don’t you?!” The men had taken the liking to using the term cat. It dehumanized them, and soothed the conscious when you put them down. 

Martullus did it too. 

Perhaps the General was wrong. In this case, he preferred the “Imperial Way”. He reigned his horse, lifting up his hand to stop his bodyguards. His voice echoed with a commanding presence, “Auxiliaries, what in Akatosh’s name are you doing?” 

War was war. These kinds of things happened. He wouldn’t be able to stop all of it. But he wouldn’t let it happen when it was in his power to stop.

Maybe it would let him sleep better? 

The Imperial soldiers glanced up, surprise and fear filling their faces. “General!” They sputtered, the ringleader ripped himself away from the Khajiit woman, his penis hanging out, as his lower tunic quickly fell down, covering it. The trio saluted, their faces red with shame.

The General coldly muttered, “Just cut the cat’s throat and be done with it. We have a job to do. Just do that job, nothing more."

Gulping nervously, they saluted. The ringleader unsheathed his dagger from his belt, and wordlessly slit the female Khaajit’s throat. She gurgled abit but said nothing else.The woman’s eyes closed, her blood pooling at of the wood, and it didn’t take long for her to be just another body in the burning village. Her humiliation over.

After confirming the deed had been done with a quick glance, Martellus urged his horse onward, as the other trio hastily got back onto their mounts, and went back to their previous business. 

Wordlessly, Martellus continued forward, his horse trotting along the path.

The Empire needed a monster, and he and Grom we’re glad to play that role. For the Empire. The cool wave of melancholy, the so called “Imperial Way”, resounded inside him. Neither hate, nor love.  Just like most of his men.  The orders received, echoing in his head.

Cause terror.

He was just following orders after all.

And good soldiers followed orders.  

Hopefully this gamble pays off. The General muttered with a small grin, as he continued down the burning village. Better them then us.

**** 

[Witchking of Angmar]

Preparing for war wasn't an easy endeavour. The major cities were to stock up on food in case of a siege. Krojun figured it would be good if extra granaries protected by enchantments against decay and fire would be a good idea. Though that was assuming the cities were in need of extra granaries or if their current ones were protected at all. He'd have to make sure Helen wrote some letters for the counties suggesting the idea. Maybe even offer to have the crown pay part of the construction and enchantment costs so no one decides to be cheap. 

All of that had to wait however as he had gotten Lilly to agree to do some sparring. But first Krojun made a quick trip to his home in Skyrim to pick up a little ring; a gold ring depicting a dragon intertwined with a lily. A little gift he had been working on for Lilly. If it could be called little in any way but shape as he had spent way too much time and power into it in the hope that it would help Lilly keep her first promise. 

After that he went to the armory and sparring hall deep inside the tower. There Lilly was, amongst a clanking of wood. The Spymaster was fully armored in dark Oculatus armor as she sparred against one of her soldiers, a wolf commando, going by the leather mask he wore to cover his face. Surprisingly, Lilly had a rather simplistic fighting style. A swordsman of some renown, one would expect her style to be refined, like a noble duelist, but instead it was that of a soldier. She battered against the soldier, who was no spring chicken himself. As Krojun approached she paused, lifting her hand commandingly. The soldier did a slight bow, as he backed away to the side, dragging his wooden sword with him.

She gave a little grin at Krojun's arrival. "Glad you got my message. I've heard a few birds, if your interested in that kind of the stuff." She paused, flourishing her wooden sword. "Does the name Doron Zethus ring a bell?"

"Yes, I regrettably meet him on a semi-regular basis."

"What's your impression of him?" 

"That he begrudgingly tolerates me."

"Tolerate isn't the word I would use." She paused once more, turning away and crossed her arms. "A pretty bird came to me, whispering very... unfortunate things to me. I sent agents to confirm, and they've found some stuff that corroborate it's story. Serivus is at the helm of a conspiracy to gut you. And was responsible for hiring that mercenary company that ambushed you." 

"Well... great," he said with a thick sarcasm. 

"Come now, Your Majesty, did you really believe all the Elder Council would tolerate you forever?" 

"Do you got more?"

"Quite a bit more. You see, this little bird gave me... conniptions." She said rubbing her forehead dramatically as she sneered, changing her voice to quiet and withdrawn. " 'Please, Lady Quentas. It... it was oh so horrible, you must protect the Emperor and Empress. These bad... men will destroy the Empire. I'm oh so scared, what if they hurt me? You'll protect me, won't you my lady?' " The Spymaster smiled. "She wasn't bad looking. Didn't mind the sucking up, but she rubbed me the wrong way. I know of her family too... so..." Her smile morphed into grin. "I showed her the hospitality of the Oculatus. After just thirty minutes, I had her spilling every little thing. In exquisite detail, I may add. Leda Zethus filled these thoughts in his head, and ordered the birdie to betray Serivus to us and has plans to usurp my family from Chorrol, besides replacing you with an Emperor more inclined to to their agenda. Fucking Nibenese whore." The girl laughed, "Stupid woman. I have half thoughts to make her... disappear, and give her to my mother as a gift."

”Keep her for now. Till we know she’s of no more use.” Krojun paused for a second. ”So I’m guessing you got most of the names of the conspirators?”

"Yes. Those that she knew of, anyway." She paused, crossing her arms, "I can have a team prepped in an hour. Blades in the dark, they'll never know what hit them."

"They're all over the city. Let's make hunting them down a last resort. There's still the regular council meetings that they would have to attend to."

"What you want to slaughter them in the council chambers?" She crossed her arms, snorting. "What you want to start a bloody civil war?"

"People will find out who did it anyway. Might as well do it when and where we are the most likely to get all of them in one strike. And send a message in the process."

"The Elder Council chamber is sacrament. It's a sanctuary. Violence of any kind is forbidden. If you want to keep your crown, you need to respect the Heartland's tradition." She said, in a matter of fact kind of way.

"Then let’s paint it as them forcing my hand in that regard."

"And how you going to do that?" She crossed her arms, "You and your pretty little wife are well regarded. In some parts. You've done a lot to piss off the nobility, however. They'll see it as a savage Nord and a filthy half-elf trying to destroy Imperial customs."

"Is it customary to attempt murder on the emperor?"

"Clearly you haven't read any history books. But no. If you just murder a bunch of people in the council chambers, what will the common folk think?"

"That I don't abide by other people trying to murder me. Who would blame me for getting rid of the people that tried to murder me?"

"You don't. You send state sanctioned killers after them while their in their homes. Or..." She paused, "You do it properly. With a trial." She shrugged. "Then you can chop their heads off."

"And how would either of that be better? The assassinations would run the risk of some getting away. Not to mention all the other councilors will get nervous when they start dropping like flies without explanation. And a trial..." Krojun said those last words with distaste. "That would never be a quick, fair, or safe ordeal." He paused. "Killing them in here in the tower would be quicker, safer and would send a clearer message. The other councilors will get their answers and they will know that I wont kill them. Because I could have, but didn't."

"There both legitimate. I think the Colovians would be especially pissed. But you are the emperor. All I can do is give you advice." She shrugged.

”And I appreciate it. But this time we’ll do it my way.”

She rolled her eyes, "Well then, what's "your plan"?" 

"During a meeting a group of trusted agents will enter and take place behind each councilor chair. Then on my signal they will stab the conspirators to death. After that I'll explain the situation to the rest."

Lilly paused. "I had this horrible thought you we're going to try and kill them all on your own." She sighed in relief. "Thank the Gods, you didn't try that. Well, what are you going to tell them?" She crossed her arms. 

"That the executed councilors were behind the attempt on my life. And that this was necessary."

"And?" Her eye brows furrowed as her snarl returned. "You need to be more specific! Tell them exactly what they did, and why they needed to punish. And, I may add, as long as they remain loyal, to you, and your pretty little wife, they won't get a knife in the gut."

Krojun started to feel rather annoyed. "Do I really need to tell you every word I'll say in advance?"

"Yes. The Elder Council will want to be reassured this 'delivering of justice' isn't a fucking purge. Whose to say you wont do this to do them in the next few weeks?"

"Because I don't kill without a reason. And yes, I will make it clear why I kill. And why I wont kill." Upon seeing that Lilly still looked disapproving he continued, "But if you want we could take the afternoon to discuss rhetoric and formulations, and what I should and shouldn't say."

She waved him off. "Not today. I have to gather the men. I hope you truly know what your doing, and what you could unleash."

"Gather the men for what?"

"You want to do this right away don't you? The Elder Council is meeting in two days. My agents will need prep time."

"All the preparation they need is knowing who stab. And the more time they know, the more time there is a risk something slips up that tips off the conspirators."

"Like I said, I trust my men." Lilly paused, as she lingered by the door. "Balance is key Krojun. The balance between the Elder Council and the Crown has kept the Heartland in our hands, whilst the rest of the Empire falls from our grip. I have no love for it, but the body is vital for stability. Make sure that balance is kept." 

"Leaving already? I thought we agreed to some sparring practice." He gave her a slightly disappointed look. 

"The dagger of an assassin is a serpents sting." She said, waving her hand back. "I'd rather not right now. I need to make my own preparations. We can once the bloodbaths over." 

"What preparations?"

"Preparations. Contact me once your sure it's time to strike. Good day, Your Majesty." And without that the wayward witch turned to leave. 

Krojun however picked up Lilly with telekinesis and threw her towards him where he caught her in an embrace. "I get the feeling you're avoiding me."

"No hugs!" She pushed him away. "You know I gotta psyche myself up when i'm doing this sort of thing? We keep our... private affairs for later" Her frown gave way to a smirk. "We both agreed when we're working, we keep things professional. And right now, I need to work."

"Right now? I'm sure the realm wont fall apart if you spare one minute or two with me for a hug. And for me to give you a little gift."

"Oh this should be good."

Krojun quickly fished up the little ring from his pocket with magic and held it up for Lilly to see. "Got a little catch though. It's a little hard to remove, and will turn to dust if ever removed. But as long as you wear it you will have my favor."

She grinned. "Are you seriously giving a girl a cursed ring for a present?" 

"I wouldn't call it cursed. It promise it wont harm you the slightest."

"Thank you, it's beautiful."

He slipped the ring onto Lilly's empty ringfinger before pulling her into a hug and giving her a light kiss. "Back to work now, I suppose."

She did a sly gesture with a backhanded salute as she walked away. "Like I said, just tell me when you're ready."

[Witchking of Angmar]

The room wasn't big, but it was bigger than most rooms. The stone floor and walls were bare. There was no furniture to speak of. The only light to be had came from three tiny windows placed slightly above head height. If one bothered to one could peek outside to see the outer walls of the Imperial City, City Isle and Rumere stretch out far below in the distance. 

In the corner on some dirty blankets huddled a lone figure. She was young, and her dainty ribs had snapped with the first punches. Now she sat motionless. It hurt to move, to breathe. Her breaths came out in soft wheezes.

It wasn't just the injuries from her torture that tormented Jocasta Fidenas, nor was it that she had relented and given up every one of the Nibenean cultists she knew. That had been the easy part. The recognition that Leda and the others had used her hurt the most.

Time passed. The silence and loneliness lay like a thick blanket over the room. Then she heard a brief and muffled noise outside. Probably another beating awaited her. As the door opened she saw the shadow of an Oculatus agent open the door before stepping aside for another. He was tall and large, very tall. Clearly a Nord, with shoulder long black hair and a thick beard. His clothes were relatively simple, but expensive looking, in black and gold. At his side he a longsword in a foreign design. 

The girl was making a noise that might have been an attempt to sing, would her torn lungs have permitted such a thing. She seemed not to be aware of the figures approaching. First from the Khajiit, she had learned to go somewhere else.

The Nord gave a dismissive wave to the Oculatus agent that then left the room and closed the door behind him. The Nord remained where he stood and looked at her with curious eyes, almost as if he expected her to say something. 

The girl made no sign of being aware of his presence, but her song was interrupted by a bout of coughing that produced blood. With a sob of pain, she regarded the red on her hand as if it were a bizarre curiosity.

The man slowly approached and then knelt besides her. As he placed a hand on her shoulder she suddenly felt oddly calm. The pain faded away. Her eyes registered a faint, golden glow coming from his hand and she felt strange in her chest. Her ribs were slowly moving back to their proper place and her breathing became much easier. 

Jocasta shrank from his touch at first, but as her breathing eased and the worst of her injuries abated, a tear slipped down her cheek. "What do you want? I told you everything I know."

"Did you?" he said and gave her a slightly sceptical look. 

"Everything." For Jocasta, the breaking point had been when they went to take her eyes. People had always told her she had pretty eyes. If she didn't have those, what would she have? No home, no family... and now, no cause. The real torture was that she still clung to a hope of having something left after it was all done. She reminded herself that that was an illusion, and the tears came harder. "Just kill me. Please."

"We'll see." He then stood up and walked back to the middle of the room. There he conjured up what looked like a fancy and comfortably looking chair out of nothing on which he sat down. "I'm curious. How did you meet the Zethus family?"

"Leda. Leda came to me, in the baths."

"I was told there was also some odd Nibenese meetings."

"Restoring the glory of Lady Nibenay." Jocasta uttered a wheezy laugh that cut off abruptly.

"Who?"

"The Phoenix. Mother Alessia, the true founder of the Empire."

He remained silent with a thoughtful expression for a moment. "I take it you know quite a bit about Niben culture."

Jocasta had a hand to her cheek, gingerly touching the bruises there. She paused. What answer would be right? When were they going to start torturing her again? "I... Leda taught me some things, and the Chancellor."

"Would you be able to learn more?"

"More?"

He didn't reply and instead only stared at her, seemingly expecting her to either know or figure out what he was talking about. 

Jocasta's head rested back against the cold stone, and her eyes closed. "You want me to spy for the Emperor." Used, again.

"No. My idea is more about having a widespread effect; propaganda. More specifically propaganda tailored to the Nibenese people."

"Propaganda?" Jocasta's mind worked, dimly. She was sure it was a trick. It had to be. About the time they were breaking her fingers, the young woman had given up any hope of getting out of this alive. Death even seemed preferable to further pain and degradation. It was not as if she had a life to look forward to, after. Yet still an unruly will to live remained. "I don't know how to propaganda. But I can try." For the first time she looked up at the Nord questioning her. He didn't look like the other Penitus Oculatus, or like a jailor. "Who are you?"

He looked a little surprised at that question. "You don't recognize me at all?"

A memory stirred, from a past life of banquets and salons when she was clean and had something like a life. "Emperor Krojun." A little tremble of fear went through her. This was the very man she had tried to have assassinated.

Then Jocasta felt something unexpected: Shame. If Leda's plan had succeeded, it would have made her a murderer. As many times as she had dreamt about murdering the Khajiit who raped her, it was harder to think about when the person wore a face. Then it occurred to her that those marauders were already dead, and this man had been the one to crush them. What was I thinking?

"I'll do it," she said, surprised at the resolve in her own voice.

"Hmm," he mumbled as he looked at her with inquisitive eyes. He didn't really seem as convinced at her newfound resolve. Instead he looked at her with some suspicion. 

"What do you want me to do?"

"After tomorrow I'll move you to one of the lower guestrooms. There you'll be kept under room arrest. You will come up with a plan of approach for how to carry out this propaganda campaign. You'll get any book or document you'll ask for. Then after one to two weeks I'll come by and you'll present your findings. After which I'll decide whether or not you're worth keeping."

"Books." Jocasta had never been much for those, even Maggie's trash. But she couldn't afford to show that. At least she might get some food and a bath. Carefully she ventured, "Some nice clothes?"

"Depends on what you consider nice. I think the only clothes your size that could be spared would be some servant clothes."

Jocasta was too frightened to pout. "Alright. Take me there now. You might have to carry me."

"I said you'll move there after tomorrow."

"Please take me with you now." Jocasta reached out a hand with fingers still purpling and two of them bent at unnatural angles.

"I got some preparations to do first." He stood up and the chair dissipated into nothing. "You'll simply have to wait."

"Wait! Can you at least do that spell again?"

"You need to be more specific."

"The one when you came in. That made me feel better."

He looked at her with a slight annoyance, as if the answer wasn't specific enough. But then he stepped closer and crouched near her again. "Give me the hand," he commanded. 

She hesitated, fearing he might be tricking her, but reached it forward eventuality. He gently grabbed it with both of his. The calm she had felt before washed over her again and the pain faded away, although not as much as previously. A faint golden glow formed around her hand and she felt how her fingers and bones moved back to their natural positions. When he stopped and let go, her hand was still bruised and sore, but at least functional. 

Sighing with relief, Jocasta crawled back to her blanket and sat, looking at the wall as if there was a window there. Behind her she heard how the Emperor left the room. She was again alone.

Edited May 26, 2018 by Witchking of Angmar

[The Good Doctor]

The Abecean Sea

The Nekla's Diamond slipped into Hunding Bay during the final hour of the evening, when Magnus painted the world with a dim purple hue. Her crew expertly navigated the familiar waters, even as they became shallow and gave way to rocks and sand bars. The cargo ship was among the finer that could be found among Anvil's docks, but in the harbor of Stros M'kai, she was almost as plain a vessel as could be found. Here, a thousand ships of countless shapes, sizes, and colors made their berth. Those meant for combat were hard to tell apart from those meant for trade, although Trevis suspected that most were prepared for both. The fleet of Hammerfell was one of the largest in the world, and this was thanks in no small part to the fact that every ship in their waters was crewed by fighters. An ocean filled with pirates and Aldmeri left them with little choice.

They dropped anchor in the harbor, and prepared a dinghy to go ashore. Captain Hutton said that it would take all day to stock up for a trip to Skyrim like this, but Gray-Mane did not care. He had spent many months in strange lands and another day would not kill him.

Considering their "cargo" Trevis hoped that the Nord was right. Thorald did not say it, he didn't need to, but they all knew that half the reason he wanted to keep their ship so far from land was because he feared Boldir and Mila would somehow manage to escape. It seemed impossible, but that had not stopped them in the past. The other half of his reason was Trevis himself, and Thorald did say that much. The Grim One stopped him as he prepared to board the dinghy.

"You stay with us, Imperial," Gray-Mane said, "I trust you about as much as I trust Boldir."

"Even though I'm the only man on this ship who hasn't betrayed the others?"

"Aye, and I aim to keep it that way."

The Nords outnumbered him three to one, and left no room for argument. They were right not to trust him. Had he been allowed ashore, Trevis' first act would have been to link up with local operatives and retake control of his situation. Without that option, he had little choice but to remain as trapped as Boldir. The Nords would get what they wanted, at least for now. But Trevis knew the Oculatus, and he knew White Gold. Spymaster Quentas would not shrug away the deaths of so many of her own. Nor, he suspected, would his young Empress.

Trevis' acceptance had not come easily. The day after losing all of his men, after saving the Nords' lives and apprehending Boldir and Mila, when he had awoken and realized that he had been tricked, cooperation had been far from his mind. Trevis could not remember the exact words he had used when confronting the Grim One, but it had been something to the tune of Nord honor being a load of troll shit. 

Gray-Mane had not gotten angry, or even disagreed. The Stormcloak had looked Trevis in the eyes without a hint of emotion, and said that he was tired. "And my men are tired too," Thorald had added. "When Baldur sent us to fetch the Iron-Brows, he'd wanted them alive. Now, we have a chance to go home and make our king happy. I'll not give that up just so some Imperials in some tower can get justice for a handful of dead."

Now, as the sun set over Stros M'kai, the Grim One leaned on the ship's railing and looked out at the distant city. Thorald hid his emotions well, but Trevis knew he was troubled. They all were. Boldir had wanted to come here, with his stories of Thalmor and saving Mila's soul. It weighed heavily on the Nords. But when asked for details, like when the Thalmor would arrive, Boldir's answers were not helpful.

"It has to be me," the man had insisted to his countrymen. "I told you, it's the work of Clavicus Vile. His dog promised to tell me when the Thalmor are close, but only if I'm on the island. I can’t know until then."

Trevis had not been in the room at the time, but when the Nords shared the information with them, he knew immediately that the dog must have been Vile's known companion, Barbas, but the whole story seemed so absurd that it sounded like it came from the lips of a madman. He wasn't sure if Boldir was crazy or not, or if his story was true, but there was no way he would be getting off the ship. On that much, Trevis and the Stormcloaks were in agreement.

Mila was even less helpful. She gave them little besides curses and spit, and the one time she seemed to calm down enough to speak with them, it turned out to be a trick that resulted in Thorald getting a bloody scratch beside his left eye. Since then, the girl spent her days both bound and chained with her hands behind her. Trevis himself made sure that they were secure.

None of that changed Thorald's mood. Later that night, while Trevis swayed in his hammock, the Stormcloak came to him and shook his shoulder. "I'm already awake, damn you."

"Good," The Nord seemed unbothered by Trevis' tone. "I have a problem, need your help. Come with me."

Thorald led Trevis topside, where nobody stirred and the distant lights of the city glowed. It had occurred to Trevis before that he could probably swim that distance, but there was no chance of him making it back before his absence was noticed. The Nords watched him too closely for that.

"Well?" Trevis asked. "What's this problem of yours?"

"A voice," The Nord said lowly. "It has been speaking to me for days now. Nearly every time I'm alone."

That was unexpected. Trevis recalled his fight with Mila, and the voice that had spoken to him towards the end of it. "Is it a woman?"

"So she speaks to you too."

"Only once. At the time I thought it was some kind of illusion, meant to distract me. What has she said to you?"

"She tells me to release the prisoners, that I'm damning my soul along with the girl's. Every time she speaks, the descriptions become more horrible." Thorald crossed his arms. "I ain't afraid of spirits, but I won't abide one trying to haunt me. And this one knows things that it shouldn't."

"Such as?"

The Nord frowned. "It knows about my family, and that I was once a Thalmor prisoner. It knows details. But I'm certain that the voice belongs to no friend of mine."

"Could it know these things from Boldir?"

Thorald shrugged. "Maybe. He has said a lot, but nothing about ghost women. He seemed confused when I brought it up."

Trevis doubted very much that there was a ghost on the ship. "I'll look into it. Try asking her questions the next time she speaks to you. Take note of everything and try to learn what you can."

"What do you think I've been doing? She ain't keen on talking about herself... Bah," the Nord muttered, "Do what you will, Imperial. But you'll find yourself in more cheerful company if you take care of this bitch."
With those words, Thorald returned to the captain's cabin, and Trevis was left staring out at the darkening waters and the distant Ra'gadan city.

He figured that it was fortunate that the voice spoke to Thorald and not one of the crewmen. Many commoners like them had been influenced by less. A detached voice can sound like a god if the listener is naive enough. Fortunately, Thorald was not naive, and neither were his men. It would take the emergence of Talos himself to make them disobey their king, and even then it wouldn't be without question. No, it was the crew itself that needed to be watched.

Boldir knows what this is. He had to. The voice was obviously trying to help him and Mila. Trevis decided to pay the big Nord a visit. He returned to the ships bowels and went to the room his prey had been locked in. The Grim-One Ivold was standing outside with his arms crossed. Trevis approached him. "I need to speak with him. It's for Thorald."

Ivold shrugged. "Sure thing. Just know that I'll kill you if you try anything."

"Noted."

The Nord opened the door, and Trevis' nostrils were immediately assaulted by the smell of human waste, which came from a bucket in the corner beside him. The room was small, and Boldir was at the back, laying on a bedroll with chains linking his wrists to the far wall. Trevis took a step in. "Boldir?"

The Nord stirred, and then turned over. When he saw who his visitor was, he sat up straight. There was nothing but the coldest hatred in his eyes. "Do you want to know what I did to the last man who put chains on me?"

Trevis did not care in the slightest. "I'm sure it was very-"

"I ripped his fucking head off."

"-gruesome," Trevis finished. He folded his arms. "I'm not here to gloat, Nord. In truth, I've been played just like you. If I had any control, you and your girl would be tried in an Imperial court for conspiracy, murder, and a whole bunch of other stuff. But things aren't exactly going my way either."

"Poor you."

Trevis knelt down so they could speak on the same level, though he made sure to keep out of Iron-Brow's range. "I've seen your daughter. She's well."

"No she's not. You bastards are damning her."

"So you say... tell me, is that why you went to Roseloe Valga's estate? You mixed with daedra and sought out a witch to save Mila's soul?" Boldir did not answer, so he continued. "It doesn't matter if you answer me or not. I'm only curious. Valga and her ilk will be someone else's problem soon. I'm more interested in this voice we've been hearing."

"If you're hearing voices, it's your own problem. Maybe try praying to the Madgod, see if he's feeling merciful."

"It's not the Madgod. I think we both know that." Trevis stood up, and placed a hand on the hilt of the dagger he'd taken from Mila. "If you won't tell me, then maybe your daughter will..."
He let the words linger, watching Boldir for any reaction besides hatred. He got none. The Nord was a rock, and so was his daughter. Trevis left the room knowing full well that he would get no further with her. Instead, he went to the crew quarters and the spot where Mila had slept. The blankets on her cot were still tussled, and a few of her belongings were strewn around it. There were a few writing supplies, some small jars of paint, and a couple blank sheets of parchment. Her rucksack contained clothes, a pouch of coins, and a few seashells that he assumed were from Anvil.

Trevis frowned. The Nords had said that she didn't carry anything interesting, but the girl sure as Oblivion didn't conjure up a fireball like that using nothing but her own devices. The parchments and paint had to be for scrolls. But how did she give them power? Did the witch help her with this? Is the voice her doing as well?
Trevis wished that Bentrius were still alive. The mage could detect the magicka in a blade of grass. Finding the source of a detached voice would have been child's play for him. Resigned, Trevis returned to his hammock for the night.

The next morning, he found Thorald above deck with an exhausted look in his eyes. "She woke me five times," the Grim One told him. "Each time she sounded more desperate. Now the Captain's come to me saying that she speaks to him as well."

"What did you tell him?"

"That if he strays from the course by an inch, I'll throw him overboard. Turns out he takes my threats more seriously than hers."

"You should tell the rest of the crew," Trevis said. "Make sure they know it's not a threat."

"You're sure that's so?"

"Well it hasn't seemed to be so far. Do you want a sailer to slit your throat because "the spirit of Kynareth" or some other nonsense told him to?"

"Good thinking."

Thorald gave the order just as the anchor was lifted. Most of the crew were already on deck as they readied the sails and prepared to take off. Those who weren't were quickly gathered. While the Nord gave his speech, Trevis took one look back at Stros M'kai and felt a ping of regret. He knew it would have been foolish to entertain Boldir's story, and even more so to feel the tiniest amount of sympathy for the girl who had killed so many of his men. Yet he could not help but feel like there was a whole story in this place that would have to go untold. Possibly to everyone's detriment. Who was the voice? What would become of Mila's soul? Were they passing up on the chance to deal a major blow to the Thalmor?

The servant of the Empire knew that he had to press on, but the inspector in him could not help but feel let down by all the questions that would have to go unanswered.

[BigBossBalrog]

Dales Draconus, Nafaalilargus the Red
Early Morning 
Heartland of the Empire

The cold void of nothing reached her, as the girl continuously floated down the water. It wasn’t Empress Draconus. But Dales Motierre. The fragile, broken girl. Or was it? Maybe they were the same? Two sides of the same coin? Even if she knew she was drowning, she continued to foolishly take desperate gulps of air, and reach for the faint, yet still sparkling rays of sun that drifted through the waters wave. She loved the water. And, oh so despised it. Like so many things in her life. Including myself? 

She sunk deeper, and deeper. 

“Why are you so sad?” 

A voice arose amongst the water, Dales instinctively shut her pale blues eyes. She knew who it was. 

“I...I miss you. No that's just it...”  To Dales surprise, she could speak, as her own, timid voice arose under the black waves. She spoke the truth, "I'm afraid my feelings for someone else will overtake the ones I held for you.

The voice giggled, a sweet laugh like the warm tasting dew of Spring. “Silly, does one love have overtake the other? Can’t they coexist? The love we had...no, the love we have will never go away. Nothing will change it. I love you, and you love me.  But you need to move on, my sweet. It’s corruption is still deep within you, wiggling it ways inside, and blackening you’re soul. It haunts every decision you make. It hurts you. And that hurts me.” 

“You can’t hurt...you’ve faded into nothing...you’re breath has been stolen by the assassin's blade. You’re corpse has rotted beneath the earth, devoured by worms.  Even your golden image has been defiled by ever piece of flesh I partaken in.  You’re nothing but a memory now. As ephemeral as the waters bubbles...” She felt the dark water in her hands, as she kept her eyes closed. She couldn’t look. She wouldn’t.

Dales had...thought something had made her forget her beloved’s face. It was only now, she knew what it was.

Herself.  

It was too painful. The memory. To gaze and look upon something with her mind's eye, when she could never again see it, and touch it in the flesh. 

“I was never worthy of it, anyway. Your love, so pure and golden.” Dales whispered softly, her voice carried by the bubbles to the surface as she sunk deeper into the watery abyss. The voice giggled once more. An infectious giggle. Innocence. Innocent was putrid.

“You were always worthy of it, my princess. Do you really think i’m not really here?” 

“If only.  Reality is a blade. Painful to the touch, but the only truth. As much, deep in my heart, I would wish this was really your voice, and not some phantom conjured by my broken memories, I know this isn’t the real you.” The girl said, with finality, as she sunk deeper and deeper into the abyssal water her emotionless face suddenly gaining a deep smile. "It doesn't really matter though, nothing matters but protecting Cyrodiil." 

The other girl frowned, as she swam closer, “Dales.” 

“But still, does it matter?" Dales repeated herself, "Even if you aren't here. I can still hear your voice. Or what I remember it be.  I’ll hold onto the feeling of warmth you gave him, even as the darkness closes in, and I feel nothing. Until I wither, and die. I will never move on. No matter what happens. I can end up with my head impaled on a spike, or felled by arrows on the battlefield, and i’ll never forget this light..." Dales sunk deeper into the water. "I should have been stronger...if I was-"

"My death inspired you to be a better person. The woman I'm proud of calling my love. If that's what it took, I would gladly embrace the dagger's wielder in my arms." 

"Is this goodbye?" 

"It's never goodbye. I'm sure we'll see each other again someday. Even if we wear different flesh. This is what this cursed existence is, eternal recurrence. Endless echoes played over and over again." The person laughed  once more...but this time, the laughter that fell across the Lapis Lazuli waves belonged to someone else, not her beloved. "Isn't that right, Alessia? Or should I say Eadndilli?" 

The pale face of the sinking girl began to float deeper into the abyss shrouded water. Dales fell silent, and drifted deeper and deeper down the spiral of shadowy water. Dales blue eyes suddenly opened, as her force of will came back "This dream confines can only do so much. Trickery only works so long!" Her voice become angry, as that horrible scene began to play over and over her mind. Blood. "Who are you?!" 

The shadow of face peaked with a smirk, as the depths of the water soothed her darkened soul, "The real dreams are things you never wake up from, Dales." 

Black hair. "They're oh so comforting, beautiful, but so disgusting and unclean. Dreams from which you want to wake, but can't bear to leave."

The water contorted to black sludge, and Dales herself was being devoured by it. A pale, young face. Red Eyes. An infectious smile. Black lips. Hair like a raven’s feather.  They encroached a mere inch away from her own, "Then the dream becomes a nightmare. You see only what you want, a place where things always go your way...so..."

The lips met Dales, as she then only saw darkness, "I can give you so much. But for now....relax, and sweet dreams, little Empress. This nightmare has just begun..." 

*****

The Empress awoke with a groggy expression. Holy Tomatoes, my dreams are getting fucking weird. Dales couldn't quite remember what it was, but she knew it had something to do with the endless ocean. Cold sweat dripped down her face, she could vaguely recall a feeling of...terror. But nothing more.  Without wasting any more time on the realm of dreams, the Empress got up, and got changed, removing her sleeping wear, and putting on a set of simply leather equipment. That overgrown lizard better be here soon. Muttered Dales underneath her breath, as she strapped on her jeweled Spartha. The leather garb was very well made, but bare otherwise. Dales adored pretty dresses, but not always on her....anyway, practicality always came first.  

She was the Empress. When she didn't have the obligation to wear something royal, you're damn right she was going to dress the way she wanted. 

Tying her hair into a knot, she opened the flap to her tent. The sun was still rather low, and the sky was cast in a blood red haze. The most breathtaking part of the day, was the sun falling, and rising. 

Her bodyguards sharply saluted as she came into view. She spoke with one, rather casually, 

"Varg, have you seen the Drake?" 

"No your majesty." He said simply, the Bruma-born Nord clearing his throat, "My Nan used to say Dragons we're fickle beasts. They hate being ordered. He'll be here when he's ready, I think."

Nafaalilargus was no ordinary Dov, however. He disliked taking orders, but taking orders was also part of being a mercenary. As was punctuality.

However, one couldn't account for others. It was especially so, with other Dov.

Nafaalilargus felt the cool air beneath his wings grow less frigid as he approached the border of Keizaal. And already he was regretting to leave, especially now that the yellow haired king had given him such a cozy place to roost. The only downside was that the man's wife was constantly yelling out the same damn shouts, again and again. He had half a mind to yell a few at her himself, but he let it be. The minor annoyance was worth the location.

As he contemplated the idea of foregoing the arrangement and hibernating atop his new home for a century or two, the sky began to rumble and roar, the air growing heavy with the power of his brother. 

"Nahfahlaar!"

A challenge, bellowed from the throat of a great gold dragon.

"It's Nahfahlaan now," he said. His body whipped around to see his fellow dov.

"Nahfahlaar. Where do you think you're going."

"Where I please, Agbeyndun. What I do is no concern of yours or any other dovah."

"Bolog."

"Pardon? Have you lost your senses? Forgot how to say more than a word like those damn joor?"

"You heard me. BOLOG. BEG. BEG FOR YOUR LIFE. Beg, and I will drag you to Paarthurnax with your wings still attached."

Nafaalilargus let a low rumble grow in his throat. "I will do no such thing. I have no desire to hear his blasted Way of the Voice. My way is mine, and mine alone."

"Enough, if it is to be Tinvaak, then let it be Tinvaak. YOL TOOR SHUL.... AGBEYNDUN RUTH!"

Fire poured from the gold dragon's maw, but instead of swallowing Nafaalilargus, it went around him in six different streams, gathering behind him until the flame was alive. In fact, it looked like a flaming incarnate of Agbeyndun himself.

Nafaalilargus' eyes betrayed his surprise, but it was momentary. He laughed.

Agbeyndun roared. "ENOUGH! You are a disgrace to all of us. You whore yourself out like joor... we did not even have words for such a thing until news of your death came. You know what it is? NAHFAHLAAR!"

Nafaalilargus' laughing ceased. "You wish to know why I 'whore' myself out as you say? Power. In my time as a mercenary, I've come across some very peculiar things... souls of powerful mortals, ancient spells, great artifacts of old. One such soul belonged to a fellow Dovah trapped in a crystal by some Nord wizard. Well, dovahkiin really. A reward from my last employer. I shattered the crystal and devoured his soul. Learned a useful trick from it too. Allow me to demonstrate."

Nafaalilargus charged straight for Agbeyndun. The flame incarnate followed, gaining on him more and more until Nafaalilargus could feel its flames flickering at his tail. Agbeyndun was ready to meet Nafaalilargus with claws and teeth, and his incarnate was about to send Nafaalilargus propelling straight into them, but just before the incarnate could tackle the mercenary dragon, Nafaalilargus uttered a shout that changed his great red scales almost grey... in fact his entire body was a faint mist, as though he'd decided to don a cloak of air. 

That shout... it is beneath a Dovah to know that shout! Such cowardice!

The incarnate passed right through him and into Agbeyndun with a fiery explosion that knocked him out of the sky. Before he could recover, Nafaalilargus dived, his teeth and claws sinking into his brother's flesh as they approached the ground.

"That... shout... look how far you've fallen brother..."

"Not as far as you're about to, Agbeyndun." 

Nafaalilargus disengaged just before Agbeyndun hit the earth with such a crash that trees around the impact splintered like toothpicks.

"If you live, tell Paarthurnax and any others that if they seek me, I'll show them MY Way of the Voice. And if they do, it'll be the LAST thing they hear."

With that, he continued to Cyrodiil. Nafaalilargus didn't even stop to see if he was dead.
*******
It had already been three hours, the Empress just sat on a chair some of her servants had provided her, with a cup of watered down legion-styled wine. She had heard some of the nobility had likened her "to playing legionary", which she found preposterous. The young Empress just happened to try to live simpler then most royalty (a lie she told herself. The truth was Dales used to spend so much on hookers and blackjack, a twisted form of gambling, she didn't have much more to spend on other frivolities) She yawned deeply, as the young girl had her vision pointed skyward. Ever since she made the plunge from the heights of that dreaded mountain, she had started appreciating the great expanse even more than before. It had an otherworldly draw to it.

That appreciation only deepened as she heard a familiar cry echo from the distance. Heads darted looking for the owner as it’s mighty voice grew closer. 

They heard it even closer now, and closer still until Nafaalilargus’ great red form parted the clouds above their heads just before landing with a crash that could’ve shaken Nirn to its core.

His head stretched high as he bared his teeth, the flesh and blood clinging to them visible for all to see.

A smirk lay on the Empress's face, even whilst the rest of her iron willed companions were a second away from cowering in pure terror. A beast from legend had manifested itself from myth before them. The discipline of the Red Legion only went so far.

Dales yawned as she got up from her chair, speaking in an authoritative but still respectful tone, "Tell me, Duke is it common for a soldier of fortune to keep his paymaster waiting?"

Nafaalilargus glanced her way, his great horned head turning the way a dog would when confused. 

“In my case, quite. You’re a native to these lands so I’m sure you’re familiar with the concept of ‘Supply and Demand’. Tell me, how many dragon mercenaries do you know of?”

 The dragon flapped his wings, then cracked a tree with a whip of his tail. 

“I’ve defecated things that stood higher than you, joor. Don’t presume to be my equal. Now, where are my slaves?”

"I'm sure you mean servants." She placed her hands to her hips, the smile still there, "You can visit your lands, once your endowed as a member of the Imperial Nobility" Once I bring a fucking Dragon to these cockroaches, they'll be begging for my protection. "And you agree to my first..." The words of her faithful Palace Guard echoed in her word, before she said, "request. Our contract is quite clear, yes? You help the Empire's war effort, assist me, and I reward you." Her face softened, "May I remind you, our contract gives much in return, rewards worthy to one as mighty as yourself." 

The dragon’s head lowered until it was almost level with the Empress.

“Hmph, they better be. Your doppelgänger in Keizaal gave me a mountain as promised, so you better deliver or the deal is off. I keep the mountain regardless.”

Baldur wishes he was my doppelganger! She wanted to pout, but she kept it under. A part of her had thought Baldur had planned to take the Dragon himself. She very much adored the man, but trust was another issue entirely. Can you truly trust someone who murdered their sworn blood brother in cold blood? But it was in the deal. Regardless, she kept her composure, "A mountain won't compare to Blackwood, I assure you. It's a massive forest with splendid glades, and ruins you can roost on, and, unlike a giant rock, it's filled with game. Food everywhere!" She pointed a finger at him, “And may I remind you, not that you need it i'm sure, the title of Duke of Blackwood, and entrance to the noble class will grant you unlimited protection. Which in itself, is very valuable wouldn't you say?"

"Does it look like I need protection?" The great red dragon let out a roar that split the ears of those nearby and afar. "My treasure however, does. It sounds delightful, Empress. And if any of these slaves, or servants, whatever you fancy calling them steal from me, I reserve the right to devour them on the spot. Which reminds me... my Redguards... You've prepared them for me I hope? My belly aches with the thought."

She rolled her eyes, At least Lorgar wasn't a maneater. I need to stop hiring these freaks..."Yes, yes. I hope you enjoy the taste of rapists and murderers!" She point her index finger once more, "After we get the bookkeeping done!"

"Book keeping?"

"We need to go to the Imperial City and have you inducted as a duke." 

The dragon scoffed. 

“Let’s get this over with then. You southerners were always so wrapped up in ceremony. Let’s not take all day. I may not age but that doesn’t safeguard me from the horrors of unmitigated boredom.”

"Wait." The Empress's smile grew, this is what she had been planning since she spoke to the Dragon on that forsaken mountain. Dales went forward, went to his massive head, and began whispering to his ear, "Psss psss psss." She finished after a minute or so adding, "Can you do that"

Nafaalilargus scoffed, but agreed. “As you wish. At least you didn’t ask to sit on my back like most joor. Then I’d have to kill you.”

Wasting no more words, he stood and took off with one mighty flap of his wings, leaving the Empress to her own thoughts.

***
The Imperial City was filled with bustle! Well...more bustle then usual, for a small fleet of tradeships had just arrived in the docks. The Imperial City, unlike the rest of the decaying Empire, had retained it’s splendour, a diamond in the rough; a bustling, massive multicultural capitol, that housed over a million people, not including the thousands who visited every day, whether it be for trade, or simple sightseeing! Commerce thrived, the  city being the biggest trade hub in the entirety of Tamriel. Now that peace had been restored between the human provinces, you could see all kinds of groups wandering in the docks. Kind faced Nords, clad in Horker furs from the Island of Grenda, sold dried Horker meat to Imperial children, the delectable salty treat being coveted. Redguards, wearing Crimson laced scale armor from the island port of Stros M’kai argued with a handful of fat Breton spice traders on prices. A large group of Argonian fishers swam through the murky water, trying to catch large Slaughterfish, their daggers close to their scaled claws. You could even see a duo of distant Maormer, peddling sets of extremely ornate, and exotic pieces of jewellery, themed around the ocean waves. All the while the mighty White-Gold tower stood in the background.  It was quite the sight! 

And that was just the docks. Right now, the Merchant District was absolutely crammed with people. The Inns all had a full house, for the visiting merchants needed a place to stay. Visiting (and wealthy) farmers too, for this was a perfect time for them to set up shop and sell some of their wares. The entire street was lined up with stalls! Endless wooden stalls! In one, a burly Orismer weaponsmith pitched a great battleaxe to a junior legion officer, who wanted something big! In another, a lovely lady from Chorrol examined a set of jeweled mirrors, admiring her reflection, as the Saxheel jewellery groaned in annoyance. Imperial Watch Guards made sure to keep their eyes peeled for pickpockets, ready to deliver justice upon criminal scum! Thousands of people muled in the busy streets, shopping for a ridiculously long list of different things. 

This was your average day in the city. And Dales loved it. 

The Empress’s escort has reached one of the city’s gates, the Forasa Gate which led into the market district specifically, half an hour ago, and already shuffled through the crowded streets, her armoured escort intending for the young monarch to reach the Palace safely. Many of them had missed their home, glad to be away from Skryim’s snow and craggy peak Dales herself, however, had other ideas. First and foremost, she loved walking amongst the people. Most citizens in the city could recognise their Empress on sight, most of which would follow up with respectfully kneeling, or bowing their heads in respect, followed with a curt “Your Highness”. Technically you we’re supposed to say, “Your Majesty” but Dales really didn’t mind. She gave them a warm smile, and a bow of her own head. Her Palace Guards nervously kept their hands to their blades, their blank expressions covered by their full face helmets, although there worry was tempered by the fact they knew the Empress was more than a match for assassins. Imperial Legionaries of the Second, and Guards of the Imperial Watch would offer a salute at the sight of Cyrodiil's stalwart monarch. 

Unlike before, the young woman was wearing a far more formal set of garb. A full dress, of bright purple and crimson, intermingled with a handful of sapphires, and rubies in it’s hemming. At the cusps of her shoulders, heavy wolf fur lined in a curve, the style of Colivia. On her hands, she had a set of leather gloves, dyed in a shade of red, the palms bearing embroidered sapphire dragons, her two signet rings present and visible. At her side, she carried the same jewelled Spartha she did on most of her trip, tucked neatly in a leather sheath. Complimenting her blonde locks, the Ruby Dragon Crown stood on her head, the sinister tiara black as the night.

Finally her prized Amulet of Auriel, the gift from Dunmaor, glowed underneath the bright sky, invisible to anyone but her.

While Dales had enjoyed her trip to Skyrim immensely, the Imperial Province was her only home, and she was glad to be back. 

No doubt her bodyguard corps wished to make a speedy return to the palace district, but the Empress had other plans.

As they passed through the Cquato square, the Empress made a turn, to the surprise of her palace guards, and headed to a town criers pier, climbing the rickety wooden platform with her small limbs. The Prelate incharge grimply followed behind, muttering, “Your Majesty?’’

“I wish to make a proclamation, Septiumus.” 

The White-Plate clad soldier nodded his head, “As you wish, Your Majesty.” The Prelate lifted his Vine Staff into the sky and did a circular motion with it, just as he whistled. The assembled Imperial soldiers took position behind the large scaffold, dropping their shields into the stone road, their bodies standing at ease, but their eyes and minds still alert. As was his duty, the veteran palace guard stepped forward from the group, shouting, “Her Majesty Dales Draconus, First of her name, Empress of Tamriel, Guardian of Cyrodiil, and Holder of the Ruby Throne, wishes to address her subjects!”

Nothing, but the roars of commerce. A few people from the crowd had turned their heads to the wooden crier stage, but that was just observing the commotion of such a large gathering of Palace Guards. Nobody could hear the Prelate! 

The Prelate scratched his head, motioning for one of his subordinates to hand him the regimental horn. Which he really didn’t need.

“I would speak to you.” 

A booming voice of thunder pierced the trade haze. The Imperial Guards, jolted in sheer surprise, had to consciously resist the urge to cover their ears. At the sudden noise everyone surrounding the square and beyond, fell silent and turned their heads to source of the ear deafening voice. 

The short girl with a black crown of rubies. 

The Empress had practically the entire Market district’s eyes trained on her. A bunch of wolves looking for a mere instant of weakness. She held her glowing gloved hand behind her back, imitating the mannerism of one of her idols, Ocato of Firsthold. “Good day to you all.”  Now that she had their attention, she lowered the intensity of her charm by a good measure, the slithering green spell crawling down her throat, her voice lowering, but still loud enough to resound across the now otherwise quiet district “A good many of you are probably aware of who I am.” She paused, her cold stare, softened as she adopted a warm smile. “If not by my face, then by my height.”

A few in the crowd laughed, their snicks offset by their warm faces. Dales continued, “If the many visitors here don’t, I am Dales Draconus, the Empress of Cyrodiil. I welcome you, honoured guests, to my city. You will find no better city in the entity of the Empire, or, dare I say, all of Tamriel!” A few people cheered, but the crowd was still somewhat lukewarm,many no doubt wanted the pleasantries done, and for the Empress to explain why she interrupted their business. The Empress carefully used her free hand, to let conjure a small chill, to control her rising body heat. No matter how prepared she was, speeches just made her nervous. Pushing down the worry, the Empress expression hardened, “First, I have been away from the capitol for a month now. Urgent business drew me away from the Imperial City.” She didn’t beat the bush, “I bring news from the North, our ally Skyrim.”

There was actually quite a few Nords among the crowd and not just Imperial ones, a surprising amount of Merchants, and their bodyguards, from Skyrim lingered in the massive gathering. The fur clad Northerners, who had basically ignored the young monarch up till now, turned to face her, their war painted faces filled with renewed interest.

“The Moot has concluded. Jarl Baldur Red-Snow of Eastmarch has emerged as the High King.” 

Dales had judged right, for almost, if not all of them, this was news. And by many of their joyous expressions, happy news. Jarl Red-Snow was a war hero, and known to be one of Ulfric’s closest General’s, surely if anyone could fill the shoes of their beloved king, it was him. In a flash of steel, the Northerns drew their weapons, and raised them sky high, shouting in unison, “The king is dead, long live King Red-Snow!” The Empress nodded her head, “News to celebrate for sure. I consider King Baldur to be a close ally, and a friend. His help will be invaluable in the coming months Now…” She paused, breathing in a mouthful of fresh air. She knew she was doing the right thing, but pride held her words from leaving her mouth. The only thing that mattered, ultimately, was not her ego, but the well being of Cyrodiil. 

“I know many here have...certain opinions on a certain conflict that happened not too long ago. I understand. Our conflict, however, with the Nords is a thing of the past” She said resolutely, “In fact, for most of our shared histories, Skyrim and Cyrodiil have been the closest of friends.” She was sure she was embellishing, but she had the basic gist of it, “And under my leadership, I will maintain that friendship, and will suffer no threats to it. Whether or not the Empire rules Skyrim, has zero bearings. The Nords have chosen to separate, The Empire will respect their decision. I will respect that decision. There is no need for subjection. We will fight and bleed together as friends and allies, in the mud and dirt. Same goes for the Redguards and...Bretons”  Dales had to push down the sudden surge of rage and hatred that sprouted through her, like a venom.

The Northerns amongst the crowd offered chest salutes, nodding their heads in agreement to the Empress’s words. As did the other foreigners. A number of Imperials, however, cast glances of pure venom towards the young Empress, Only Cyrodiil matters. Ignoring some of the looks of betrayal, the Empress continued, “Second, I know many, if not all of you, have heard dark whispers on the wind. Rumours of the ill kind. Talks of war.” She steeled herself, gripping her hand tightly, “I am here to put those rumours to rest. War isn’t coming….war is already upon us!” She lifted her fist into the sky. The crowd erupted into chatter. The Empress, by now had the attention, for good or ill, of the entire crowd, and they all quieted down as she raised her hands, “To the north, a dominion attack fleet smashed itself against the ancient walls of Windhelm, as quite a few of you know. At great cost to themselves, the brave Stormcloaks repelled the attackers. A cowardly, unprovoked, and preemptive attack by the Thalmor to try and secure a beachhead to launch a greater offensive against our allies and ourselves!” The crowd began to jeer and boo, thankfully not at the Empress. “I can proudly announce Cyrodiil’s Legion’s have begun their offensive against them! Our own General Martullus and General Cry, as we speak, takes the fight to the enemy in Elsweyr! Our war has begun!” A large portion crowd cheered in response, mostly young Imperials. Ones who had experienced the horrors of the last "great" war, were far less enthusiastic. “Admittedly, peace was never possible in the first place, for they want to subject...no, exterminate anyone lesser than them, be it Man, Beast, or fellow Mer!” The Empress’s face twisted into a snarl, as she raised her fist once more, “ The disgusting link that filthy traitor Amaund Motierre tried to build with those curs in the Dominion has been severed for a long time now, but it’s seeping filth will haunt us for the rest of our day!” She didn’t mention her relation to said “filthy traitor”, “Unless we destroy the source of that corruption! Only then will Cyrodiil sleep easy.  I swear to you as your Empress, this round, this Great War will be fought on our terms! It will be their land, their people that suffers!  Cyrodiil will stand with Tamriel, and Tamriel with her! We will defeat this evil together! The Empire at the forefront!”

She closed her cold blue eyes, heralding black wings “The Empire will...be the inferno that consumes the Aldmeri Dominion.”  She raised her voice with her magic. 

With a howl of dread, the entire Imperial City filled with pure fear, as from the heavens, vaulting through the clouds, came a beast of legends. 

A crimson Dragon. 

The Red Drake appeared suddenly, soaring above the city, as he roared at the ant like beings underneath him.  Nafaalilargus oh so did love filling lesser beings with fear. 

The sudden arrival of the wyrm caused an uproar of pure chaos. Guards paralysed by such a beast struggled to reach their posts. Trained Legion soldiers on the walls did fare better, being able to nock their arrows, and aim their bows sky high, but just just, as the hand used to wield their weapons trembled. Imperial Citizens fled for cover like a horde of mandmen, trying to escape from the horrid winged menace! Warning bells began to ring all over, as the soldiers of the Empire began to prepare for battle, streams of soldiers rushing out of their barracks, weapons in hand.

What can an eagle do against a dragon? The Empress poured more reserves to inflate her voice so, practically everyone in the city could hear her, “Calm yourselves, your Empress orders you. Come down, Duke.”

The massive Dragon began his descent, flying to the middle of the Market District. He brought up his hind legs, his massive, sharp talons shining underneath the sun, just as he landed, causing a ripple of wind to be thrown in all directions, sending hats flying, and legion armour ricketing. He positioned himself just behind the Empress (Dales's bodgyguard corp making room for the reptile), enough his long neck and head was floating above, her own red shadow; the massive, scaly body looming over the much smaller girl. People screamed, out in terror, the large group cowering, even as the Palace Guards remained motionless, and the Empress herself frozen. The Dragon grumbled, snickering, Pffft, Mortals are still cowards I see. 

Dales lifted her hand, silencing the group, as she motioned to him, "There is no reason to fear this soldier of myth. I present to you, Imperial Citizens, guests of the Empire, Nafaalilargus the Red, Legendary Champion of none other than Tiber Septim himself!” 

The Dragon folded his wings, as if he was wearing a regal cape, and began to grumble underneath his breath. The crowd was still frozen in fear, but they started to talk amongst themselves.  Dales continued, “Nafaalilargus has agreed to fight for the Empire once more, a soldier of Tiber Septim coming to aid us in our hour of need!” She turned her head, “What say you, Nafaalilargus?” 

Though no one else could notice, the Dragon rolled his eyes sardonically, speaking so everyone could hear him in the common tongue with the same strength of the Empress’s, “I shall rend, with fang and talons, the enemies of the Empire, as I once did for the Imperial Dovahkiin. My flame will burn flesh, and my voice crush bones!” The Dragon put a half hearted delivery into this, but because of his deep, primal voice, his delivery came off as very intimidating to everybody present. 

Everyone was silent for a few moments..before the district burst into applause. The crowd was riled up now, the fear having all but left them.

Dale's voice rose about the masses, “I will make this clear. This will not be a war for revenge. This is vindictive justice. We will liberate Valenwood, Elsweyr, and whoever else is enslaved the Thalmor! There will be a flame that drives the shadows away! We are that flame, and the dark fears us!”  More cries of approval, as people began to shout, “Long live Cyrodiil!” 

Dales clenched her fists “I dont care what you are. Folk of the Heartland, Redguard, Argonian, Dunmer, Nord, Man, Mer, Beastfolk, we are all Imperials! Citizens of this mighty Empire! Cyrodiil will stand as it always has! I am proud to call each and everyone of you my fellow Imperials! We are all subjects of Cyrodiil, no matter our class, and we will fight to protect it as is our duty! We will cleanse every Province of the taint of the Thalmor, we will be victorious, and we will have the spoils of war!” 

The crowd was now the entire city, and they could hear the voice of their Empress. People shouted, screams of defiance towards the eagle. People cheered. Men cheered. Beasts cheered. Mer cheered. All in unison. They weren’t any of those though, not now. They were a single entity. Imperials. 

Nafaalilargus, who had watched this spectacle like how a human might view moneys at a zoo,...noticed something odd. They weren’t just cheering the Empress. They were...cheering him?  Indeed, hundreds, no thousands, no tens of thousands of people we’re chanting his name in celebration of his might. His dominance. They...adored him. Even for a Dragon, Nafaalilargus had an ego. A big ego. And as much as he wanted to deny it...this...was like worship. Reminded him of something. A time long ago. When Dragons were treated like gods! Suffice to say, the Drake was more than pleased. 

He decided, why not? Yuvon, let’s give this crowd of Joor what they want! 

Lifting his great head into the sky, Nafaalilargus put all of his power into this shout, screaming in his guttural language, “YOL TOOR SHUL”  A massive jet of practically golden fire streamed out of the Drake’s mouth, a cloud of swirling flame arose, above the Empress, cause the gems on her jeering Dragon Crown to shimmer and sparkle, their long lost lustre returned to them. The Empress took this as an opportunity to draw her Spartha, and raise it to the gathering of her subjects, “For Tiber Septim!” she shouted, 

“For Tiber Septim!” They shouted back,

“For Akatosh!” She howled,

“For Akatosh! They howled back,

“For Cyrodiil!” She cried 

“For Cyrodiil!” They cried back 

At last Dales heaved her blade a final time the blade being bathed in the light from the flame, as roared, her face gleaming with pride, and conviction, “FOR. THE. EMPIRE!”

“For the Empire!” The entire city has been taken over by a certain madness. The madness of hope. From the Market District, all the way to fertile green alleyways of the Elven Gardens, Imperial citizens, from Orismer, to Argonians, lifted their voice into the heavens, almost as if their combined voice could echo across all that remained of the Empire….No the entirety of Tamriel! Imperial Soldiers and Watchmen, lifted their blades skyward, into the heavens saluting not the gods, but the country they loved. The ground shook, reverberating practically a million voices arose, like a dying dragon taking flight once more, just as the red Drake’s fire consumed the wind in a symphony of raging flame, the destructive fire dancing in the sky. Dales looked up into that sky, her cold blue eyes sparkling at the sight of the beautiful fire. A sad smile appeared on her lips, her voice finally being drowned out by her deafening subjects, as she clenched her gloved hand into a fist, saying to herself  “I may not have the Dragon’s blood...but I forever claim the throne by conquest. Dragon-Flame will be my sceptre. Damnation my crown...let none stand before me. I will protect Cyrodiil. I will protect my people. No matter the cost to myself, or anyone who dares harm it. That is my vow. May any God who watches take this as my solemn pledge!” The Empress turned and began to walk away, an orchestra of voices echoing behind her into the fiery sky,

“Hail the Empress, long may she reign!” 

[BigBossBalrog]

Anvil, Cyrodiil.

Far to fucking hot. Was the thought circulating through most of the folks wanting to depart their Lad'ya Longboats, many knew the humid islands in the Padomaic, their rainy and arid seasons but never hot. This was the price to be payed however for such a lucrative opportunity.

The flaccid would-be Imperial had written no less then three hundred something letters across Roscrea and the Padomaic, speaking of, on his good word built up, great wealth to be had in Cyrodiil. Nearly all the Roscreans serving in foreign courts would have spat on it were the Imperial Family's seal not stamped within each letter, the paper itself was very fine quality to boot.

All considered it, however there were those too comfortable for breaking contracts with their lords, unappealed at the thought of paying a great sum to exit from a contract for some Breton in a land none of they had ever seen. By comparison even Akavir was less alien. The imaginative among the elite cadre of mercenaries saw a golden stag, leaving their feuding paymasters in the Padomaic for the isle just south of Roscrea, then to Tamriel.

The journey south saw to it that the mercenaries, all being of the same base culture, more or less, established a Thing assembly within the longboats and elected their lawspeaker, Chieftain and priest for none awaited them in Cyrodiil. It was the first time to the Roscrean mercenaries being hired in bulk all at once, it was an expensive thing hiring a foreigner but it guaranteed loyalty alongside a guard outside local politics. They spoke stories to one another of their exploitation and adventures in foreign courts, one who all wanted to hear stories of however was bound by oath of silence.

The Roscreans sharing the longboats hailed from all corners of the island, all bearing the same race, more or less yet there was an aversion in the air between the men of the east and west. It was common for those of the same tribe or community to serve together, in comradery to their kith and kin; yet red haired men stared at brown haired men, eyes stared down from hooked noses upon straight ones. Men from humble towns sat across from lesser nobles. Their aversion wasn't yet heated, as the stories of wild riches in Cyrodiil cooled thoughts of rivalry. But it was there and would grow... until all were unified from the displeasure of Cyrodiil's hot environment, they almost welcomed the Sea of Ghost's chill.

Docked in the city of Anvil, the mercenaries' Lawspeaker; Hagen Hirthfather, was in quiet conversation with the guards who denied the longboat's well armored occupents, (who wanting a good imagine firsthand equipped themselves when the city was in sight) leave onto the dockyard.

"I don't care if you we're sent by Saint Martin's ghost, Commander. Or Captain. Whatever rank you hold. What do you think this is? An armed military camp! This is a city, a city filled with quaint folk who would get restless at the sight of an entire cohort of heavily armored Nords storming in on their streets causing brawls! Do you even have any official papers?" The leader in question was a Sergeant of some kind, you could tell by the much heavier set of splitmail he wore compared to the six other, much lighter equipped Watchemen that stood at his side. Their hands hadn't reached for their blades, but you could tell by their worried expressions they we're considering it. Painted on their wooden shields we're the stalwart symbol of the port city. 

"How many.." Hagen twisted on the spot towards his fellow Roscreans. "Saved their letters?"

A minute of foreign speech within the longboat ended with a few dozen letters thrown atop the longboat's deck, to which Hagen crumpled up a handful and tossed them atop the dockyard, most landed while a few drifted into the water.

"Some very fine paper that is."

The Guard Sergeant spat in annoyance as he fumbled in his split mail, before grasping one of the loose documents. He began reading it before his eyebrows raised, "This...this is the royal seal." He took a few more minutes to read the entire letter, before his eyes filled with fear, as he bowed his head. "My...apologies. Captain. I had no idea you heading into Cyrodiil under royal decree. These documents will grant you entrance into the heartland."

"If a band of Legionaries landed at Hirth we'd have been far more hostile, all is forgiven, but perhaps if you're feeling hospitable perhaps a wagon caravan could be in order? We've been humbled by the Sea of Ghosts you see."

The Lawspeaker might have been lying on exactly the meaning of being humbled, though nobody within the vessels complained at the thought of wagons.

"Wait a moment." The Sergeant left, and came back in about twenty minutes, the heat of the Heartland sky blistering the Roscrean's skin. He gave him a curt nod, "We can spare a handful. You said you we're heading to the Imperial City?"

The Sergeant drooped his lip at the great figure standing within these Roscreans, the pale giant(?) standing there just staring at the Sergeant would be naked if not for what looked like some sort of Khajiit fur cloak around him. He could see the sweat dripping across the monster's horrid face, his breathing heavy to boot. The Sergeant averted his head when the two made eye contact.

"Mhh, Hmm." Spoke Hagen, "That Colovian is our elected Chieftain, about those wagons, yes to the Imperial City."

The Sergeant suddenly began to violently twitch, as he yelled, gripping the pommel of his blade, "Is-is-is that a half-giant?!"

This time it was the so called half-giant that spoke, his voice was guttural and spoken slowly. Were the Sargent not in that state of mind he might have noticed how old the thing sounded and even looked with his wrinkled sagging skin. It spoke in between struggling breaths.

"Sure, the son, of an inbred, mammoth herder. Or? Maybe shat from, a mountain breeze?"

The Imperial Guardmen gulped nervously as he calmed himself, "Is that so, sir-uhhhh." He relaxed, finally regaining his composure, though he kept when eye on the so called half giant, he motioned for the mercnaries to follow him. By now a large gathering of Guards had gathered at the dock, and followed close behind. Acting as both an escort for the now-welcome Roscreans, and as a shield for the citizens of Anvil. "This way, how big is you're group exactly?"

"Two hundred fifteen give or take." Said Hagen. "So you're a Colovian?"

"Didn't know the Emperor was hiring mercenaries for the upcoming Invasion of Elsweyr." He paused for a moment, answering his question," Aye. Could you tell by my accent?" He said sternly as he advanced through the paved streets. Anvil was surprisingly...clean. Port cities we're usually grimy and covered in filth, but apparently the people of Anvil took care of their streets. The citizens, as the good sergeant has predicted, had not taken to their "guests" very well and a large group had gathered around, observing the client soldiers with both fear and interest.

"Your Empress has hired some Rosco-Colovians as well you know, I wondered how different a pure Colovian looked, rather similar actually. Beautiful city as well Colovian, my own homewhen is a meager coastal village by comparison, in fact it is a meager coastal village."

At that one of the mercenaries scooted himself behind the marching Sargent and tapped his shoulder, seeing the Colovian turn around was faced with a man wearing a conical helmet and scale coif, who himself was tapping a bronze engraving on the front of his helmet. It was of a man seated in a simple throne. "Uriel the fifth!" proclaimed the man with excitement.

"Aforementioned Rosco-Colovian." Said Hagen, wrapping his knuckles against the engraving as well.

That caused the Sergeant to chuckle, "Aye, do you lads have some Imperial blood in you then? Thought you we're Nords." But his eyes narrowed, "Empress Draconus hired ye? Her Majesty is a good woman, so I hear, and has done good by the common folk and the Legion, but she's a little...queer. Ye lads will have some stories to bring home."

"Almost a Nord, but great great great great grandma was screwed by a Legionary" Proclaimed the man through stiffed laughs.

"Alright Kastavine, a little professionalism eh?" Claimed Hagen raising both his bushy eyebrows. "We're all giddy Colovian, we've all passed stories concerning the rich land of Cyrodiil, it's our first time seeing it. If all goes well Colovian I don't think most of us are returning home to tell stories."

Before they could continue their chat, they finally reached the city gate, which was already open. A great oak barrier stood, with a raised, iron portcullis behind. Above, about two dozen bow wielding guards stood watch, their eyes observant. Just ahead, in the grassy fields, a small caravan of wagons, most pulled by donkeys, stood, waiting for the mercenary band. The sergeant turned around, saying, "Well this is we're we part ways. Good luck on the rest of your journey, for you and your lands. My apolgies for my suspicion earlier." He offered him his gauntleted hand.

Hagen took it and reeled in a little, an intense look about him. Asking at a whisper "Your Empress won't try and convert us will she?"

"I doubt it. The Empress is very fond of the Nords and Orismer, so I hear." He chuckled, "The more wild, the better."

Hagen clasped his left hand on the Sargent's shoulder briefly, his expression pleasant once again.

"Good health to her then and to you, farewell." The Lawspeaker... and elected priest Hagen let his arms down, the cadre of mercenaries took to the wagons and to the heart of Cyrodil.

****

It wasn't far outside Anvil that the so called half-giant undid his cloak while seated, it was for decency only he wore it earlier but the heat while uncomfortable to all the Roscreans was truly horrible for the Atmoriant. Like the Sargent before all eyes now averted from the Atmoriant, not for his nudity but out of respect.

The near-man a fearsome sight with just his head and legs exposed but now that he lay in the open it was almost sad, he was far past his prime. Skin sagged wherever pointed downward, his belly hadn't been muscular for a century though neither was it fat, like his nipples it was slightly puffed and sagged downward as well. Still perfectly strong enough to crush any man's head in both hands but a pathetic imagine when what was once in prime physical fitness.

The Atmoriant had a long life, but still the body of a man which deteriorates like any other. Hagen hailing from the same land knew the old Atmoriant was in pain, from the aching in his head to the joints. Hagen had seen Atmoraints before and was quite used to the sight of a slightly and artificially elongated skull alongside those pointed ears. He was contemplating on what kind of life the Atmoriant must have had, when the sound of trotting hoofs pulled he and all the mercenaries out of their thoughts.

And that trotting...turned to thunder.

In the span of a few seconds, dozens of Horsemen rolled over, appearing behind the hills, as if they had been using them for cover intentionally. Their steel armor glistening under the heavy sunlight, was what they had expected to see in the heartland of Tamriel. Styled like Lorica, it was more akin to plate armor then classic legion styled armor, however. they rode in perfect formation, like an ocean wave. Fully armored, with both heavy metal greeves and gauntlets, they we're seemingly ready for war. Tunics of red sat underneath their armor. They had full faced helmets, with crimson dyed horse hair ontop. They bore no shields, instead carrying large, two handed spears, which they carried pointing towards the sky. On their belts, they had broad, steel Sparthas's.

This was the legendary Imperial Legion.

They circle around the caravan, like hungry vultures.

This time, unlike when the guards stopped them at the docks, the Roscreans drew arms. Many shouted 'treachery' and the like, believing themselves betrayed. The eastern islanders drew their composite bows and long daggers while the westerners unsheathed long antennae swords, the Atmoriant too drew an exotic far eastern Gada mace.

It was all Hagen could do to scream at the top of his lungs of halting and waiting, yelling about the Empress' Seal.

All of a sudden the cataphracts stopped, as one of their own raised his silver hand into the air, a curt legion styled first command, alongside an authoritarian, "Kataphraktoi, halt!". He trotted with his barded warhorse, which neighed heavily. This legionary was different from the rest, he bore a long, red cape, made from velvet, and embroised with a Imperial Dragon sigil, threaded with gold. His set of armor was silvery, practically sparkling. Mithril. On his back he carried a heavy greataxe, which unlike the rest of his equipment was quite simplicity...besides it being made from ebony. He was flanked by six other Legion soldiers, who had...bows raised. Some of them we're horse archers. The leader approached the large group of mercenaries, speaking with a heavy accent, "In the name of The Red Legion, I order thee to identify thy selves, and state thy business in the Heartland."

Hagen was deeply relieved, for both the Imperials had seen reason to parlay and that they couldn't understand the insults spat out by the Eastern Roscrean mercenaries towards the very idea another people 'dared to use' cataphracts, feeling personally insulted.

"Hail there Red Legion, I am Hagen Hirthfather, I speak for the law carried by our person. Steady your arms, we are not aggressors. Our business is an invitation carried out by the will of the Imperial Empress... you were not informed in any way?"

"Empress?" The man dismounted his horse, and approached the group of client soldiers, undaunted and unafraid. "Do you have proof for such a bold claim, Hagen Hirthfather?"

Still atop the wagon, Hagen slipped his hand within the sash adorned to his modestly armored person, removing his own identical (if not for the slight variation of a tired writing hand) letter bearing the Imperial Family's seal. Reaching over the wagon and handing it with some words of encouragement.

"Mighty respect to her majesty's Red Legion but many here are trained to ride armored horses as well, were we hostile has the Legion grown that confident to attack us when outnumbered?"

The man grabbed it, and took a minute or so to read through it. His eyebrows raised, underneath his helmet, at the sight of the Royal Seal. "Slightly, outnumbered. GROUP TWO!" As he shouted that, from behind the wall of riders, and from the hills came a second wave, causing the imperial force to swell to at least one hundred. And across, from the opposite side, another group of fifty, came roaring from the hills. He pointed to a ornate horn he carried on a satch, "We've been tracking you for several hours. Would have signaled a two pronged attack." He paused, the sternness remaining, but he visibly relaxed a little, "I am Commander Andromous. Third Legion. Well, well. Client Soldiers are you?"

"In a land of suspicious professional soldiers who twice now nearly attacked, yet twice parlayed. If we can prevent a third perhaps it will be a good day. If you've the inclination to track us for hours and yet miss our friendly reception in Anvil, I assume you have the hours to escort us. For if there will be a third time, it will start souring our view of your fine land."

"Our country is at war. What you expect lavish carpets, and roses?" He said sardonically, "That writ you hold is that of the Empress, however, and that means you're under the Legions protection." He did a fist styled salute, "We shall get your men to your destination then."

So it was that all giddiness faded away from the mercenaries, they were escorted without further issue into a city that, for a time lacked both their paymaster and limited their activities. A city of riches indeed.

****

"Lads! Our paymasters back! The Empress is back from Skyrim! And from what I fekking hear, she's got a literal Drake at her beck and call now!" One of the Client Soldiers, slammed upon the door, yelling at the assembled group. He was breathing heavy, so he had apparently ran the entire way here. They we're getting...annoyed, and bored. Apparently their paymaster had gone on a diplomatic mission to Skyrim a few weeks before, and now they we're stuck in an old barracks, forced to drink watered down Legion-wine, eat bread, and endless meat. Well things weren't that bad.

"You're drunk out of your fucking mind Galba." Was the unanimous response from the lounging Roscreans, they were all dressed in native Heartlander outfits, as their own clothing was far too thick for Cyrodilic heat. But one thing was well agreed on, that their soon-to-be paymaster had returned. Leaving any and all weapons in the old barrack's armory the mercenaries went about equipping their kit.

The majority of them while keeping native Roscrean armaments wore an exotic blend of native Roscrean and Padomaic islanders sets of armor. Most of which couldn't be put on alone, the Eastern Roscreans favored either musculatas or lamellar with scale and segmented sleeves being a common sight while the Western Roscreans favored interwoven lamellar and scales within maille. Only the Atmoriant was left unarmored, having a specially large tunic tailored. Though it took a personal complaint from the near-giant to have trousers tailored as well.

"I aint fucking drunk! Well i'm drunk, but not wasted. There's a fucking dragon flying around! A flying fucking reptile!" As if the gods themselves we're playing a prank, a few seconds later massive roar echoed outside. A primal roar that split the sky. "See! Look at outside!"

That jolted the Roscreans, who rushed out to catch a glimpse. The few Middlander Roscreans who never abandoned the old style and armor of the Atmoran Dragon Priests threw their helmets back inside the barracks and hoped the Dragon wouldn't devour them.

The Atmoriant had a thousand yard stare, mumbling something about "He's come back to devour me."

Another Roscrean warrior yelled, "By the god's! Dragons in the sky! This is truly an age of wonders! How do you think the Drake Empress convinced it to fight for the Red Legion? Glad we picked the right side..."

"Berahthram's hairy arse, I hope HE picks the right side." Yelled another.

The group was petrified and in awe at the beast, though the Atmoriant just looked relieved it wasn't what he thought.

"Settle down men." A stern voice came from behind, and an armored figure came into the room. It was there Imperial Watch-Liason, Commander Vola. An older Colvian man, his hair was covered in mostly grey hairs, but he still walked with strength and steel. The Commander was getting pretty well liked among the Roscreans, he had made sure they got all the accommodations that we're afforded to them.  "It's Nafaalilargus the Red, a champion of Tiber Septim. And to you Talos of Atmora. There's no reason for you to be afraid of him. He is Her Majesty's champion now."

His words eased the men a little, but were set on edge when it was the Atmoriant speaking barely above a peep.

"You incessant dragon worshippers, look what you've awoken. It will bring ruin."

"Blame the Nords if you want. The resurgence of Dragons came from their province." He said simply, before adding, "You men still have to sit tight for a little. I'll inform the Empress of your arrival in the next few days, but things are extremely wild right now. Hysteria has settled over. Empress Draconus got...a boost in popularity today."

The Atmoriant turned heel and went back into the barracks, the others stayed outside and watched. Hagen was missing entirely though, most likely at a whorehouse. He would have taken to the sight of a Dragon about the same as the near-giant.

"What's with him?" The Commander was oddly respectful of the so called "half-giant' and unlike his fellow soldiers, always referred to the Atmoriant as a him, instead of an "it", "That's recurrence in his eyes. I think he's seen Dragons before..."

"I don't see how, his folk don't like Dragons anyhow, the only sagas they ever sing about are how the old priesthood destroyed their kingdom." Said Galba.

"Well Vola, looks like we got suited up for nothing." Spoke another.

"Sorry men. False alarm." He scratched his chin, "Has the..." Whilst Vola was pretty good at pronunciation, he still struggled a little with certain terms and name, "Atmoriant been to Akaviri by any chance? No offense meant, but the only reference that's even slightly close to being somewhat common knowledge about Roscrea is the their client soldiers often serve, those Snake Folk."

"The fuck are you on about? Only Atmoriants have ever served in those far eastern courts, I or anyone else other than they wouldn't know. I think our exploits are exaggerated, that Dark Elf thought the same thing you did. When he came into the barracks, damn near beat his ass when he said who he was."

"I heard Dragons still existed over there, even before their return to Tamriel. Oh well, maybe his age is just clouding his mind." And a small smile played on his lips, "I wonder, would you're leaders harm an Imperial soldier if they knew the Empress now has a living weapon of unbridled flame under her thumb?"

"Mmmmmhhhhhh, best not to think about that actually. I do have a family in the Chiefdom of Roscaereath you know, don't much envy the thought of what you're suggesting."

One of the Rosco-Colovians piped in. "Shit I bet it's a good day to be an Atrius huh?" The Rosco-Colovian had the benefit of returning the smirk, at this point Vola knew a little of the politics in Roscrea, enough to know the 'Rosco-Colovians' are generally friendly to Imperials.

"Like i've said to you all a thousand times, I have no doubt in my mind the Empress has no thoughts towards your island-nation." He kept his smile, "Besides, what reason would we have to invade a backwater!" He laughed.

"It's always the Empress, never any thoughts on her husband? I can already see it." The same Rosco-Colovian was cracking up. "It'll be the Emperor that invades, all the power to him, if he can stand the piss-ale and the literal piss freezing winters. Well shit, I'm tired of standing out here." Most of the Roscreans excused themselves back in when the Dragon perched out of their sight, was only Vola and the Rosco-Colovian at that point.

*****

Two days later

"All right men, the day has come." The Commander walked into the group playing a dice game, he wore his Watch helmet, and carried his sword on his belt, "I am to present you to the Ruby Throne to Your Empress and your new duties."

While they had been rather laxed with how much their Lawspeaker was to speak for all, when their purpose finally shone after the long and tedious wait, the Roscreans emerged serious. Hagen was now to preform his duty elected upon in the Thing, he would be the assembly's voice, all others would bear silence.

"Are we to stand armed before our paymaster?"

"Fully." He said simply,

"Good, she would have insulted us otherwise. Standing unarmed before your paymaster is a bad omen." Said Hagen.

Once again the Roscreans took to the old armory and donned their kit, this time they armed their person. Like the varied kit they wore, their weapons were of a wide range. Even so there was a common theme between the islanders, nearly every easterner equipped a composite bow to their hip, complementing it with either maces or sagaris axes. Where as the westerners sported the single hand warhammers and straight swords. The lesser nobles among the cadre of mercenaries now could be discerned from the rest. Both side's nobility wore two swords at their hip, for the easterners it was two akinakes long daggers and for their western counterparts a shortsword to compliment the antennae one.

The Atmoriant simply held his Gada mace as if it were a field weapon, soon after having to aid one another in donning their armor, they set off.

The thick smell of spices and other aromas oozed outside. They we're being house in an old Imperial Watch holding in the Market District. Whilst Cyrodiil could hardly be called one, the Imperial City, however, was quite the melting polt. High Elves argued with Khajit spice merchant on the prices of their wares, an Orc hefted a huge bundle of axes of Orismer make, and an Imperial Noblewoman examined a set of ruby jewels she was interested in purchasing. You could hear a dozen languages being spoken at the same time.

Whilst the Empire itself had decayed, the Imperial City was still the jewel of Tamriel. "Never get use to the sight, huh?" Vola said, with a small laugh.

There were a whole number of different responses from the group, mostly being the same thing, unfortunately there was a little too much noise to hear those away from Vola. Those around him talked over each other, they spoke of courts in the Padomaic. Nearly all of them had served at one point or another for someone called the Esroniet Megas Basileus.

The large group made it's way through the massive crowd of people. The Imperial City dwarfed any other settlement in Tamriel, and maybe even Nirn, in sheer population. Seemingly people in the Imperial City we're used to the sight of large heavily armored groups of irregulars, as they hadn't drawn nearly as much attention as they had during their brief stay in Anvil. "None of you have gone to the palace district in the few weeks you've been here, correct?" The Command posed a question.

The man next to Vola leaned in. 

"We've been restricted to the market, supervised while we're at it." Clammered the eastern Roscrean. "We can drink, fuck and eat but that's about it."

"When you enter into the Empress's service that restriction should be lifted." They walked a good distance before they reached the entrance into the Green Emperor's Way, which lead to the Palace district. A squad of White Plated Imperial Palace Guards stood on their duty, their white armor, shining underneath the sun. Some of them had seen the strange looking Imperial Soldiers who now occupied the island back home. The Commander approached the group, and began to talk to it's leader, before he beckoned the Roscrean's speaker to come forward. The soldier spoke with the stern voice they now knew most Legion-soldiers to posses, though unlike many of the Colvians they had encountered, his accent wasn't that thick, "You are the warriors the Empress had requested from Roscrea? I wanted to ask are our Brothers that the Empress sent to fetch you still among the living?"

"The Imperials occupying the isle of Brthynocia? I was one of the first invited there, last I recall the wetlander folk were raiding them." Said Hagen. "Everything's as it was, easterners still holding that fort, that Prelate still alive and even the ruddy king. Why did his magistrate ask?

"That's another thing need to be addressed, are we only to serve Empress Dales as our paymaster?"

You couldn't tell, because the Palace Guard wore full faced cavalry-styled helmets, but his stare had hardened. "Indeed. You are to serve no one else. You obey Empress Draconus, and the Empress Draconus alone. No one else in any position of office, be that the Imperial Legion, or the ranks of nobility, can order you to do anything without the express permission of the Drake Empress. You are loyal to her, and her blood alone."

"You made no mention of your Emperor? I understand fully. Are we to wait here, or inside?"

"You will present yourself to the Ruby Throne. Do you want to address your men before you go in?"

"They aren't mine to command, I am lawspeaker but he, is Chieftain." Hagen gestured towards the Atmoriant, who said nothing. Only pointing inside, to which they followed.

The White-plated Palace Guards made rank, and let the large group of soldiers through the first gate. Inside, lay within a circular quarter, filled with ancient white marble walkways, stone gravestones and large gardens of greenery. It was unlike anything they had seen in the city, the bustle of the city had vanished, replaced by cool tranquillity. It was...quiet, Dozens of Palace guard patrolled, with eerie, discipline and silence. Oddly, many of the Imperia Paltentina bore two handed greatswords and warhammers of silver, weapons you wouldn't expect Red Legion soldiers to bear.

They, being the Roscreans, spread out in a semicircle before the throne and it's occupent. All two hundred odd shoulder to shoulder, brandishing their polished kits. All was silent, to be broken by the ruddy skinned man the mercenaries knew all too well.

"My Empress, your demands for our friendship are for filled in full. The best cadre of mercenaries from the Roscrean Sphere, they stand before you now. Choose my Empress, who will you hire?." Said Altwidus Caladotoz, the magistrate who came to her half a year ago. He leaned a little closer to Dales so to whisper, as voices echoed in the great chamber. "In practice I'd hire every one of them my Empress."

The Drake Empress, or so she had been called. Was....oddly short. This was the one who commands the allegiance of a flamedrake?

She looked like a girl, but there was still something striking about her. Mainly her chilling blue eyes, which reflected an unearthly, cold stare that chilled right to the bone. Her blonde hair was done unevenly. She wore an immaculate dress of purple, threaded with silver thread and imbued with glowing sapphire gems. Her crown, the Red Dragon Crown was more like a warmasters tiara, being almost sinister, made with black steel, and clad in large rubies. Adding to that ironlook, she wore a chestpiece, almost a metal corset, made from silvery mithril, and on her belt, she carried a broad Spartha. Her posture was uneven, and she had a slight hunch. She raised her hand, to silence the magistrate before saying, "You have done well Altwidus." The Empress said, not butchering the name, "More then well." She raised her voice, "I would have my any man who would serve the will of the Black Imperial Dragon freely, step forward, warriors of Roscrea!"

In a mere moment two hundred right feet stepped forward, followed by the clicking of two hundred left. Two hundred odd weapons were unsheathed and raised upward above their heads.

"Who represents you, warriors." The Empress muttered, standing up.

Lawspeaker and Chieftain stepped forward, Hagen and the Atmoriant.

"By the Thing assembly, I am Lawspeaker." Spoke Hagen.

"By the Thing assembly, I am, Chieftain." Spoke the Atmoriant.

The Empress's eyes...began to sparkle with wonder as she noticed the so called half-giant, as she ran up to the Atmoriant, her voice dripped with excitement a squad of four Guards walking behind her in brisk pace, fearless and undaunted "By the Nine, Chieftain, do you have giants blood?"

She was close enough to notice amidst his wrinkled skin was the faintest traces of scares, not of battle due to the patterns in which they're woven, it was a sort of ritualistic scarification carved onto thick skin. So too could Dales see his slightly elongated head, it looked unnatural as if shaped during adolescence instead of birthed with it. His face was adorned with a plentiful beard of fine white hairs, forking at the end as if imitating Ysgramor.

"Only the owl has the, wisdom to answer." He rubbed the side of his head with an oversize thumb.

"What's your name?" She asked.

I am unfamiliar, with Cyrodiil names? Adorn me with one."

So to prevent confusion, as the Atmoriant wouldn't ever explain it, Hagen spoke up. "They keep their birthnames hidden, believing someone knowing it grants them power over you. A bygone aspect of the old priesthood."

"In that case, when you are in the Imperial Province, you shall be known as Corvus." The Empress said with finality.

Hagen glanced about between the Empress and the now Corvus, she should have gotten to the point by now by Hagen's mind.

"Now that we have that out of the way, Lawspeaker" She turned to Hagen, "I assume you understand what I expect from you and your men in this arrangement?"

"Yes paymaster Dales, a biweekly payment, one talent of gold Drakes to our chieftain who will distribute among ourselves. It is a hefty price paymaster Dales, one that brings with it utter loyalty and absence in all forms of local politics. We have no ties in Tamriel, at the agreed upon payment your word will become law, I will speak your law to we." Said Hagen, he knelt down with his still drawn antennae sword and presented it upward for Dales to place a hand upon.

Her hand lingered near the sword, but did not not touch it, "I request a swearing of blood from all of you. Draw thy Knives, and swear up the Black Dragon, you will be your Empress's blades. No fear shall find thy heart. No hesitation to whoever I consign to death. You will strike my enemies down, no matter we're they lurk. Be it shadow cloaked assassin of the Dominion, or traitorous Legion general. In return I will clad you in fine armor. Give thy fine weapons. And endow you in rewards. Swear this oath."

Mittens of scale and maille were removed all across the mercenaries, some loosened their lamellar and scales to draw blood above their heart while others marked the forehead and hands. When all but the Corvus had drawn blood, Hagen placed his own seax in his hands. Who preceded to impale it within his palm, knelling nearly on his rear and presenting his hand, for Dales to remove the seax.

"Rise! You shall be my Draconus Bloodsworn!" She gently tore out the proto-giants blade,  before lifting the blood soaked blade into the sky yelling, "Bloodsworn salute your Empress!"

Her throne room echoed with the barbaric yells in their own languages, saluting her by tongue and hand, the hand bearing weapons high into the air as she had done.

[Witchking of Angmar]

Doron chewed on a stalk of candied bloodgrass, enjoying both the buzz it gave him and the knowledge that it could kill him. A half-naked mistress of no rank or name lay draped across his knee, dozing. He had sent Jocasta back to her Colovian. The girl had her uses, but didn’t trust her. She and his wife Leda shared entirely too many knowing glances.

Leda was planning something, of that he was sure, but she would fall in line. She had no head for politics. Her schemes for their little religious clique had worked out marvelously, however. Doron had wanted something more subtle, but she had insisted that people would be more devoted to something that required them to risk. Now their cult members had been party to murder several times over. For those of a certain frame of mind, the promise of divine guidance and imprimatur had been a shortcut to loyalty, and the threat of exposing them had simply secured it. Even Doron had found himself believing they had tapped into a source of power that would give them the edge they needed. Surely the wellspring of the Heartland would favor them over the sorcery of a barbarian Nord and the bone-rattling of a Breton witch.

There was a knock and his second Pancras entered, glancing once at the girl. Catching the man’s meaning, Doron shook her awake with his knee. “Get out. Lyro will have your allowance downstairs.”

The chancellor waited to speak until the groggy girl had gathered her scraps of clothing and withdrawn. “Time for the Council meeting, eh."

“Indeed, sire. No more news about an attempt on the emperor’s life.”

“Street thugs, pah! Is this what the Thalmor are reduced to?”

“Do you really think it was Dominion agents? The dead are imperials, no Khajiit or Bosmer among them.”

“Doesn’t mean they weren’t Dominion. But we’ll have to keep shaking the bushes and see what we can find out about the perpetrators. Don’t want our own plans getting mixed in with amateur attempts. I wonder if the emperor will attend today's meeting. Stare us into submission so we’ll help him find out who did it.”

Lyro came in then, with a wash basin and towel in hand, and set about washing and dressing him. As he was doing so, Leda entered, already dressed in purple robe and a gold headdress.

“Doron, you can’t go to this Council meeting.” Her voice was unusually agitated.

“Of course I must go. The empire's business must go on and people will want to know we're doing something. Show our patriotic sympathy and ‘relief’ over an attempt on the emperor’s life, etc."

“No, you mustn’t! Send a body double, I beg you!”

The chancellor clucked his tongue and approached her, patting her cheek. “Have no fear, my sweet. We have been immensely careful, and as far as street thug assassins go, the Council chamber is safer than anywhere in the city. I will be well guarded from any threat.”

“Doron…” She clutched the hand that caressed her cheek, gripping it tightly. A tear appeared at the corner of Leda’s eye and began a slow track down her cheek. She never cried.

“By the Lady, dear one. You have become overtired with all this intrigue and your labors on behalf of our little circle. I think you should go to Armira and take a month or two off. The air of the bay will do you good. If there is any rumor of Dominion attack on the Nibenay, I’ll send for you at once.”

“Armira.” Their Niben estate, with its colonnaded porches and the humid scent of tree moss and the purple and orange of sunsets over the bay, had never sounded so welcome. Yes, escape. Jocasta hadn't returned from her errand, and Leda feared the worst, but maybe it would be alright. The Lady would protect Doron, as she always had, through the Great War and occupation and the rise of this bloodless Nord sorcerer. Leda nodded once and released Doron’s hand.

“There, now. Perhaps, if I can get away, I will even follow you for a short vacation. But now I have a Council meeting to attend. Pancras, make sure your sword is oiled. The city is on a thin edge and we will need to be wary of enemy and friend alike.”

***

Everything was in place. Or so Lilly had told him. As the two waited in the Council Chamber he was certain that the others would have their thoughts and opinions on them being the first two to arrive. Funny enough that even though those thoughts may be unfavorable, they were unlikely to be suspicious, at least of their true intentions. 

Soon enough the councilors began to arrive one or a couple at a time. Krojun remained silent while waiting. Only giving an icy stare at a couple of councilor who's eyes came to rest on Lilly, which was effective enough once noticed to make them avert their gaze elsewhere. 

Even though a few of the chairs were empty, Krojun still decided to stand by the round stone table. The Crown had no chair by that table and he didn't want to lower himself one of their chairs. Besides, it was better to stand given what he was going to do. 

There was some initial whispers among some of the Councilors but it all died down when Krojun clapped his hands once. After which he waited an almost uncomfortable amount of time before speaking, "Today will be on security, conscription and if we got time, any other issue anyone else would like to bring up."

Seated to Krojun’s right were the Colovians, noticeably hiding at least one member’s absence. Closest to Krojun was Serivus Marillan, his white hair short and unkempt, his lined face clean shaven. “Conscription? Stealing babes from the cradle now, are we?”

"Thieves, bandits and layabouts. People that would serve a more productive role in the Legion," replied Krojun calmly. 

Serivus grumbled and didn’t speak, though the man sitting to his left, Maximus, said, “Bad enough we have General Hell-Cry’s legion, and now you want to add another like it? Ceno has much to answer for if he’s let the Legion fall this far.”

The chancellor sat rapping his thick fingers on the table while the Nord and Colovians bandied words. He and his second, Pancras, had arrived just as the meeting had convened, and Doron had taken the few moments to closely observe his colleagues and the Emperor.

"Good of you to join us, Your Excellency, and we are all glad to see you in health after your recent troubles. Your spymaster graces us with her beauty as well, though I had assumed she would have other things to do, given recent events. Now may I remind you, Emperor Krojun, that this is my chamber, and I decide what topics are tabled for discussion. I think we all would like to hear what measures you and the city watch are taking to ensure the safety of our streets, when thugs would dare attack even your imperial person in broad daylight."

"Thugs wearing full plate armor enchanted with elemental resistance. Carrying a dagger capable of cutting through most magical defences." Krojun pulled out the dagger that had almost claimed his life and threw it onto the table. 

Doron regarded the dagger skeptically, then held out a hand. "Yes, and? Are we supposed to do your spymaster's job for her?" With a sigh, he glanced around the chamber. "If any of you have information regarding the identity of these... well equipped thugs, speak up. We have other matters to attend to today."

"Forgive my intrusion, but that dagger is exquisite," said Javolia Vanin, an olive skinned, dark haired woman whose tattoos brazenly climbed up her neck to cover her left cheek. They called to mind the curling lines of magic script. "If my parents impressed upon me one thing, it was an appreciation for cultural artifacts. And that hilt is unmistakably Nibenean."

The chancellor narrowed his eyes at her. "What is your point, councillor? We can appreciate the thugs' taste in weaponry. Do you have information on their identities or not?"

Javolia gave a tight lipped smiled and shook her head before leaning back in her chair. 

The imperial Spymaster played with a dagger of her own, an ornate blade of mithril, with the Quentas crest engraved proudly on it's small pommel. "They're a band of legion veterans and High Rock hedge knights. Mostly. The Crimson Company. From our dear Empress's own County Sutch. A quaint little place, for quaint little people." Her deep blue eyes manifested a certain kind of dangerous playfulness, like a cat staling a mouse. "They have very high rates, or so I'm told. Very well equipped. By the quality of their arms and armor, I would say Orsimer forging. Not your average third rate cut throats. In fact, I would say most nobles would be left almost penniless by hiring a group the size of the one who attacked our Emperor. Especially considering how their rates would increase with a contract on imperial royalty."

"Indeed. One might almost think that such a sum of coin would best be offered up out of the imperial treasury. Say, if an emperor looked for means to win sympathy or cast suspicion on those he deemed inconvenient to his rule." Doron's smile had no mirth in it. He glanced around the room. "Well, gentle Council members. You heard the spymaster. Which of you emptied his purse and hired these... not-so-common thugs to spill blood in our streets?"

“Maybe we should turn our eyes back to the Spymaster,” Serivus said, narrowing his gaze on her dagger. “A Countess and Councilor could certainly afford the sum, especially if the Imperial coffers are too closely scrutinized. She could also acquire such an impressive weapon, and handle things discretely.”

"Oh my, my dear friend Serivus, who would have thought you of all people had the gall to accuse me." The Spymaster gave a toothy grin, as she reclined in her chair. "No need, Doron. This farce is beginning to bore me. I already know who's responsible for the attack. I captured a little bird and forced her to sing." Her blue eyes darkened, as she turned her head to face Servius, a snarl forming on her pretty mouth. "I'm frankly appalled you would betray a fellow Colovian, Serivus. Never mind try to deflect you guilty on other people. Does your honor mean anything to you?"

Serivus scoffed and spat out, “Fellow Colovian? You and your mother have never stood for Colovians, only yourselves. My honor is intact. You had none to begin with.”

"Enough!" shouted Krojun while still maintaining his composure. Slowly he then began to walk around the table, and behind the councilors. At the same time the palace guards by the walls were slowly approaching the councilors' personal bodyguards that were standing by the pillars and began whispering into their ears. "Now there is the matter of security. And the removal of threats. Now let me make one thing perfectly clear: Anyone that undermines my power or authority, or touches anyone I care about," As Krojun was about to pass the chancellor's chair he quickly pulled the dagger from the table with telekinesis right before driving down into the side of the chancellor's throat. "Will die!"

There was a brief moment of shock and silence before chaos broke lose. The bodyguards of the marked councilors were quickly overwhelmed and had their throats slit by the guards. The others drew their weapons and rushed to their wards' protection. The councilors were scrambling out of their seats.

Krojun then lost track of the ensuing chaos as the councilor Pancras that had been sitting on Doron's right tried to attack with a fire spell. An ice spike through the eye made short work of him. As Pancras fell to the floor something that felt like a hard jab struck Krojun in the back. When he turned around he saw another Niben councilor with a magic blue arrow through the head and a raised hand losing its grip on a fancy looking dagger. Recognizing the arrow he looked towards Lilly's chair.

The Spymaster had her mithril dagger sunk in a Councilors throat and a blue ethereal bow with a flower at the end in her left hand, as she smiled devilishly, the bloodlust clearing having fallen over her. "I fucking love my job!" 

Krojun felt slightly annoyed for a second at Lilly’s displayed demeanor. Especially after her lecture to him that he had to watch his words. 

Looking around he saw that the slaughter was basically over. Only one of the Niben conspirator’s were still alive, wounded in his leg, but still managing to keep his assailants at bay with a constant stream of fire. Krojun was about to end it with an ice spike but Lilly beat him to it with another magical arrow.

Quietly he let out a small sigh. It was done. At least the first step. But it was still far from over. 

There was a tense moment, where the rest of the councilors and their bodyguards looked warily at the palace guards and the Emperor. The tension dissipated when Javolia Vanin reappeared near the main door, having gone invisible during the fray. She looked at Serivus, Maximus, Doron, and the rest of the dead, a disappointed look on her face. She said, “I presume you have evidence against our dead colleagues, Your Majesty?”

Krojun looked at Vanin, then at Lilly and then back to Vanin. ”There was a confession from one of the conspirators.”

“Which one?” Javolia asked. 

”And can anyone corroborate this?” asked Councilor Goneld, a tall and thin Nibenean. “Or were you and the Spymaster the lone witnesses?”

"My Spymaster was the one that procured the names. And I trust her." Krojun paused for a second as he glanced around the hall. "But is the evidence enough to hold in a trial. Maybe, maybe not. But who here believes such a trial would have been fair in any way? Who here believes it would have removed the threat to me and those I care about?"

"Your doubts may be founded," a Redguard woman named Luala said, "but are we to believe Serivus and Doron conspired together to kill you?"

"At the very least, could you explain what you've learned about this plot against you?" Javolia said. 

The Spymaster wiped her dagger clean with a purple handkerchief, a wave of blood still on her face. "Serivus was just a pawn. The real conspirators was a group of Nibenese councillors. Bunch of no good cultists." A smile played on the Spymaster lips like she was laughing at her own joke. "I found more then enough evidence to condemn them." The Spymaster relayed what she and the Ever-seeing Eye had discovered from her little bird, as well as her own investigations into the Crimson Company, "Sad really. The poor bastard was just being used, and he didn't even know it. Colovia will not mourn, but I feel a degree of pity for him. Still, when you plot against the crown, there is only one end."

There was silence in the room. From the looks on the councilors’ faces, some were still wary while others had accepted the Spymaster’s story. Javolia was among the latter. “Unfortunate indeed, but desperate men do desperate things.”

She glanced between Lilly and Krojun, a calm expression on her thin face. "I suppose you’ll want a resolution of support from us. A public pronouncement that the threat to the royal family was too great to suffer the traitors to live. And while the Spymaster is certain Colovia won’t mourn, some in Nibeny will. A reminder of Your Majesty’s contributions to keeping Cyrodiil safe will help to quiet any opposition."

"You may say whatever vows of loyalty you want," said Krojun. "But if it's one thing I've learnt is that words don't seem to have great value here. If any of you want to show your support, you'll have to do it with more than words. I always value those loyal to me. But if you do not wish to support me, at least remember what I do to my enemies." He looked around the room, his gaze passing from one living councilor to the next. 

The room grew quiet once again, as the blood soaked floors and dead bodies made Krojun’s message loud and clear. Blood was still dripping from a pool on the table, and in the stillness of the room it was audible to all.

Eventually the small Bosmer councilor, Arenion, cleared his throat and said, “What shall we do now? We are without a Chancellor, and we have only have a third the usual council.” 

"That's been accounted for. As long as you don't decide to cause any trouble, most seats should be filled within a fortnight. It will also be a great time to show your support."

There were a few mumbles and nods of assent, but other than that the councilors stayed quiet. Without the Chancellor to end proceedings, they looked to the Emperor.

"Meeting is over. Everyone, dismissed," he said. Krojun then waited as the councilors quickly left the room, followed more slowly by Lilly and the guards. But he didn't let Lilly get even reached the door before lifting her up and pulling her towards him with telekinesis. "I wont let you leave just yet," he said in a low and soft voice. 

She was tense, and the shadow of bloodlust was still upon her. She breathed heavy, before she returned to an air of normality, "I think that went well" 

”I think it did.” He pulled her into an embrace. ”Thank you.”

She put her hand to stop him, but she grinned. Although he still managed to wrap his arms around her. "In a little. I need to calm down. Haven't been in a brawl like that forever." 

”What? You expecting that of me here?” he said with an amused smile.

"Don't flatter yourself." She said deadpanly, still heaving. "For what's it worth, I think most took that well."

”Hmm,” he only mumbled thoughtfully.

The Spymaster eyed the bodies, "I have business to do. Orders to write. Property to be seized and all that. Better get to it. Nothing quite like fresh parchment to take the edge of slaughter." She waved as she walked away from the council chamber. "I'll see you later."

Krojun watched her as she left. He looked forward to seeing her that evening since he planned to make her feel like a queen. A small reward for her loyalty. Part of him wanted to shout that after her, but decided against it. It would be better as a surprise. But first there was the matter of moving Jocasta to her more gilded cage. 

[Celan]

The Gold Road

An entourage of nightblade guards accompanied Magdela Bathory’s carriage on its way west, carrying the countess home after her return to Cyrodiil from Skyrim. As the procession left the Imperial forests behind and neared Skingrad, Maggie traded the carriage for horseback. Dressed in riding gear for this purpose, she also donned a brimmed hat covered in a gauze veil, and dark, round spectacles to shield her from the sun. Her Akaviri shortsword was strapped to her hip. Her small party made their way through the undulating farmlands of the West Weald, through villages, some flourishing and some still the abandoned shells ruined in war. On the road she was met by her husband’s head of security, Andras Barsi, an Order vampire who had been a legionnaire in the Septim era.

As she rode, Andras briefed her on the goings-on in the county. Maggie also watched the farm and vineyard workers they passed. Despite the grime and sweat on their bodies, she felt a tinge of envy towards these simple folk, able to throw themselves into the travails of daily survival and leave the burdens of empire survival to their betters. For a few hours they knew where they belonged and what they had to do. Yet Maggie could also imagine armies sweeping through the fields, cutting them down and burning their years of labor. It had happened in recent memory and it would happen again, soon. It was as if she could already see it, as if the haze on the horizon were already the smoke of army camps.

“My lady.” Barsi drew her out of her thoughts. “I am also to inform you that the Count is at cavalry exercises today west of the city. He says he will greet you at dinner.”

Maggie looked back, and thought a moment. “Never mind that. Let’s go see this practice.”

Skingrad itself appeared at a bend in the road, high and proud, its banners winking. They skirted the city and soon found the legion barracks and beyond that a series of practice fields where infantry skirmished and cavalry rode in mock charges and formation drills. Maggie’s passing drew turning heads, but owing legion discipline prevailed and there were no catcalls. It took her a moment to find Rufus Imbrex among the men. Helmeted, he looked like any of the other cavalry officers. Watching him charge past and attack a straw dummy, Maggie understood some of what drew so many silly women to flock to his bed. Even after centuries of life, he hadn’t lost a recklessness and virility that made men want to follow him and women want to be under him. Yet in Order protocol he had always been easily led. The combination suited Maggie’s purposes perfectly, which is the only reason she had allowed him to take her name and share at least her living quarters, if not her bed.

Noticing her, Rufus wheeled his mount around and approached along with his second. Both men removed their helmets. “Magdela, my love,” Rufus greeted her cheerfully. “What a delicious surprise.” He leaned across their mounts, and Maggie turned her cheek to allow him to kiss it. Instead he grabbed her cheek and turned her lips to his, leaving a grimy smudge on her veil. This she also permitted, accepting his tongue and forcing herself not to repel him.

“Husband.” She smiled coyly, affecting the modest shyness of a proper imperial lady for the sake of the men looking on.

“Are you well? You didn’t get caught up in this nasty business in the capital?”

“Well enough. Our emperor, thankfully, is also well.”

Rufus’ cheek twitched a little, subtly enough that only Maggie would have noticed. Even if their marriage was a sham, even if they were masters of mortal passions rather than subject to them, he was human enough that there was still some jealousy at a mention of her lover. Former lover, Maggie reminded herself.

“Nasty business,” he repeated, covering. “Shall I escort you home?”

“No, no. Far be it from me to interfere with the mighty legion.”

Grinning, Rufus set his helmet back over his sweaty dark hair. “I’ll see you tonight then. Barsi, see that the Countess gets home safely and set double guard on her chambers. Whatever is going on in the Imperial City, it shan’t be allowed to touch us here.”

The two men turned their mounts back to the field. Maggie’s vampire senses allowed her to hear Rufus’ second saying, “By the Nine, if I had that waiting at home, it wouldn’t be my horse I’d be riding this afternoon.” The Count’s laughter was easy to hear. She smirked and swallowed her revulsion. Her mouth tasted like an old sock, but some young Surilie wine could remedy that.

After Maggie had settled back in to her old chambers, washed and changed, she found herself standing outside the door to her father’s study. Her hand rested long on the handle before she could bring herself to turn the lock and enter.

A patina of dust lay over Darius’ Bathory’s wide desk, his bookshelves and curio cabinets. No one had entered this room since the ancient vampire’s death. Maggie stood before the desk, remembering the moment she stood for cross-examination after she had been summoned back to help the family regain standing with Amaund Motierre’s pro-Thalmor regime. Even in vampire terms, it seemed like a lifetime ago. How small she had felt. Yet even now, there was regret. Waiting for Darius to berate and instruct her, she had been like those farm laborers. Despite her petty rebellions, she always had a path to follow.

Slowly Maggie walked around to the other side of the desk and sat down. “Well, Father,” she said, resting gloved hands on the desk and testing out how it felt to sit there. It was possible to follow in his footsteps, she had earned that right. Darius had been a monster, but a remarkably successful one. It now lay upon her to figure out what parts of his legacy to keep and which to discard. For that, she needed to use the distance she’d gained and consider what that legacy was, including the parts of it that he had kept concealed from her. “Let’s see what secrets you’ve been keeping.”

***

Aethereal creatia is inherently unstable. It requires great concentration and limited reserves of mana to shape it to one’s will. This is why we chose blood. Blood is already fit to the purpose of sustaining and regenerating life. Empowered by this stable constant while freed from the illnesses and weaknesses that mortal life places upon it, we have more resources at our disposal than any mortal. All the same gifts of creatia they have, but more. There are wizards who can draw on the life force without physical consumption. While others are content with the considerable powers of our kind, I have made it my business to learn as many of their techniques as I am able. It has been no mean feat, given how rare and secretive is this elite cadre. The spies I have sent to the Telvanni and the College of Whispers must be skilled enough not only to survive but to learn what is needed. I am not ashamed that success has been marginal. We must be patient and keep trying. It is not necessary to be the greatest wizard in Tamriel. It is only necessary to be in step with the greatest. If we possess their skills, sanguinaris will always allow us the tier above.

My advantage lies not only in my patience, but in the support forces our condition allows. Wizards must spend years cultivating apprentices. I can create a powerful and fanatically loyal ally out of a night’s work. Even if my creations turn feral, they still have their uses. Because my powers are inherent in blood, they can also be passed along in seed. No other master even in our order has perfected this art as I have. Others take mortal lovers for pleasure or diversion, and admittedly I began this way, but soon learned the satisfaction that came from shaping the fruits of a coupling to my will. First in selecting the mortal womb best suited, then in cultivating the outcome, crafting the products’ intellect and will even before their birth. It takes an immense investment of power for my kind to procreate, so much so that few attempt it after their turning. That I was able to do so, even causing twins to be born, is cause for pride. Yet that was only the beginning of my work. No father has loved his offspring as I loved them. No father has woven his children’s very thoughts, as I can. If there is any weakness in this approach, it is that the products are too like myself. They have too many gifts without the wisdom that comes from earning them over ages of hard work. I may yet have to destroy what I created. Even this would only serve my power. We are endless conservers, my kind. The realization that I cannot fail gives great satisfaction.

Below I set forth my method of mortal procreation and training, in the hopes that reviewing it will allow me to rectify the mistakes in my early attempts.

Maggie’s hand shook as her fingers traced the writing, translating Darius’ cryptography as she went. It had taken her all night to work out the codes. His personal codes were not all that different than the ones he had taught her for secret communications. Just a simple variation. Other tomes sat at her side that were more sophisticated, using the subtlety of daedric script to conceal their keys. These would require more work, maybe days' worth.

No father has woven his children's very thoughts, as I can. This read like a curse. “My beautiful children, you have made them monsters like you,” Anna Bathory had cried as she watched Darius die. Am I a monster?  Maggie considered the question before discarding it as unhelpful. Whatever she was, she had survived, and the task was to take what she could use of Darius and discard the rest. With that, Maggie slammed the book shut and pushed it aside. She needed neither a primer on vampire procreation, nor to see her own birth and childhood described in clinical terms.

She took another coded book from the pile, and stared at its cover until she discerned the likely meaning of the daedric symbols: Advanced Arts of Sanguinaris Drain and Absorb. This was infinitely more promising.

Maggie was interrupted by a knock on the door, and recognized Andras’ voice. She allowed him enter and closed the door behind him. Nightblade guards were allowed a great deal of levity, but shouldn’t hear everything that Order members said amongst themselves.

“Forgive me, my lady, but I believe you haven’t fed since your return.” Barsi handed her an ornate flask.

“How thoughtful.”

“It’s my job, Countess. If you’re weakened, it would be that much harder to protect you.” The soldier remained at attention, so it was obvious he wasn’t just there for a delivery.

“Speak.”

Nodding curtly, he went on, “I’ve had complaints from the men. To be frank, Lady Bathory, you are a nightmare to guard. You frequently slip your detail, you abuse recall spells, neglect training for parties and writing. Your father did much behind the scenes to ward off threats, but you can no longer depend on that. Do you have any idea how lucky you have been up to this point?”

Maggie stood in stunned silence before finding her voice. “Well. That sounds like a message that was long in the making.” Quelling her anger, she went on, “And took some courage in the telling. Very well, Captain. You have my attention. How can I make your life easier?”

“We return to your training regimen tomorrow, and a review of escape routes and procedures. No more disappearing to Skyrim or wherever it is you go. No parties. No…”

She held up a hand. “Stop. Skingrad was not built in a day, Andras. Let’s start with these and you can lecture me more anon.”

The vampire seemed unwilling to comply, but finally nodded once and departed without another word.

Sighing, Maggie went back to the desk and took up Advanced Arts of Sanguiniris Drain and Absorb. Her mind wandered, however, and she could make no sense of the words. No more trips to Skyrim, indeed. A throb of longing hit her. Simply knowing that she could retreat to Skjari’s arms if the desire took her was more of a relief than she had realized. What had he done to her? Back in her days of training at the high-class brothels of Wayrest and Daggerfall, Maggie had found a way to relish what her father forced her to do, and this genuine enjoyment made her good at it. The key was to control her own responses such that she was perfect master of someone else’s. There was a thrill in being able to read man’s face and body and know exactly what he wanted, then to withhold or grant his desire as it suited her purposes. With Skjari it had been the same at first, then somehow the tables had turned on her. He had found a way to tease genuine physical pleasure out of her, and with this bit of weakness came vulnerability, yielding. Instead of repelling her, the weakness had made her want to please him back, not to control but so that they could be… together. The word had never meant anything to her before. His mystery had deepened the attraction, as had his power, but it was this wound he opened up that now pulled on her like a cord.

With a start, she realized that her body had begun responding to these thoughts with a familiar ache and trickle. Maggie sighed once more. This affliction was not nearly as entertaining in reality as it seemed in her books. Her mind drifted back to their last conversation, to Skjari’s demand. She could not fulfill his condition of monogamy, not while remaining alive and maintaining her own power. Even if she didn’t allow a mortal to penetrate her, she had to let them kiss and fondle her in order to get them in a vulnerable position. Afterward she imprinted fantasies of passion on them to ensure they couldn’t harm her. Without knowing what Skjari would consider “unfaithful,” Maggie couldn’t make that promise, and resented that he tried to force such dilemmas on her. The Nord mage was right about one thing. It was dangerous to rely too much on any one method of bloodletting. The day might come when seduction games no longer served her. How had her father done it all these years, without an army of cattle like other vampire clans maintained?

Sanguinaris Drain. A thought stirred.

Maggie took a long draught from the flask Baris had brought her, and tried to clear her head. This wasn’t about Skjari’s love, which was lost to her now. Her guard was right that she faced more threats than she could count. Survival must be her priority.

An intense few weeks followed, with Maggie locked in Darius’ study apart from her training sessions with her guards. Then Maggie received news from the Imperial City of what had transpired in the Council chambers. As she read the missive from her spy, Maggie shook her head. “Oh Skjari. I hope you know what you’re doing.” She had advised dissolving the Council, but had only pictured grumbling nobles being sent back to their estates, not a blood-soaked Council chamber. Still, whether the conspiracy was real or not, they must turn it to their advantage. Maggie set aside her other plans for the day to write a bevy of letters, attempting what damage control she could, and seeing to it that Order interests would profit from the downfall of the conspirators.

A missive followed some time after that, describing Dales’ triumphant return. By then, news of the imperial dragon was being carried on the lips of merchant and peasant as well, and Maggie heard hope in their voices. The next day she and Rufus walked hand in hand through the streets of Skingrad to attend a prayer service at the great Chapel of Julianos, to give thanks and pray for the safety of the Draconus family. The whole affair made her skin crawl, but it was necessary for a count and countess to maintain a certain level of civil decorum.

There was a market and town feast afterwards. Maggie only briefly attended, making an appearance at an evening bonfire as well. On her way home, she diverted to an alley when she saw a well-dressed man passed out there, having toasted the health of the Draconus’ one too many times. Without approaching him, Maggie whispered the words she had been practicing, and felt a jolt of vigor, as if she had opened the man’s wrist and sucked on it. Other than snoring even more loudly, the man appeared unaware and unaffected. Maggie cast a diagnostic spell to make sure he was without vampirism and otherwise healthy. Satisfied, she moved on. The technique wouldn’t give her all she needed and still required testing, but as Darius had advised, it would be enough if she could continue to stay one step ahead.

[The Good Doctor]

Kyne's Watch

The town of Kyne's Watch was rarely quiet. With the Humping Horker in full swing, there were drunks all about. They walked aimlessly through the streets, singing and hollering while men and women in various loghouses and of course the tavern itself did the same, as though to make it worthy of its new namesake. It befitted a place where its mayor was a follower of Dibella.

Followers of Kyne and Dibella, both Islanders and natives of Skyrim made it their duty to keep a vigil at night, so that the drunks in question did not urinate on the growing Time Tree. A regular threat as Ysana discovered.

As night poured into early day, the birds flocked in droves now, fully aware that humans were calling this frozen land home and that food surely followed, as well as new perches for rest and ships to relieve themselves on. The sailors too added to the morning rumpus. Whether it was captains ordering their crew to offload their goods, or to clean the deck of bird droppings and the crew cursing all the while, they made their presence known. Their bells signifying their arrival at the docks.

The Grim Ones in training were always up this time of day, where Magnus dared a quick peak through the thick blizzard and clouds upon the young upstart of a town and would soon shut them again in a handful of hours. Steel clashing with steel, men and women crying out in pain or roaring with battlecries fit to put the gods themselves on edge. This morning, the Grim One himself was helping set the mood.

The cracking of whips, skin splitting, blood reddening snow. Young boys, one of them Daric's age screaming. Baldur, silent as their father watched along with the king's men, six strong. It was hard work, whipping Nords. The Thalmor knew from experience, Nords didn't admit to feeling pain easily. And so Baldur wore no shirt so as not to work up too much of a sweat. And, so Scathe would see what his son's backs would soon look like once he was done with them.

To Scathe's credit he said nothing until Baldur stood before his youngest son. "Baldur, please. Not this un. He's always been a bloody follower. I know em, he was probably just goin along wit what his big brother told em to."

"It's true!" Another one of Scathe's boys spoke up, between labored breaths as the cold air stung his fresh wounds.

Baldur shrugged. "What does it matter. With what I have planned, this will seem like nothing."

"I was told that they would be given quick deaths, honorable deaths wit axe n sword in hand!" Scathe was stating a fact but said it as though he were pleading.

"That is what the Islanders told me, aye. But I was expecting more. It is their way to give enemies honorable deaths. But it is not my way."

"Ye already killed so many of my sons! You's expect me to stay loyal, obedient after you've stripped me of legacy!? You kill them, and I'll 'ave but two sons left! Not even old enough to grasp sword!"

"I HAVE BUT ONE SON AND I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHERE HE IS!" Baldur turned from his boy and grabbed Scathe by the collar. "And I have but ONE daughter, who just got over fucking teething, let alone be able to grasp a sword. But I forgot, you don't count your daughters, do you? Well perhaps you better start, and give them sword to make up for the lack of a cock between their legs."

As Baldur turned from Scathe, he said, "Though they're in good company it seems. Maybe then, you can finally say a man stands amongst your brood of cunts."

As his hand raised, Baldur caught a glimpse of a ship breaking through the fog of the sea of ghosts, seeking to dock their ports. A common sight he'd gotten used to seeing by now. Why it gave him pause, he didn't know but it was a fleeting moment, a hesitation so brief it was not even noticed by his men, Scathe or his boys. His hand soon descended, leaving a singular red stripe on Scathe's youngest before him.

Before he could add another, a long sorrowful horn sounded from the ship's deck. It was Nordic, that much was certain, but the ship was obviously not... It was enough to save Scathe's boys, at least for the time being. 

"I think I recognize that horn," said Bully. 

"Aye, I think I do too. Bully, go see who's on that ship. If it's who I think it is, I'll be awaiting a report in the fort. The rest of you, see that the poles are ready for the sacrifice to Shor. I want them up by tonight."

***

Earlier that morning
 

Rebec had seen less of their child in recent days, since it had been pointed out to her how soft she had become. Ragna had Baldur as well as Ysana now, and Rebec had thrown herself back into training with the Stormcloaks and naval drills. The Grim Ones, at least, all needed to learn to withstand her thu’um. Maybe through that they would find some who could be trained in it.

 She went less into the mountains, since there was little time for that, but did sometimes visit their homestead site. The level ground was ideal for her to practice her newly learned Sprint, which she could at best do in short bursts. It exhausted her more than Force Push. She had had little time to sit and think about it, so her use was unsophisticated.

After an early practice she descended back to the village, and caught a glimpse of Arle in some trees near the islanders’ encampment. The priestess was looking towards the ground, talking to someone or something. As Rebec approached, she caught a flash of shimmer and Arle looked up in mid-sentence.

“What was that, some kind of magic?” Rebec asked, suspicious.

“Not the way you're thinking."

“So, what then? A ghost?”

“Yes, in fact. Your ancestors don’t visit you?”

 Rebec’s suspicion deepened. “Like the Dunmer business? Sprinkling themselves with the dust of their ancestors?”

“Don’t you christen your ships with the blood and ashes of your ancestors?” Arle had there there. The descendants of Rebec the Red did indeed do that. Pausing, the priestess went on, “Didn’t I hear that you’ve been plagued by ghost women following you, pestering your crew? The Howling Harpy.”

 “Aye, that’s true.” Rebec thought of the wisp she had battled in the ruin not long before.

“Maybe if you were at peace with them, they would come to you more in a form like mine. A guide, a presence that inspires.”

Snorting, Rebec said, “I got enough people trying to give me advice. Like you, for instance.” She was getting tired of Arle taking that tone with her, like she was a child.

The priestess shrugged. “Suit yourself. I must go now. Baldur offered us some of his prisoners, and I promised my ancestor that their blood would be spilled in her name.”

This was news to Rebec. Baldur had been tense the past day or two, but hadn’t told her why. There were many subjects they skirted around since his return. Heading back to the village, Rebec muttered to herself about ancestors and wisps. She paused as she passed by Vigge’s old longhouse. Almost daily she had heard requests to buy it, but had resisted them even as the town now had a housing shortage. Rebec hadn’t set foot inside since she had watched Vigge burn to death.

Her steps leaden, she approached and entered. There were no such elaborate totems on his house as he had made for theirs, just some scratchings on the threshold. Inside, Rebec chased the mice away and built a small fire. Then she began to talk. “Papa, you wouldn’t believe what Baldur’s done. He’s gone and gotten himself made king.” It went on like that for a while, until Rebec found herself just sitting and weeping. The longhouse had lots of ale and little food. There were few things that belonged to Vigge, but numerous half-finished projects for her and Ragna. The one thing Vigge had brought from Dawnstar was the portrait of Jytta. It hung on one end of the main room, taking up a good part of the wall. Rebec stared up at the woman’s face. The painter had captured a bit of the sailor’s fiery, careless nature, and also how the sun looked on her red hair.

 “Mama, you weren’t an easy woman to love,” Rebec found herself saying to the picture. “Papa was better at handling all your nonsense than I was. He would just sit and take it. I had to go off and marry some Morthal boy to get away from you. And I know you wanted to let me rot after I wrecked my ship, but Papa talked you out of it. You weren’t wrong. Maybe I did have it too good and needed to work on other people’s boats without having another ship handed to me. I think that would have killed me, though. I’m sorry I was such a disappointment.”

As she talked, Rebec found her grief turning to anger. “My other ship getting burned, was that you? You been sending all these howling bitches after me? And here I blamed it on Kyne. Or maybe you two are in cahoots.”

So much for making peace with her ancestors. Yet, it did feel good to say it. The truth was that she had always held her mother in awe, and if they didn’t talk much or see eye to eye, it was partly because Rebec never believed she could live up to her. But she was an admiral now, and she had made a good shipping business, and had a beautiful daughter- who hadn’t died. Maybe it was time to stop looking over her shoulder for her mother's disapproval. Maybe she wouldn't even mind if this portrait hung in their new home.

“Thank you, mama,” she managed after a while, and felt better when she said it. “Papa, you too. I miss you so much.”

Rebec sat like that a while, then got up and began packing Vigge’s woodworking projects into crates. Baldur might be able to finish the woodwork, if he got time. Finally, she took her mother’s portrait carefully off the wall, wrapped it in a blanket, and sat it on top of the crates. They could come for it later.

Stepping out into the bright sunlight again, Rebec heard a fuss at the other end of town near the fort, and went to see what it was. Baldur was there, with some prisoners which she recognized as sons of Scathe. Arle was standing nearby, with arms crossed.

 “What’s going on? I thought you were sacrificing them to your ancestor?”

“So did I. Your husband apparently thinks my ways not cruel enough for his vengeance, so he’s claimed them for himself.”

“Vengeance for what? Why am I always the last to know about shit around here?” There had been rumors about Scathe’s sons causing trouble, but she hadn’t paid them much mind.

“Talk to your man.” Arle pushed past her, and Rebec was left to watch Baldur. As a Nord ship horn sounded, his head turned towards it, and Rebec’s followed. What nonsense was this, now?

Baldur's face was tense, his jaw locked and teeth clenched. His eyes did not match, a look of confusion and anger in them, both. He almost walked right past his wife entirely, had she not intercepted his path.

His eyes melted, and his grip on the whip eased. He bit his lip at first, but then allowed himself to smile weakly. "Morning, love... What are you doing up so early?"

"The little milk drinker got me up so I went for a practice. Her grandma's fitting her for new clothes." Rebec glanced at the prisoners, then back at her husband, and put a hand on his chest. "What's going on? These some of Scathe's?"

"Aye," he said, his big paw resting on the same hand. He thought by now the calluses she'd had would've returned but it seemed motherhood got in the way. Even so he could feel them toughing up again somewhat. The familiar nicks and bruises of a Nord in training, for instance, decorating her skin like the tattoos from her sailor days.

He stayed quiet too long, he realized, focusing on the detail of her hands... distracting himself from speaking. Finally, he locked his fingers with hers as the two walked.

"Listen, I'm going to need you to start bringing some guards with you when you go shouting. Scathe's boys, they came after me when I was on my way home last night. Ragna was with me too. They were looking for you, but found us instead."

Rebec stopped in her tracks, practically hauling on his hand. "What are you saying, came after you? And our daughter?"

"They did. Not all of them had the stomach for it though, but if I didn't have the thu'um, they'd all have gone through with the ambush." Baldur pulled on her hand again, hurrying his steps with his men behind them. "Is it really surprising? It shouldn't have been, really. I should've expected it, but it's a good lesson to learn. We have to be careful, especially in the coming years. War is coming again, and it's coming soon."

Rebec was quiet a few paces, absorbing this. "I'll take guards if Ragna is with me. Don't like the idea of a bunch of slackjawed Stormcloaks following me around, though." Her eyes turned ahead. "What are you going to do to them?"

“Rebec...” It was Baldur’s turn to stop. Letting go of her hand, his own rested on her shoulders. “I’m going to make them suffer. And then I’m going to kill them.” His finger lifted her chin as he stared down at her, brow knit.

 “Take the guards, love. Please. With or without Ragna. Even Rebec the Red can be killed. Or worse, captured.”

She shook her head, though was still rattled by what he had told her. Then she remembered the ship horn. "We expecting somebody important? I saw you looking."

His eyes looked to the side, as if peering behind her. When they found her again, he said, "I'm not entirely sure... I'd rather not say it. Not until I'm sure. It's almost too foolish to think....” And there it was, a smile finally. Small at first, and then it grew against his will. "My brother, home at last."

Distracted, Rebec asked, "Who?"

Baldur’s eyebrow lifted. He’d have been offended if he hadn’t seen the worry all over her face.

Excitement turning to guilt of her worry, and anger at those that caused it, he said, “Go to our child. Once this business is done, I’ll make sure others think a second time before challenging us.”

Signaling with a hand wave, two Grim Ones began making their way towards them to shadow her. Turning away, he said, “I’m sorry,” weakly as he began to walk.

Rebec scowled, hands on her hips, and made no move to obey. Looking from Baldur and the prisoners back out to sea, she muttered, "Brother..." Then it dawned on her who Baldur must mean. Boldir, here?!  Baldur had said he was looking for him, but she didn't think he'd actually find him in that nest of milk drinkers. She thought of all the people in Riften who would want him dead. Who would expect Baldur to kill him. "No, no, no. This is not a good id..."

 "So?" Arle's abrupt question interrupted her. "Is Baldur going to give us our prisoners back?"

"Oh shut up, Arle." Rebec pushed past the other woman and stalked back towards the village. Even if she didn't like being told to go, after what she had learned about Scathe's sons, she suddenly had a fierce urge to see their baby and hold her.
 

***

It had been a long voyage for Nekla's Diamond. The voice that plagued her crew had ceased several days after the departure from Stros M'kai, but the weeks that followed were plagued with bad weather, bad moods, and nagging feelings of guilt and frustration. It was not until the shores of Haafingar became visible that the Nords at least began to perk up. Trevis wished that he could share in their relief, but he was the farthest from home that he had ever been, and it pained him to think about how his own people probably thought he was dead.

Down below, Boldir faired even worse. His captors did not tell him when the ship entered Nordic waters. Valga had been the one to inform him of that. The weeks at sea had forced him to calm himself and accept that there was no changing their new course. He had failed Mila, completely and utterly. But perhaps something could still be salvaged in all this. Baldur was a king now, aye. But they had also been brothers. Had that changed? Boldir thought back on the happiness he had felt upon learning of the Red-Snows' child, on the relief of hearing that Baldur had survived his duel with Brund. How did he feel when he found out that I survived burning down Riften? Would he have preferred it if I hadn't?
Boldir prayed that whatever his old Shield-Brother thought of him now, their past would be enough to save Mila. It had to be.

Out of everyone on the ship, Mila was the most bitter of them all. Valga had come to her many times every day, whispering in her ear messages from Boldir that were meant to be reassuring, promises that he would figure something out, that Baldur would do right by them. She knew her father believed what he said, and maybe it was even true, but every time Mila thought of the best of these scenarios, her mind went back to the sight of men burning and drowning. She had done that, and it was Baldur who had forced her to. She had spent so long running from her home that the though of returning frightened her more than anything since Oblivion, but it also fueled the anger that boiled inside her. 

Even the crew itself was miserable. They had families back in Cyrodiil who were no doubt sick with grief and worry. But nobody cared about them.

After the longest and most dour journey any of them had ever been on, the young settlement of Kyne's Watch finally came into view. Thorald blew a horn, and before long a smaller Nordic vessel approached them. Trevis watched as a heavyset Grim One and a younger Stormcloak boarded their ship and embraced Gray-Mane like brothers. They spoke for a time in hushed tones, and then the younger man returned to his ship while the Grim One proceeded belowdeck. Thorald turned to Trevis. "I told them you were a friend. You and I are to go and speak with High King Baldur."

Trevis was surprised. "Just us?"

"Parading Boldir through the streets will be a good way to get him killed," Thorald explained. "Bully will watch him now, but Baldur will want to hear from us at once."

Trevis had hoped to find a courier or a merchant, someone who could get word of his mission to Cyrodiil as soon as possible, but that would have to wait. The Nords still had him on their rope. He took a few minutes to gather what few things he had, and then got in a small dinghy with Thorald, who rowed them to the shore. The town was built around a large stone fortress that sat on the beach. This was where Gray-Mane took him. The Stormcloak guards greeted their returning friend happily, but Thorald seemed distracted. His features darkened as they headed down into the underground keep. That was when it hit Trevis. They were in Northwatch Keep. "This is where they held you, isn't it? You were tortured."

They walked in silence for a long while, and then finally, the Grim One answered. "Yes."
Thorald led Trevis to a large open chamber, where all the doors were closed save the one they entered. Inside, a shirtless Nord looked away from them as he paced. Trevis had just enough time before the Nord turned around to make out a series of scars criss-crossing all over his back, and beneath what appeared to be a brand shaped like a 'T'. To his surprise, Thorald stopped and saluted with a fist to his chest. "My king."

When he realized who he stood before, Trevis straightened. Though he said nothing, preferring instead to let High King Baldur speak first.

Only he didn't speak, for an awkward moment. It was eerily silent there in the center of the fort, with not even the creaking or squeaks of chains to break it. They really were alone in this place. The High King of Skyrim stood in solitude waiting for an audience, with him...

Finally, the man acknowledged Thorald, even smiling as if to apologize. "Tell me everything," he said. He was looking at Trevis. "And I mean every little seemingly unimportant detail. I want to know it all. Like for instance, why only three of some of my best men returned on a mission to retrieve my brother and his daughter alive, and why you thought you'd get in the way of that, Imperial."

High King Baldur's vitriol surprised Trevis, but he kept composed. "With respect, High King, your men were found in Cyrodiil searching for someone who was wanted by the Legion for multiple crimes. I had leads that they didn't, so we agreed to work together in finding him. Until the day of Boldir's capture, there was no 'getting in the way' of anything. It was a mutual partnership." He paused to gauge the king's reaction, but Red-Snow's expression had not changed. "Ask Gray-Mane and he will tell you as well that we tried to bring in Boldir and Mila without bloodshed. They were the ones who started the violence, and the number of your men who returned reflects that. I lost people as well."

The King's expression flickered something as he spoke, but otherwise remained unchanged. He turned away from the two again. "You did good to join with them, Thorald. I had hoped sending men that Boldir knew would avoid bloodshed. Well then. What else?"

"They spent some time in the Imperial City," Thorald said. "What happened to Sibbi Black-Briar, that was their doing."

"Her doing," Trevis corrected. "Mila is the one who killed Maven's son. I'm not so sure that Boldir ever even saw the man alive."

"I'm sorry, come again?" The look on Baldur's face was plain. "What is this, Thorald? The Imperials think Mila, my Mila killed Sibbi Black-Briar? She's just a girl."

"I said the same," Thorald replied. The Grim One seemed pained to say the words. "But seeing what I have, it would not be the most surprising thing she's done."

Gray-Mane went ahead and told Baldur everything he knew about the early weeks of their search, starting with the detail of the Black-Briars being involved in the death of Mila's mother. Trevis was surprised by Baldur's lack of surprise at that particular revelation. But then the Grim-One went on to describe the the long trail of leads from Talos Plaza in the Imperial City to Thorn Lodge in Chorrol, right up until their first actual encounter with Boldir and Mila in the backwoods of northern Colovia, when the two had been separate at the time.

"It was there that we first found her," said Thorald, "It had been so long that she did not even recognize me. I must admit, I was surprised myself by how much the years had changed Carlotta's daughter. Not just her looks. The girl fought us every inch, even when we were only trying to talk her down. Cursed and spat at all our questions."

 "She slashed at you," Trevis reminded the Nord.

"Aye," Thorald said dismissively. "She hated us." He seemed hesitant to go on, but finally added. "That's when things got bad..."

Trevis picked up for him. "A mild way to put it. Boldir came out of hiding while our group was split. He and Mila killed two of my men and one of yours."

"Luthmar," Thorald sighed. "The girl stabbed him from behind."

Baldur’s face twisted and contorted as they spoke, as if he was dying to butt in, interject. The words, ‘No, not my Mila,’ were about to fly out at any moment. 

 Instead, laughter was what escaped him. The King was laughing.

”All that time. All that pain. All that struggle and suffering to produce the greatest warriors Tamriel has ever seen. And all of it for naught before the wrath of a girl whose father needed her.”

 He could see it in their eyes, this was no joke. And yet he couldn’t stop laughing. And then he did, replaced by a cold hatred for Sibbi and everyone that made that oh too familiar change in her necessary. The fact that he might’ve been among that number well known to him. Suddenly he couldn't wait any longer. 

“Bring my family here. Now. Not you, Imperial. You stay here.”

Thorald nodded, but before he took a step, Trevis spoke up, "Wait." Both Nords looked at him, puzzled. "Don't you think your king should hear the rest before he sees them?"

“This is a lot to take in... I knew Boldir caused you some trouble, he’s stubborn like that sometimes but I had no idea Mila... I need to see my niece.” Baldur’s fist clenched again and again. “What else do I need to know this instant that Thorald can’t tell me later? She rabid or something? Contracted Lycanthropy? Thorald, bring me my niece!”

Thorald gave Trevis a hard look. "Everything you want to tell him, it can wait til later."

"No, it can't." Trevis glared at Baldur. He could see what kind of man the king was. He loved his family, even enough to forgive them. "I am very sorry to tell you this, but your niece has killed more of my men than anyone I've gone after. And that's just my men. We need to talk about what we're going to do about that."

“We?” Baldur took a step towards Trevis.

“You’ve got some snowberries, Imperial. But we, aren’t doing a damn thing.”

Trevis did not budge. "We had better," he said, "Or the Empress and her spymaster are going to want the heads of your brother and his girl for what they've done. I can keep that from happening."

Baldur turned away before he pivoted back towards Trevis, his fist in the Penitus Oculatus’ stomach.

”I don’t give a shit what your Empress wants. Or your Spymaster. They’re not laying a finger on either of them, and certainly not Mila. It’s Cyrodiil that needs me, not the other way around. They get no say in this matter, it’s our city that was burned down. Cyrodiil lost a handful of soldiers. Stay out of it.”

Trevis doubled over, his hand instinctively twitching for the dagger at his hip. If it had been any other Nord who hit him, they would have found it in their eye.
"You think we only lost soldiers?" Trevis straightened back up with a scowl. "Those bandits you claim as kin could hardly go a week without killing! I am willing to help protect the girl, but if you're really so determined not to listen, then fine. Harbor Cyrodiil's enemies as openly as you please."

"Her name, is Mila," said Baldur. "And the only enemy Cyrodiil should be concerning herself with is south of the border. And she better keep her eyes focused there, or I'll pluck them out." 

"I'll pass along the message." Trevis eyed Baldur coldly. And some others as well. "Anything else, Red-Snow?"

 The Nord King grabbed him around the throat, backing him into the cold stone wall. His hand gripped tighter, and tighter again as his feet began to leave the ground until he was on Baldur's eye level. 

He leaned in close, until his breath was on Trevis' ear...

"No, no I don't think you will. See, I'm starting to think you're going to be trouble. Can't take the risk. I killed my own king just to make sure they were returned to Skyrim, safe. So think about what I'll do to you..."

Baldur's eyes met Trevis' for a time as he squeezed the life out of him before he dropped him to the ground. "NO MORE TALK. BRING THEM NOW." Baldur spat at him. "And find this one a cell."

Thorald nodded at Baldur, and then the Grim One's eyes went wide, and he started forward. "Baldur!"

Baldur turned in time to see a dagger ripping free of Trevis' belt. The Inspector's world has gone from annoyance to desperation in the blink of an eye. The Nords were not planning on allowing him to leave. He realized that now. They did not intend to let Cyrodiil to learn about any of this. And so as Baldur's lips parted to speak the word "Yol," Trevis slashed Mila's blade across the High King's neck.

 "No!" Trevis tried to sidestep Thorald, but he was too drained from being choked. The Grim One slammed into him, pinned him against the floor, and began to wrestle for the bloody dagger.

As powerful as Thorald was, Trevis was an Oculatus, and his will to live was strong. It wouldn't matter in the end however.

 Trevis felt hands on his ankles, and suddenly he was exposed, pulled straight from under Thorald across the dusty cobble stone floor. In all of that he managed to slip the dagger from Thorald's grasp, but soon found his hands unable to grip it when the Nord King's large boot kept stomping his arm and hand. He weakly reached for the dagger with his other hand before Baldur grabbed it and stomped on the joint, hard. There was a sickening pop before Baldur let go, his arms spread eagle as the Nord paced with the dagger in one hand, the other hand on his neck.

 He looked at the blood on Mila's blade. The metalwork was exquisite. The fox was practically alive before him in the steel. He'd remembered Boldir's description of it in their letters so there was no mistaking it.

 He wondered how many lives the thing had already taken. How his was almost one of them, and how Rebec would react if she noticed the wound. That thought stuck in his mind more than anything. He kept reassuring her things would be fine, that they'd go his way, and even still he kept giving her cause to worry. He'd become accustomed to seeing that look on her face nowadays more than any other.

 Picturing it now as if he could see her in the blood on his palm, a familiar feeling began to stir in his gut.

He looked from the blood to Trevis, then back at the blood again before he tossed aside the dagger, teeth bared as he fell upon him, ripping his eyes from his sockets. The more Trevis screamed, the angrier Baldur got. And it wasn't the cold straight faced anger he felt often before. Calculated and focused. This was what he felt atop High Hrothgar. Rage.

 As he laid there, helpless, Baldur's fists pounded into his body, the thuds echoing around him. When he finally stopped, Trevis was barely breathing... He'd bit his tongue during the assault and was beginning to choke on his own blood.

Baldur stood over him, watching the crimson flow from his eyes. He forgot Thorald was there entirely. At least, until the Grim One spoke. "Baldur, your throat. You need to see a healer at once."

Baldur put a hand on his neck but kept his eyes on the Oculatus. The one on his armor was staring back at him. "There should be a potion around here. The cut isn't deep. Just please, bring me my family while I dispose of him. No more delays. And, thank you."

Thorald turned and left, and on the floor, Trevis's writhing slowed and eventually stopped. Amidst the pain of dying, the blind Inspector's final thoughts still managed to be about his task. He died hoping that Boldir and Mila would bring as much misfortune on Red-Snow and his loved ones as they had on him.

***
 

Some time later, Rebec turned up at the fort with Ragna in tow. Ysana had gussied the baby up in a velvet dress earlier, but that had been dispatched and she was dressed like a proper Nordling in embroidered tunic, soft deerskin pants and fur booties. Her mead-colored hair was long enough now that it had wind braids to match her mother's. Ragna's were pulled back and bound with a jewel clip on the back of her head, a present from one of Eilif's wives.

The fort guards knew better than to hinder Rebec even if the king did have important visitors, so she strode into the room but immediately stopped in her tracks at the unmistakable smell of charred human flesh. Looking from the blood on the floor over to Baldur, she demanded, "What in Shor's hairy sack is going on here?"

Baldur jumped, almost dropping the basket of ash he was throwing into a fireplace.

"Just finishing up negotiations," he said. He walked her and his child out of the room where the air was unpolluted, bucket of water in hand for cleaning himself. "That was an Imperial. Last Oculatus agent to know exactly what transpired between here and Cyrodiil."

"Oculatus? I thought you were all chummy with imperials now. Is Boldir here somewhere?" Rebec's tone was impatient, though Ragna was burbling happily and reaching out for her father.

"Friends close. Enemies closer."

Baldur didn't want Ragna's clothes getting dirty but the girl took the matter out of his hands. He traded the bucket for the baby and said with a smile, "He's on his way. Mila too. Listen, they're not going to be the same. They had no intention of returning to Skyrim. They even killed my men. By the gods, I can hardly believe it... Anyway, we should prepare ourselves for anything."

"They shouldn't have come back. Gods, if there's anyone here from Riften we'll never hear the end of it... But if the Oculatus was after them, then I guess Cyrodiil isn't safe, either." She hadn't yet seen Baldur's throat, but Ragna found the wound and stuck a finger in it. Rebec's eyes widened. "Baldur, are you alright? That PO bastard did this?"

He flinched at Ragna's curious prodding and distracted her with Mila's sheathed dagger instead of his cut. "It smarts a little but I took a healing potion. He was concealing Mila's dagger." 

He sat down with Ragna in his lap at a table, who was now busy sucking on the pommel of the blade. Baldur meanwhile grabbed a bottle of mead to nurse his sore throat.

"So he and Mila found each other, or the Grim Ones found them both? I'm not surprised that men died taking Boldir. I'm more surprised that any survived."

"Only three survived, give the man some credit," said Baldur, wincing as he laughed. "Though from my understanding that wasn't entirely his doing. Thorald will fill in the gaps." Baldur tugged at her belt till she sat in his lap as well so he could rest his head against her. For all his excitement, he was exhausted. So many emotions ran through his head that he was beginning to feel like the time he and Rebec had walked into Ysana's temple.

Rebec smoothed at his mussed hair. A more sensitive wife would have let her man have a moment of peace after he was almost killed. Instead Rebec pressed, "What are you going to do with him? You can't let him go."

"I know," he said, eyes closed. "I know what I have to do. There's no perfect solution but this is my burden to bear."

"I guess we can't keep all this secret, eh? I can't bear the thought of Mila in a prison cell, Baldur. Not after all that girl's been through."

"The hell we can't," said Baldur. "You think I became king just to be the one to put Mila in prison myself? You don't need to know the details, love. Trust me, no one's gonna know her involvement in any of this. Boldir's the one that's gonna be tricky."

"So is that why the PO had to die?" Rebec shook her head, glancing at the blood smearing her daughter's tunic and cheek. "Better hope no one decides to take revenge on her for Boldir's sake. You and I aren't the most popular around here either, remember."

He took a wet cloth from the bucket, handing it to Rebec to clean off their daughter, staring at the blood on her.

"I remember,” he said, voice soft and without his usual defensive tone. 

Ragna fussed and tried to ward off her mother's cleaning, to no avail. The tunic would have to be washed out later. Her mother went on, "This is no time for division in our ranks, either. I don't envy you this decision, Baldur. I'm with you, whatever you do. At least in front of the men."

Her husband laughed, albeit short and dry to avoid working his throat muscle too much. The potion was doing it's job, but his neck was throbbing, and there was swelling where his healing wound was.

"You may not be Skyrim's queen, but you're mine. You're blunt, but I wouldn't change it for a second."

Rebec smiled wanly and nodded once. He was trying to make her feel better, but there was too much on her mind to go into it. Giving up on Ragna's cleanliness, she tossed the rag aside and stood up. "Should we go meet them at the docks?"

"Of course not," he said, sighing. "Too open. They're coming, just relax." Baldur turned at the sound of hurried footsteps. "In fact, I think they're here already."

Shortly after he said that, Thorald and Bully entered the chamber, and then behind them, like a ghost from the past rattling in chains, Boldir Iron-Brow came forward. The man sported numerous new scars and burns and looked like he had aged a decade, but it was really him. His eyes went first to Baldur, then Rebec, and then at last fell on Ragna, and all the regret Boldir felt multiplied inside him. He did not say anything. He didn't know what to say.

"Shor's hairy..." Rebec fell silent for once, her mouth agape, and looked from Boldir back to her husband.

Baldur had wondered often how he'd react on this day. None of the time he'd spent mentally prepping himself could've prepared him for seeing Boldir in such a state. Rough, battered and burned. Broken. 

He did that, he realized. He couldn't read what was in his eyes like he used to. All the countless battles they'd fought together, all the death and blood. In the chaos of battle, one couldn't always rely on speech. All there was, was instinct. And instinctively, the two knew what the other were thinking in that heightened state of mind where one's life was on the line without ever uttering a word.

And though he couldn't read his brother's eyes at that moment, he could not make out joy in them. That much was certain. 

He stood as well now, Ragna in hand, unaware of what his own eyes portrayed.

Stepping past his wife until he stood right in front of the man himself, the infamous burner of cities, the king said, "This is your niece. She's been dying to meet you. I spoke to her every night about you... she couldn't wait for the day she'd finally meet her famous uncle. Because that's what you are, right? Brother?"

Boldir felt like he was being yanked out of a nightmare. The man who stood before him was not the distant king who had been haunting his mind all these months. He was Baldur. Still Baldur.
He swallowed between deep breaths, and an uncontrollable smile briefly flickered across his face before leaving again. At last, he nodded and forced the word out, "Aye," and then, stupidly and mindlessly, he added, "She has your hair."

At that, the tears fell immediately as Baldur too failed to hold back a smile. Then the laughter came. And before he knew it, Baldur had Ragna in one arm and a full sweaty grimy head of Boldir in the other in what could've been mistaken for a headlock rather than a hug, as fearsome as it was. 

Rebec stood back, hand over her mouth and watching the two Nords reunite while memories of Falkreath and Whiterun came flooding back. She'd imagined them all back together again, but never like this. As the men parted and she met Boldir's eyes, Rebec shook her head and started forward.

"What an enormous pile of shit you've gotten yourself into this time, Junior." The tears started as she threw her arms around his neck. After a time she kissed his cheek and stepped back, but left her hands on the big man's arms. "Boldir, I'm so sorry about Carlotta."

"I know." The pain Boldir felt at hearing his wife's name again was evident, but he was used to that by now. Right then, he was so overwhelmed with different thoughts and emotions that it was hard to dwell on any one thing, even her. "Me too. I'm sorry too, I mean." The words felt so hollow, and he knew they were. What was an apology against all he had done? "For everything."
 He stepped back and looked at them both. "You two... you must think..." His words failed him again, so he stood there feeling dumber and more guilty by the second. And then he heard the guards behind him approaching, and clarity struck him. It doesn't matter. Turning to his brother, he said in a low voice, "Please, don't let anything happen to Mila. None of it was her fault. None."

And then Mila emerged next to him, bound at the wrists and flanked by Grim Ones herself. She had gotten taller and more shapely, a young woman now, hardly recognizable from the little girl in Whiterun. Unlike Boldir, her eyes were all too easy to read. They were brimming with anger, but even worse, hurt. The girl may have been on the verge of tears, but she managed to hold them back.

"Mila, girl," Rebec muttered, shocked that this fierce young woman was what had become of the little girl Baldur carried around on his back. She then stood back to let her husband speak.

Baldur felt the heat of her glare and lost himself in it for a time. Seeing the same little girl he once held in his arms aiming such hate... 

"Thorald, you lot can leave."

Bully gave Thorald a look and stepped forward. "Uh, Baldur, after what they just told me, do you think that's wise?"

"Bully, right now it's King Baldur. Don't second guess me, just do as I command. Thorald, you can stay nearby, just leave the room for now."

Bully frowned, not used to having Baldur take that commander tone with him like he was fresh out of the trials again. But he nodded and had the others follow. He made sure to have men posted on the exits, inside and out.

 Ragna was busy talking to Rebec, pointing at the other big man in the room who was even larger than her father.

Meanwhile, Baldur never left Mila's gaze. "Niece... you remember me, don't you? It's Uncle Baldur." He tried to smile, look friendly. Probably hard to do caked in blood as he was, even while awkwardly holding a child. 

"Of course I do," Mila said in a voice that was dry from lack of use. Her gaze did soften for a moment, when it turned to the toddler. "Is that Ragna?"

"That it is," he said, holding her in front of him while she kicked her dangling legs in protest. "Come here, girl. Say hello to her."

Mila looked at Boldir, who nodded softly, then she took a step forward. Ragna's hands were occupied by the sheathed dagger, her dagger, but the baby let go with one when Mila's hair offered something new to grab for. Mila quickly backed out of her reach, and the baby started to whimper. "Nice to meet you too," Mila whispered back.

Satisfied, Baldur handed Ragna back to Rebec while he busied himself with unshackling the pair. Afterwards he found some mead and spiced wine and passed drinks around at the table. Nothing helped to rid a room of awkwardness like mead. 

He placed a bottle in Mila's hand as well. Her and Boldir both looked like they needed it. He certainly did.

Balancing Ragna on her hip, Rebec held a bottle of mead but couldn't stop staring. "You've grown so tall, Mila." That was the softest thing she could manage before she burst out with what she was really thinking. "Gods damn it, Boldir, why didn't you send for us straight away?"

Boldir started to answer, but couldn't get a word back before Mila fired back, "He couldn't!"

"The Black-Briars had my family," Boldir explained. It upset him that they might've thought he hadn't wanted to do exactly that, but it was to be expected. Rebec hadn't been there. "Maven would have killed them if you came."

"I know. Ingun told me," said Baldur. "She was at the moot. She's Jarl of Riften now. Ingun told me everything that happened since Riften. I get it, brother, I do. And I know that Sibbi was forging the letters that came back to me... using you, little one." Baldur pointed his mead bottle in Mila's direction. "What I'm not clear on is why you fought so hard to resist my men? Surely they mentioned I wanted you both brought back alive?"

"Did Thorald not fill you in?" Boldir was surprised by that. "I did not wish to fight them. They were working with the Empire."

 "Who would've killed us," Mila said scornfully. "And even if they didn't, we didn't want to come back. Your men didn't care. That's why we killed them."

 "I killed them," Boldir corrected. He could tell that Baldur knew better, of course he did, but he gave his brother a look that begged him to accept the lie. "We needed to reach Hammerfell."

Baldur eyed Mila and was surprised to realize he was actually angry with her...

"Girl..." Baldur stopped himself and looked at his wife, then back to Mila.

 "This situation...." Baldur stood and slammed his fist on the table. "This whole situation is shit. I have no idea what's going on with you two but I am king now. I could've helped you both! What in the world is it that you two think you could've done better alone than with a king aiding you? What, did you think I would execute you? How foolish can you be? I love you! Both of you! Have you forgotten that?"

Mila stood up as well. "We had our bloody doubts!"

"Mila, be quiet!" Boldir grabbed her by the shoulder and forced her into her chair. "No, we didn't. The girl is speaking out of anger. We couldn't come back because we needed to reach Hammerfell to kill some elf and get a daedric fucking prince to give back Mila's soul!"

Baldur just gave him a look. At this point, he wished he had Thorald fill him in on the rest as planned after all. But he wasn't sure it'd make what he just heard any more believable.

"You got yourself mixed up with elves? This is worse than I thought." Never mind the daedric prince and Mila's soul. Rebec smoothed Ragna's hair to calm her. The baby was getting tired and hungry, a combination that didn't go well with shouting and pounding of tables.  Dipping some bread in mead, Rebec gave it to her to chew on. "Let's say we don't want to hear any more about who killed who. No way to establish it now anyway, with no witnesses, so that's the end of that. Tell us... er, tell Baldur about this elfy business."

"We didn't get mixed up with any elves," Boldir replied. Under different circumstances he might've laughed. It was so like Rebec to get hung up on that detail of all things. "The prince, Clavicus Vile, he sent us to kill one for him. A Thalmor general who would've sailed past Stros M'kai weeks ago."

Baldur sat back down in his chair, clenching his mead, thinking. The way Boldir casually talked about the prince of wishes and pacts... it left a pit in his stomach. First this nonsense with Boethiah, from his own father no less. And now this.

"It's not good to casually speak the name of devils. Boldir, you and I will talk about this in detail later. If this is real and you're not lying to me, then he should be happy you winded up here. As should you. Dead elves is my business, and my boys are damn good at their trade. If Clavicus wants this elf general's soul, he'll get it. And then some."

"Wait." Rebec held a hand out to stop Baldur from talking. "A Thalmor general is sailing the Abecean? Headed here?"

"Headed home," Boldir said. "I don't know from where. It doesn't matter, they'd have made it by now."
He half expected Mila to jump in again and say that they had been well on their way to killing the elf on their own when Baldur's Grim Ones stopped them, but the girl remained silent and he was grateful for that. Almost as grateful as he was for the confirmation that Baldur would help kill the elf. It was the most he could hope for at this point. Looking at him now, Boldir continued, "I'm not lying, brother. I don't know enough about this sort of nonsense to make it up."

Baldur nodded, forcing a smile despite his frustration. The politics and shit about Riften was one thing. Daedra was another. Then there was the detail of this ship. That definitely had him curious as well. But Boldir was right, it didn't matter anymore.

Sighing heavily as he leaned back in his chair, he said, "Well brother I don't know if it's a good thing or not but I do know a thing or two about this sort of nonsense. Like I said, lets talk about this in detail later."

Rebec asked, "So if they're in Summerset by now, how are we supposed to track him down?"

"By taking the fight to Summerset," said Baldur. "Or, drawing him out, which the war no doubt will. There's multiple ways we can go about doing it once the fighting starts. And, I have a little surprise for them once the naval war starts. The human alliance has a dragon."

 The Thalmor weren't the only ones who would be surprised. Even Mila couldn't keep up an angry face at that. Boldir looked at his brother in disbelief. "How in Talos' name..."

With a snort Rebec said, "Oh, sure, Baldur. Why not. There's not nearly enough fire in a naval battle with the Thalmor as it is." She shook her head, turning back to Ragna. The baby had her mouth open wide like a nestling chick, and Rebec filled it with another chunk of mead-soaked bread. "I don't even want to know how you two got mixed up with a daedric prince. Guess we got to hope the devil can wait til we get a war on."

Provided he doesn't just use someone else, Boldir thought. Vile had already promised to do as much. But Baldur wanted to discuss that later, and so did he. Preferably just the two of them. In the meantime, he turned things back to Baldur. "So you're a king and have a dragon now? What about the stories we've heard of you shouting? Are they true as well?"

Baldur tried not to smile too much and said, “So can this loudmouth,” taking attention off him. “In fact, Nahfahlaan says her constant shouting gives him a headache.”

"Who?"

“NAH, FAH, LAAN. He went by Nafaalilargus. The Empress picked him out from some stories of old about him fighting for Talos. Nafaalilargus, his mercenary name for the milkdrinkers. I figured that wasn’t his true name so I tried to guess what his true draconic name would be. Then, I called him.”

Baldur frowned at the memory. “He’s quite the asshole but he’s a useful one. All I had to do was promise him something later down the line and give him a mountain. Dales has given him an entire county and named the thing a Duke. When you walk outside, it’s the second tallest one in the distance from here looking to the Throat of the World. Mount Nahfahlaan. Just don’t say his name too loud.”

"No Fool On can mind his own damn business about my shouting," Rebec replied, scowling. "Keep him on his mountain far away from me and my ships. And I see you're on a first name basis with the imp empress now." She looked at Boldir and shook her head, sighing. "I've tried, Junior. I've really tried."

Boldir grinned despite himself. He had missed the Red-Snows' banter, and the way his brother could take a simple question and answer it with a story. He didn't bother to mention that he had not even known Nahfahlaan was the dragon until the word 'draconic' had been used.

Baldur rolled his eyes and ruffled his wife’s hair till it was at the front of her face. “As have I, but this one’s skull is hard enough to crack dragonbone.”

Rebec slapped his hand away, though gave a little wry smile. Sobering, she said, "What are we going to do with you two? We could hide Mila with the islanders. It's the best way not to draw attention to a newcomer. Boldir, he's not going to be easy to hide anywhere."

“We’re not hiding Mila,” said Baldur. “No one knows what she’s done but us. No one even knows it’s her. My men won’t talk. Boldir and Mila can both stay in...” he hesitated a while.

“They can stay in Daric’s place. At least until he returns. As for you, Boldir... I have an idea until I figure something out more long term. You’re probably not going to like it though... how’d you feel about a haircut? And, maybe some tattoos on your dome. My mother could do it.”

"The priestess?" Boldir frowned. "Unless she can remove scars, I'm not sure that will work. I'm not exactly recognized for my hair."

“You’re also not the only Nord to suffer burns and the like, especially not in the Grim Trials.”

"Grim Trials?" Now Boldir knew what his brother was getting at. "You mean to recruit me."

Baldur let a grin stretch across his face. “You’re damned right I do, Iron-Brow. You want to hunt elves? There’s no better cover. And we’re a tight knit group. You ain’t the only one with a dark past to join our ranks. And you, little one. Don’t think you’ll be sitting in that house brooding all day. You’ll be giving Rebec a hand with the baby, training with her and Arle, and learning how to maintain armor and weapons so you can help your father. Squire work. Like Finna Red-Snow, the girl that killed the Snow Prince.”

Rebec appeared dubious at this plan. She still recalled Mazoga's state after her Trials. Glancing at Boldir, however, she considered that what he went through in the past year might not even compare. At least he'd do better with the cold. "They could stay in Papa's place," she offered soberly. "I cleaned it out a bit. Just needs his woodwork and painting of Mama moved out to our longhouse."

Baldur looked to her, unaware she’d even visited Vigge’s home lately. He put his hand around her shoulder briefly, then said, “That’ll work. Probably best to have you two on the outskirts of town anyway. Attract less attention.”

"That would be best," Boldir agreed. "Thank you." He was less certain about the rest. He somehow doubted that being a Grim One would give him free reign to seek out the elf he was after, but he trusted Baldur. Even if he did not have a plan yet, they would come up with something.

Mila was less confident, though she had cooled off a little and was no longer scowling. She could see what Baldur and Rebec were doing, and she knew they really were trying to help, but it seemed to her like there was a simpler way to do this. "Why not just let us leave?" she asked. "We were doing fine on our own. If you don't intend to punish us, then why go through the trouble?"

Baldur looked at her, eyebrow raised. "Why? Fine on your own? You think the Oculatus would've left you alone if I never sent my Grim Ones after you? Or worse, the Emperor? You should be glad half the men that pursued you had orders to take you in alive. If not for that, who knows if you'd have gotten as far as you did... I wanted to make sure that when you two were inevitably found by someone, my men were there to make sure you lived... Under my care is the safest place for both of you. I'm not just the King of Skyrim after all, I'm the bloody leader and general of the whole damn alliance... I don't have diplomatic immunity but if I tell Cyrodiil you're off limits, you're off limits. So long as you're in proximity to me..."

Baldur stood from his chair. "And besides that, little one, you should know by now... family doesn't let family be... You don't just leave loved ones to their own devices. Family never should have to face anything alone. That's the whole point of family in the first place."

Pointing to the door, Baldur said, "But, you're both free to leave whenever you wish. I however implore you to utilize me and my resources. Please. I've been thinking about this moment for a long, long time. This is the correct move, for both of you."

For a long time, neither of them spoke, though not for lack of things to say. Mila hated the way Baldur presumed to so much as guess that they wouldn't have survived without his interference. As if his Grim Ones had helped them. As if they owed him their lives. But what he said about them being family... Mila didn't buy that they were better off now, but maybe staying was the correct move now that they were here. Maybe.
 She turned to Boldir and knew that it did not matter. His mind was already made up.

"He's right," her father said. "What else could we do? Return to Cyrodiil? Put on some pointy ears and sail to Alinor on our own? We cannot do this without help. We're staying, Mila."

She nodded. It was the most she could manage at that moment. "Okay."

Rebec pushed up from the table with her free hand. "Right. If that's all the jawing, l'll let Baldur see to your shave and I'd better get the Nordling settled for a nap." She paused, realizing the weight of the moment and all that had gone on to bring it about. "It's good to have you two home."

Meanwhile Ragna had noticed "her" dagger on the table and was reaching out for it, stretching across her mother's arm and trying to worm out from under it to get back to the table.

“That it is,” Baldur added. “And now that you are home, perhaps it’s time you two get washed up. And me, for that matter.”

Boldir frowned and motioned at the bloodstains all over his brother. "I was going to ask. What happened?"

“A long story, one I can give you later if you really want.”

Baldur watched the girl fight her mother for the little dagger, giving quite the fuss as her father grabbed it just before she did. He gave the baby an apologetic look as he eyed it, admiring the blade before sheathing it again, handing it back to Mila. She quickly tucked it back into her belt.

After Rebec left with the baby, the trio, consisting of Baldur, Boldir and Mila, waited in the fort till night fell. In Kyne’s Watch, that was never a long wait, thankfully. 

Baldur indeed took care of the shaving, though it seemed to pain him far more than it did Boldir despite it being his idea in the first place. However, after his mother got done placing the Nordic markings atop Boldir’s iron brow and dome, he was almost jealous of how fierce his brother looked, though not enough to match him.

He made sure to leave some of his own guards in proximity to Vigge’s old home where they now resided, though not close enough to draw attention to the house. For Boldir’s own sake rather than to keep him there. Even so, after having taken so long to be reunited in the first place, it felt wrong to leave him at all, but he did all the same. He didn’t once mention Carlotta, but her absence was painfully evident, and that absence made his desire to be with his own family all the more acute. To say nothing of the guilt he felt for his brother’s loss.
Making sure he himself was never powerless to protect his wife and child was the reason he became king in the first place, and as much as it hurt to use his brother’s loss as an example, it reminded him of why he did what he did all the same.

Baldur took longer to go home than he'd thought after being practically sidelined at every expected chance. First, by the townsfolk that finally noticed the unmistakable silhouette of a dragon in the sky nearby, Thorald who merely placed a journal in his hands, then left him without a word, his mother who'd been shaking down his men all around town trying to find him so he could do something about the increasing number of drunken 'pilgrims' that were still trying to piss on the Time Tree, and of course Islanders and Scathe himself who had only to bark and growl before the townsfolk at the townsquare dispersed. 

"We will have words. Now. Or so help me..."

"Aye, we will," said Baldur. Scathe took a swig of his mead he'd brought with him, then spat at Baldur's feet. 

"I don't care if you do spit fire. I'll not stand by while ye kill the last of my boys."

Baldur shrugged. "What would you do if you were in my shoes, Scathe. Your boys didn't just come after me. They came after my baby girl, Scathe. I will have blood. But, I've been thinking. Here." Baldur grabbed his bottle and cast it aside. "Follow me."

Scathe did, albeit with a swivel of a man that had been at the bottle all day, walking at the back of the blonde Nord, unaware he was being shadowed by Grim Ones the entire time.

Baldur lead him through the same path he and Ragna took on their way home a night ago, not stopping until they were at the very spot his two sons perished. That's when Scathe saw the dark hulking shapes behind him appear from the shadows. Turning to him now, looking into his wild eyes, Baldur said, "Look at it, Scathe. This is where they'd have done it. This is where I'd have died with my daughter." Baldur let the memory sink in before his eyes met Scathe's. "I can give you the very same greeting your boys gave me. In fact, I SHOULD. And if I wanted to, I could give you and the rest of your lot far worse than they planned to give me."

"Then do it! Come 'ere blasted boy! Come 'ere! All of ya! I promise I'll take at least two of ye with me!"

"Quiet down, Scathe, I don't plan to. If I had, you'd be dead already. No, I have a proposition for you instead. It occurs to me that I do not have a court here in Kyne's Watch. Hell, I don't even have a throne, not that I need one. But I do need good strong people at my side. I need allies, ones I can trust. I need a thane."

Scathe put his pinky finger in his ear, bushy red eyebrow arched. "A thane? You daft? You know what my clan is, what use would the title of thane be for me? And why the change of heart?"

"My heart hasn't changed at all. I should kill your boys. All of them. But I have all of Skyrim to worry about now. My daughter needs a kingdom in tact to have any kind of future. That means I have to start doing things a little... differently."

"Ye should be damn thankin me and my boys. Judging from the grim lasses you decided to bring, it seems you're a quick study. If my boys could get at ye, I know dem Thalmor devils could."

Baldur's eyes narrowed at Scathe who only smirked. He was right, at least partially. Baldur knew that. Between his boys and Trevis, the point was well known to him now. 

Shezarrine or no Shezarrine, he was not invincible. And he'd better learn that fact soon before the wrong one caught him slipping.

It will be the last time.

"Your clan consists of tribes upon tribes of Nords roaming and warring with other wild tribes and bandits for land that you've held for generations, lost for generations, and reclaimed for generations. Now, I realize that this constant struggle is a part of what makes your clan what they are, but even you must admit stability is something even the Clan that Wants to Watch the World Burn can use. I can make the lands and forts you already claim officially yours, and that means the Stormcloaks will defend your clan and their territory from anyone that would move on them. You'll never have to step foot in the cities, trade for things we have that you don't have access to will also add to your prestige above all other roaming clans. And of course, I'll even grant you land your clans have yet to claim themselves, within reason."

"All of that sounds just grand, but what of my sons?" Scathe clenched his battle-axe before him. His expression softened slightly at the deal but his eyes were hard once more.

Baldur took a step towards him, within striking range. "I will give you back two of your sons. But I must keep one. I made a promise to another, and to her ancestors. I'm honor bound to keep that promise. I will let them choose which it will be, and the Islanders will make sure he dies with his axe in hand, and will see Sovngarde. That is the best I can grant you given the circumstance. They did try to kill a king. But you've caught me in a more or less generous mood. But Scathe, I will require something of you as thane."

Scathe bit his lip as Baldur walked closer, but he didn't stop him as his hand moved to down his axe. "You want the other tribes for this war of yours."

Baldur nodded his head. "It's not an easy decision."

"It's no decision at all," said Scathe. "Were it only concerning myself, I'd have split that skull of yours already. But this concerns my whole clan. You're giving us much. But you're asking me to allow you to kill yet another one of my sons. I want more. That daughter of yours. When she's of sixteen winters... I plan to have more sons soon, and they'll need a wife. I can think of no better wife than the daughter of a king..."

"Wrong kingdom, Scathe," said Baldur with obvious disgust. "I will not promise my child to a man before she can even walk! Do I look Breton to you?"

"Fine! You goddamned city Nords are so blasted sensitive about your women folk. Then how's this, let the girl decide for herself. When she's of age, my people will come to you again with an offer fit for a King's daughter. If she agrees to marriage, then she agrees. And the same will be for you and your sons. I have many women available, Nord and not."

"The one wife is enough for me," said Baldur. "I don't envy you lot with three or four women folk, I can't take all that stress and constant second guessing. But as for your offer, you're suggesting a sort of pact between our clans? Mine's not nearly as extensive as yours, I'm not sure I'll need such a pact."

"Of course you will, if you want it to grow to something that'll last. Your boys will need plenty of loins to bear fruit. Loins with some gold attached to them, aye? And we'll all need to be plentiful after the war ends. This can only benefit us both. And it's still a long ways off, you need only to let my boys be the first your daughters lay eyes on when they're of age, and where they decide to go on their own is where they decide to go, aye? These are the sort of bonds that build holds, boy. For my clan to have a chance at that, that's the only way this doesn't end in one of us dying here on this spot, like my eldest. And one last thing... the loot from this war. What we acquire, is ours and ours alone. No taxes, no promises to share it for the good of the kingdom or whatever other such trite you king types try to sell. My loot is my loot. Yours, is yours. And there'd better be loot. And lots of it."

Baldur's mouth suddenly went dry. These sort of decisions shaped their very future. He was sure Rebec would love to put in a word or two were she here. She wasn't though, and perhaps that was a good thing in this moment... The wind whistled as the two men stood gathering snowflakes. And still Baldur stood, wordless. 

But he extended his hand for Scathe to take. When he did, Baldur pulled him close. "I'm not promising my children to you lot. You can make whatever offers you like. I won't stop you. But their fate is theirs alone. I can however, promise you the spoils of war you seek. If that's that, you need to head off to your tribes so that we can all agree to this deal. I'll not have a conflict over internal disagreement so close to war. But, let this be the last time your clan crosses me, or they'll find out why mine's called Red-Snow."

"Done," said Scathe, ignoring the threat. "You'll have yer horde. But you better have the stones to lead them. Especially being a man with only one wife. No matter how loud the wench can belch."

"Good. And in fact, let your people know that I already have a task for them that may lead to both land and loot... Speak to Bralla Wide-Stroke at my tavern. She's leading the negotiations between my people and the Stronghold Orcs. If these negotiations go south, I can think of no better people than your clan to occupy the harsh lands the Orcs now live in, especially with such scarce amounts of farming land in the east and the Reach."

"A good old fashioned Orc raid? Say no more," said Scathe, a big toothy grin on his face.

"Only if the negotiations turn south," said Baldur, eyes narrowing. "I could use the ores the Orcs harvest, but I can always use blacksmiths that can help outfit my ever growing horde as well. I'm not looking to needlessly slaughter them if an agreement can be made, so long as that agreement is in our favor. Let Bralla handle the talking, that's what she does."

Scathe shrugged. "Fine by me. So long as she stands out of my way when it's time to command the men. Now if you'll excuse me... I'll see to my sons. But know this, Red-Snow. You have my allegiance for now. For the benefit of my clan. But you and I? Before I grow too old to swing my weapon, we will settle things between us. My ancestors demand it. My dead boys demand it."

Baldur nodded once. It was as good as he'd get with this one, he knew. Once Scathe disappeared from their sight, Bully came forth. Nords didn't often bother to hide what they were thinking, and this was no different. 

"You should just kill that one. What if he turns out to be another Brund?"

Baldur shrugged. "If he can get his tribe to throw men at the elves then so be it. I can't afford to worry about what his tribes will do while I'm warring in the south. I need them on my side. And we need more men. As many bodies as we can bring to the elves' shore."

"So, Bralla huh? Interesting choice," said Bully, hand on his gut. His eyes were studying Baldur's to see if he could gain any insight into his thoughts.

"Like I said to Scathe, the one wife is more than enough for me," said Baldur. "Bralla has experience with this sort of thing. Back in the day during my merc days she'd always help me squeeze a little more coin from a contract, and when we became Stormcloaks, she'd help calm the townsfolk after a battle so they wouldn't raise pitchforks against us while we recovered and set up camp. Normally I could handle such tasks but sometimes you need a woman for such things."

"I just said it was an interesting choice, my King. That's all. Today's been full of interesting choices... Come, we'll get you home before the 'loud wench' comes looking for you."

Baldur smirked and said, "Most appreciated, truly. And if you mention that name around her I'll finish what Mazoga started."
 

***
 

By the time Baldur got home, most other loghouses had their fires burning low, and even the drunks were well into their slumber. He'd been reading Thorald's report with such intrigue he'd hardly realized how long it'd been since his talk with Scathe. He came walking through the doors of his house with such casualty that one would think it was already well past daybreak. 

He could hear the sounds of Rebec sharpening and cleaning her axe before he'd even opened the door.

"Papa's home!" he said, head looking left and right for sign of Ragna. Not a peep. The baby was already asleep.

Rebec looked up and rested Kyne's Talon on her lap. "Out with it. Where you been and what you been up to, everything."

Baldur shuffled off his boots, then turned his attention to Vigge’s things. His carvings and unfinished furniture specifically.

”You first,” he said. “How’re you holding up? I know what it’s like to lose a father.” 

"It had to be done. Glad someone could get use out of his longhouse. He wouldn't want any of us sitting around blubbering. I guess he and mama are together now."

Baldur was listening as he went under the bed, pulling out his own kit and projects with a crude snake carved in the front, replacing it with another box marked with a glossy polished whale.

By the time he sat down, he had a wooden axe in hand and a bit of deerskin leather he was wrapping around it and stubbing. After it was secure, he started carving off a few more rough spots, then put Ragna’s name at the hilt.

”I’m sorry he had to go that way. We haven’t talked about it at all. If I was in Kyne’s Watch, perhaps he would’ve lived. I knew an attack was coming. Didn’t know Kyne’s Watch would be targeted. It’s so far away, and it wasn’t well known that we lived there. Nothing influential about the place at the time.”

"They must be spying on us. Probably still are. Makes you think." She watched Baldur work, then said, "You get Boldir and Mila settled okay? I tell you, this wasn't how I pictured us all being together again. But after all that went on, I guess it's a miracle to see them at all. You did good, Baldur."

“Mila doesn’t think so. I’m not entirely sure she’s wrong, either. For all my talk of family, I just really wished to see them again. Damn what they were doing.”

Rebec nodded. "We've got to watch her. Not that I can blame her for being angry. She just gets a family and her mother is taken from her." She thought of Sofie, Veleda's daughter, and stirred uncomfortably. "Anyway, can't say I'm happy about this dragon. Any Nord knows you don't mess around with dragons. It's not natural."

“Nahfahlaan won’t bother us,” said Baldur, swinging the new weapon around in his hand. He smacked it against the table to make sure it could hold up against a baby’s playing.

”Just don’t go up the mountain or call his name where the wind will carry it, and that will be that. But with elves and Sunbirds, and now Daedra and floating voices, we’re far past normal.” Baldur shook Thorald’s report before tossing it to his wife on the table. “Remember back in the good days when it was just the three of us and our axes against the world? I miss those days.”

Rebec glanced at the book and flipped it open absently. "Been reliving those days as I sat here cleaning this axe Boldir made for me. We talked about him being our smith. Now I guess he can be, but it's all twisted around. And no Carlotta." She regarded him curiously. "What's that you're making, love? And shouldn't you be ready for some sleep?"

Baldur lifted the toy axe for her to see, grin on his face. It was the most half decent looking thing he managed to make so far. Far cry from Boldir's metalwork but it would make Ragna happy, he hoped.

Sighing as he looked it over, he said, "I can't sleep. I just keep thinking of all the ways this can go wrong. And the people that look to me for guidance. I may not have gotten into this for them but they're my responsibility now. And yet, family always comes first. It's a lot of stress, is all. And yes, it's all twisted around... I'm happy to see my brother no doubt, but every time I get a win it's like there's always some catch to it. And now I'm wondering if I ever find Daric, what the catch to that will be. And how much more of the man I used to be will I have to compromise to keep everyone together."

Rebec stood and laid her axe aside. Her other weapons hung on a rack next to the door, but this one always stayed close, even in their bedroom. Crossing to Baldur, she laid one hand on his shoulder and with the other, stroked his cheek. "You don't need to have everything figured out tonight. Boldir and Mila are alive and safe. Let that be a day's work."

Baldur turned his face into her hand, eyes closed, nodding before meeting her eyes again, hands resting on her hips. Sighing, he said, “Okay. I gave Boldir a week before he starts the trials. That’ll give me time to focus on other things as well.”

"Alright then. Let's get some sleep before Ragna starts her morning thu'um practice."

“I’ll be there, just let me give her this and I’ll be right beside you, love,” said Baldur.

Rebec leaned down and kissed him, rubbing his shoulders, then let him go and retreated into the bedroom. She was fast asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow.

Baldur sat at the table a little longer, looking into the flickering flame of a lit candle before sleep began to give weight to his eyelids. Taking the queue, he brought the wooden axe as he said he would to Ragna’s longboat crib, watching her snore soundly, warm and safe.

As he extended his arm to place her new toy at her side, his vision turned black, and this time it wasn’t Ragna but a blonde boy of ten years looking up at him. In his hand was a golden blade, with a single wicked edge and a hilt as black as soot.

Baldur touched his head and realized his hair was nearly gone, and he was kitted in legion attire. Then suddenly, he was looking at himself from the point of view of the child.

”Take the sword, son. I’ve given you almost nothing but pain in my days amongst the living. This is no different, but take it you must. Take it. For them.”

Baldur hesitated to grab the blade, and gradually the darkness gave way to flame until it surrounded him, threatening to swallow him up, until he noticed the amulet Scathe’s boys wore around their necks. Amulets with snakes upon them. 

He jumped for the necklace, grasping it in his hands, and then the flame was gone, and he was at Ragna’s side again.

He shook his head, looking around the room for evidence of what he just saw.... Nothing. 

He placed the axe’s handle in her tiny hands until she grasped it in her sleep and held it close.

”Good girl,” he said, smiling proudly before returning to his wife’s side, holding her close from behind and dismissing what he saw from his thoughts entirely.

***

It was late that night when Boldir finally fell asleep. He had barely said a word since parting ways with Baldur, and Mila could tell that he had a lot on his mind. So did she. Never had she felt so bad about being angry with someone as she did right now. But every time Mila tried to calm herself and be grateful for the home and protection and promises of help, her thoughts turned back to the men who burned and and drowned in the Abecean Sea.

"They didn't want to save us," she whispered, careful not to wake her father. "They wanted Boldir alive so their king would punish him. I don't care what Baldur says. He wasn't there. They made me kill them."

"Of course they did." The little glowing insect hovered close to her ear, so she could speak quietly in turn. "Fret not, though. Their loss is the world's gain."

Mila gave the witch bug a viscious look. "They were Boldir's friends."

"And yet they came for you even after learning of our quest. Not only were they enemies, but fools as well, to wear armor at sea. Had they not, the emptiness of their skulls would have surely helped them float."

Mila swatted at Valga, but the witch had gotten quite good at evading her attacks. She continued, "Your king uncle will help us. It is not ideal, but it is good all the same. In the meantime, there is little to do but ensure that what happened on he ship does not happen again. Your father won his battle. You did not. You must be better."

Mila frowned. The witch was right. If she had not lost to Trevis, they'd have beaten the hunters and made it to Hammerfell. Vile would have his second soul by now. "Gray-Mane took my spellbook."

"We shall make a new one."

"They'll ask me where it came from."

"You will lie."

"Boldir will tell them. He'll tell them about you, too."

Valga's light went dim at that. "Then you must keep them from finding me. Do this, and I will continue to help you. I will give you the power to not fail so utterly in the future."

"Fine, but we're starting with recall."

"Why? Soul trapping is the logical next-"

"I don't care. I'll need to recall long before I'll need to trap anything's soul."

Valga paused for a few moments. "You're up to something. Girl, if you intend to disrupt the king's plans... well, don't. We need him."

"Just because I'm mad at him doesn't mean I'm going to do something stupid." Well, maybe it is stupid. But not like you think. "It's nothing like that," Mila promised.

"Good," the witch huffed. "The last thing that I need is for our only hope of salvaging this mess to fall apart because of Nordic hard-headedness."

"Just be ready so start tomorrow." Mila looked over at Boldir's shape in the darkness and sighed. Then she laid down on the bundle of furs she used as a bed. "You know, I don't even know how long it's been since I was taken from Skyrim."

Valga didn't answer. Of course not. Why would the witch care about Mila's story? She did not have family like Boldir, or even Baldur and Rebec. How could someone like that possibly know what it felt like to be home?
 

***
 

Late afternoon the next day, after Baldur finally awoke and Rebec gave him baby duty once more, he and Ragna were sitting in front of their home in the snow as Ysana prepared dinner for everyone at Vigge's old home. It was still a bit too early for hanging out at the tavern for Baldur's liking.

Ragna was slapping around snow and her old favorite toy, a stuffed mammoth with her new favorite toy, the axe Baldur made her. Meanwhile Baldur was watching Stuhnir hopping in the air, trying to grab Holgeir as he swooped back and forth just out of reach. The sight made the task before him only slightly less grim.

He balanced his ink pot on his knee, along with a small jar as he wrote a letter. More like a note really, though it's completion took just as long.

High Admiral Eilif. I have a job for you and your longboats...

Come talk with me as soon as possible. Upon completion of the task, I will grant you title of Thane for your contributions to Skyrim and my family personally.

-High King Baldur

He held the note in his hand even longer until a wave of snow filled his face, and knocked over his ink pot. Ragna pointed and laughed with a wave of baby babble. Waking out of his thoughts and placing his seal, Baldur opened the second jar, giving the hawk its contents, two human eyeballs with brown irises, which Holgeir greedily consumed. He wrote 'To High Admiral Eilif' before Baldur gave the bird the note, knowing the Islanders would spot Holgeir and call him down. As he took to the piercing blue skies, Baldur flicked a bit of snow back in his daughter's direction. The note and what it entailed were gone from his mind entirely.

[BTC]

Senna Silver
 

With her hands tied to the horn of the saddle, Senna couldn’t grab and strangle the Nord witch whose horse carried her sister’s head. With her mouth gagged by a rag, she couldn’t spit and curse at the witch’s brother, who had spent the whole trip smiling and laughing, as if the whole world was a joke. And with her weapons gone, she couldn’t stab the Breton nobleman who she knew King Theodore had sent, along with these sellswords, to capture her. So from the time she woke in Cyrodiil to here, on the road south of Skaven, she simply waited and bid her time, plotting just how she would kill the three of them once she escaped.

And her escape was coming. She knew Skaven well enough and had friends there. There she could arm herself and gather the allies she had and make her kidnappers pay, not for taking her, but for what they’d done to her sister. The confidence she had in her plan was why she hadn’t fought against her captors so far. She didn’t see the point in wasting her energy and drawing their ire. Keeping a low profile and not resisting had allowed her to gather what she needed to escape the shackles, namely a piece of metal to pick the lock with, and a few coins to barter with once she did escape. Stealing the coin should’ve been more difficult, but the nobleman wasn’t very careful with where he left his bags, and the eagle guarded its owner and not its owner’s possessions. The metal to pick the lock she’d fastened from a nail, slowly filing it day by day until it would do the trick.

That night, she went to work picking the locks on her shackles, waiting until late into the night to start. They’d fastened her shackles to a tree so she couldn’t move about while they slept, but once lock clicked open, she was free. She set to work on the other hand, trying as hard as she could to keep quiet. Once her other hand was freed, she carefully set the shackles down and assessed her next move.

She wanted to take one of the horses, but they were all tied together, across the camp from where she was, with her kidnappers sleeping between them. She wasn’t confidant she could steal a horse without waking them. And she couldn’t kill her kidnappers, not by herself. She might get one before the others woke up, but they’d kill her for sure. No, she had to get to Skaven as soon as possible.

Taking a deep breath, she walked out of the camp as slowly as she could, which wasn’t difficult, as her broken leg had not yet fully healed. Only when she was thirty yards from the camp did she break into careful, painful a run, not bothering to look back. In the darkness, she wouldn’t have been able to see her kidnappers stirring anyway.  

After a few feet further she felt a cold sweat break out. The night was chilly, but that wasn’t the cause. Her stomach seemed to seize and convulse, and she dropped to a knee as she vomited up everything she’d eaten in the past day. Her arms and legs were shaking as she vomited again and then dry heaved, only bile coming out in the end. She almost collapsed to the ground and lay there. She could feel that witch’s curse gripping and squeezing her insides, but she wouldn’t let it stop her.

She took a few unsteady steps, then walked off the road and into the trees standing at the roadside. The noises of the low brush and thin trees of the savannah fell silent as she ran through the thickets. She listened for her pursuers and couldn’t hear them, but she knew they would be after her now. The branches and brambles seemed to grasp at her as she stumbled around in the dark, trying to make as little sound as possible even as they cut her arms and legs. She moved off the road as far as her legs could take her, and found a couple of fallen trees to lie behind. It wouldn’t have worked at all during the day, but as she dug into the dirt and covered herself in it, she hoped that would be enough.

She felt like she’d barely stopped moving herself when she heard the sound of hooves on the road. They’d found where she vomited, and now she could hear them moving into the trees themselves. She tried not to breathe, but her stomach was still twisted into knots, and she could feel the entire length of her throat burning from the vomit and bile.

One of them was coming nearer. She didn’t dare look, even kept her eyes shut, hoping that would help. She felt so weak, she knew she wouldn’t be able to fight back or run. Her only hope was that they wouldn’t see her. The steps where only a few feet away now, slow and steady. Even with her eyes shut, she could feel the darkness creeping in, like her hunter, and she realized she was about to pass out. Her last waking thought was a prayer to the gods, any god, to keep her hidden so she could avenge her sister.

Senna would’ve been disappointed and angry to learn there was no divine intervention, only a Nordic sellsword finding an unconscious woman covered in dirt and vomit beside a log.

***

Theodore Adrard
 

When the Tyne siblings and Baron Tilwald returned from Cyrodiil, Theodore was vomiting. It was mostly stomach bile, but just a touch too green for his liking. He could already see in his mind it taking on the putrid green color King Gaerhart’s had as he wasted away from this infernal plague.

A trusted guard, not a servant, took the pot from Theo and emptied it in the privy. It was becoming a practiced routine now, for both Theodore and Elayne. Though they were not entirely bedridden, and Theo occasionally took visitors in his nearby study, they both found the symptoms of the disease more bearable from bed. It was pitiful, Theodore knew. Now that Baron Tilwald had returned, hopefully with good news, it might finally mean an end to this disease. The alternatives solutions were not things Theodore wished to think on for long. He had no natural aversion to vampirism, but he knew something like that would have to be planned for, and carefully managed, and he was not in the state to do either.

He was lucky, or more likely prudent enough, that he had formed the Council of Lords. They were taking care of things, with the understanding that Theo and his wife had been in mourning over their newborns, and then both had fallen ill, though it was nothing to be concerned about. Lord Estermont went about training and gathering the soldiers, Lord Traven held court a few times and discussed with Theodore the more important matters of the realm, and Sir Virelande, Winvale, and Sir Maric went along training the shadow mages. Though in truth Virelande and Maric were mostly developing nightblades out of some of the failed shadow mages, with most of them returning to their former stations.

Theodore only wished he could be on the council himself, especially with Lady Loseph having recently joined as Lady Treasurer. She’d been briefly married to Leland before Mon had him killed, and she was every bit the meticulous merchant her late husband was, likely even more so. But she was an unknown, not someone Theodore completely trusted. She was wise enough to coordinate Wayrest’s surrender during the Pretender’s War and to lead the merchant families in ingratiating themselves with Theo at that time, but that made her just as dangerous as she was capable.

So far, though, nothing had reached Theodore about any nefarious plots hatched by his treasurer, or even disagreements between she and other council members, so he was not overly concerned. Nor was he with Mon, who continued to waste away in the dungeon. He’d broken when Theo revealed what became of his family, and confessed to everything then and there. Theo was confident he would do so again, if only to be sent quickly and painlessly onward into death.

He pushed thoughts of Mon and Loseph aside, though, as he stood and slowly dressed alongside Elayne, each taking care to help the other with their clothes. She combed her long, dark brown hair herself and applied her own makeup. They were not seeing their servants, these days, as Theo would not have word get out about his condition. After he and Elayne dressed, they hobbled into the study and slumped into cushioned thrones while a guard brought in spiced wine, just the thing to clear the throat and keep their stomachs settled.

As Sir Maric escorted the Tynes and Baron in, Theo couldn’t help but smile. He had been waiting for their return for some time now, hoping a cure could be found to this disease and that all those who had conspired against him would be brought to justice. Now it seemed he would have both. Though part of him wondered how the Tynes and Tilwald had come together. He wondered if it was luck, or maybe another strand in the web of the Spider. He was beginning to believe that he was the favored of Mephala. If one Daedric Prince could curse his family, why could another not bless him?

But those thoughts were for a later time, and now he needed to discover just how fortunate he was. “Asgen, Faida, Baron Tilwald, it brings me great pleasure to welcome you back,” he said.

“It’s good to see you all return safely,” Elayne added.

The three guests bowed, the twins seemingly trying to outdo one another in how low and 'proper' they could make it look. When finished, Asgen spoke. "We got your sisters. One of 'em is even alive."

"And we got your Baron, too," Faida added with a grin. She nudged Corrick. "Tell him, Christophe."

Baron Tilwald smiled, but when his eyes met Theo's it dropped. "In truth, I'm only here because Asgen and Faida saved my life. My scroll was stopped by the palace's wards, and I went on the run from the Oculatus. And as bad luck would have it, a banished knight of mine was part of the Silver Brigade and recognized me. I only escaped and made it back because the Tynes found me."

Theo arched an eyebrow and looked at the Tynes, then back to the young Baron. "Is that so? Well then, I owe you all a great deal of gratitude. Assuming you were successful, Baron Tilwald."

The Baron nodded and reached into the bag slung from his shoulder, pulling forth a scroll and a leather-bound journal, both of which he handed to Theo. "This should be what you need to cure the disease. I couldn't understand all of it myself, but I believe a trained wizard will be able to."

“Thank you, Baron Tilwald,” Theo said. He unfurled the scroll first. It was a list of ingredients, though the scroll didn’t say what for. It read:

One flawless ruby

One pure silver ingot

A fresh deathbell flower (cut less than one day ago)

Shadowseed (the pods, not the leaves)

The blood of a vavasour mixed with the ground petals of a corpse flower (acquirable only from The Pits, so must be fetched by the vavasour first)

Dust from a vampire ancient

Theodore flipped through the journal, but most of the writing there was nonsensical to him, so he closed it and handed it and the scroll to his wife so she could look them over as well. As she read over the documents, Theo said, looking at the Tynes, “Thank you both for not only doing your job, but assisting Baron Tilwald as well. Now, how did your hunt of the Silver Sisters go? Did you learn anything useful about why Mon hired them?”

"Some nonsense about buddying up with the Legion," Asgen answered. "They attacked Orcish refugees with the Crimson Chevaliers to rile the Legion up. Then they turned on 'em. Wiped out the Chevaliers to the man."

"Far as we could tell, the Legion made good with the Brigade," Faida added. "But also ordered them to downsize. Senna hasn't had much to say to us-"

"On account of us carrying around her sister's head," Asgen cut in.

Faida nodded. "Right... But if their goal was getting the Legion to join up with them, it failed miserably. They found other work in Cyrodiil, and didn't seem too keen on coming back to help Duke Mon."

"By the way," Asgen grinned. "we're up for hire if you're looking for someone to bring that fella in."

Theodore gave a chuckle and smiled. "Duke Mon has been taken care of, but thank you for the offer." It was unfortunate the Tynes hadn't learned more about whatever it was Mon planned with the Silver Brigade, but Theo was optimistic about his chances of extracting that information from Senna. "Now, I assume you'll want to discuss payment. I believe I promised you two thousand for one dead sister and one living one. Does that still sound fair to you?"

"Aye, that is fair," Asgen answered. " 'cept we brought you the sister and a Baron who carried life-or-death information."

"We are joyed to have your gratitude, Highness," Faida continued. "Truly. But it ain't much in the way of compensation for going so far beyond what was asked of us."

It was an entirely fair point, just not one Theo would have brought up on his own. He was no gold pincher like Mon, but neither was he going to offer his money should he not need to. He nodded and said, "You did go above and beyond, and so you deserve compensation for it. I was prepared to pay you a total of three thousand gold for both sisters alive, and I think that for the living captive and for escorting Baron Tilwald here, you deserve that much."

"And, I think," Elayne said, "the offer of a new job. You've proven yourselves capable and reliable twice now. And you know about the nature of our sickness. If you are looking for work, hunting down the things on this list is something we'd pay for."

"Then it’s something we'll do," Asgen said at once. He did not even look to his sister to see if she was onboard, but it was obvious that she was. Both twins were grinning. "All this intimate knowledge, secret tasks, why, it's starting to feel like we're becoming friends."

"Kings need friends like you just as much as we need friends in the nobility," Theodore said with his own smile. Though they were all friends of necessity, not by choice. He looked at Corrick, who had been standing by quietly. "Baron Tilwald, if you wouldn't mind excusing us."

"Of course, Your Majesty." The Baron bowed his head, said something in a low voice to the Tynes, then stepped outside.

Theo said, "The Baron's talents won't be of much use here, but I think yours, and your history, will be. What do either of you know about summoning Daedra?"

For once, neither of the twins answered immediately. Asgen clearly wanted to, but he bit his lip. It was a question for his sister.

"You recall that we hail from the Reach, yes?" Faida asked. "Well it wasn't exactly Markarth. You don't grow up in the Druadachs without learning a thing or two about summoning. So aye, we have some experience, if that's what you're asking."

"Excellent. In a few days time we will discuss further what is needed of you on this quest, and who you will be accompanying. Until then, feel free to relax and enjoy yourselves as our guests. You've more than earned it." Theodore smiled, but could feel his stomach beginning to reject its contents. He clenched every muscle in his body that he could and faked a cough to cover up his discomfort.

Elayne covered for him by saying, "If there is anything you want during your stay here, please let us know."

"Some beds would be nice," Faida said. "And something to eat. We've been living on travel rations for a while."

"Drink too," Asgen added. "Everything tastes like piss since I tasted your Ilessan wine."

"We will have both delivered to your rooms," Elayne said.

"And should you need anything to prepare for the quest, we can provide that as well. Within reason, of course," Theo said, having regained control over his body. For the moment, anyway.

Asgen nodded. "New steel would see good use, and we have some gear that could do with fixing. Ingredients too, if you have an alchemist."

"You'll find a garden beneath the northern tower, though what ingredients it has I cannot say. Our current court wizard is less alchemically inclined than his predecessor," Theo said. "But I can guarantee your weapons and armor will be repaired or replaced. Anything else?"

"Just our payment and we'll be all set," said Asgen. "Whatever else we might need will depend on the nature of this quest. Corrick never gave us a peek, but we can guess that these ingredients you need ain't just flowers and mushrooms."

"You're correct on that point. But I myself do not know the full nature of these ingredients. Once we confer with our court wizard, we will inform you and your sister," Theo said.

"Until then, enjoy Camlorn and thank you again for the work you've done," Elayne said with as bright a smile.

"It was our pleasure," said Faida.

"We look forward to getting you cured," said Asgen.

The Tyne twins bowed again, this time with slightly more finesse, then took their leave. The guards outside closed the doors behind them.

***

The next day, Roland and Lady Joslin Gaerhart returned from Skyrim. Sir Maric and Roland’s personal guard, Dame LaViolette, escorted them in, and then both bowed their heads and stayed outside while the family spoke. Theo had given the his son and mother-in-law around an hour after they’d arrived to relax, which Theo imagined Roland spent catching up with his now very pregnant wife.

Lady Gaerhart looked even older than her age. Her skin was pale, she walked with a hesitant step and leaned heavily upon her bejeweled cane, and she had a familiar wet cough. She had her hair pulled into her usual bun, but all traces of gray were gone, leaving only white. Winvale had been wrong about the efficacy of whatever the Glenmoril Wyrd did to aid her, as she had clearly made the trip to and from Skyrim, but now it seemed their treatment was beginning to wear off, and Lady Gaerhart looked worse than she ever had, and worse than Theo or Elayne. He knew it was only stubbornness that enabled her to walk, and he wasn’t optimistic about how long that might last.  

“How are you feeling, mother?” Elayne asked.

“I’m fine,” Lady Gaerhart said. “The sea has never quite agreed with me and spring is nowhere to be found up north. I just need to rest and get some sun and I’ll be fine.”

Theo was skeptical about that, given the state of the disease in he, his wife, and his mother-in-law. Roland, though, looked to be in perfect health. He took after his mother in appearance, being a bit taller than Theo and leaner in the face. But he was a stout young man and handsome, with dark brown to the nape of his neck and a short brown beard. Theo could see he was concerned about the health of his family though, and knew they must be a worrying sight indeed.

“Well,” Theo said. “How was the trip? I was glad to hear Jarl Red-Snow won.”

“It took some doing for that to happen,” Roland said. “And I’m not sure us being there helped. We were not exactly warmly received. But I do think my going in your stead was better, for appearances sake. It should not look like we are a dog that Red-Snow can call upon on a whim.”

A wise observation. Good to see he’s learning. “What of Jeleen and Motierre? How was their reception?” Theo asked.

“Jeleen and his son were well received, due to their helping the Nords in Falkreath. Their admiral will command the naval forces, though you’ll be glad to a few of the Jarls expressed admiration for Lord Admiral Theirry having made it up High Hrothgar on one leg,” Roland said. “I think we’ll have some autonomy in how we conduct our navy.”

“More because the Nords and Redguards are afraid we’ll catch their ships on fire than any respect for Theirry, I think,” Lady Gaerhart said.

“And how was the ascent?” Elayne asked.

“Slow, cold, and unpleasant,” Lady Gaerhart said. “I was carried up on a palanquin by some Nords, thankfully. I had no interest in climbing one step, let alone seven thousand.”

“And what of the Imperials?” Theo asked.

“Right,” Roland continued. “Empress Motierre was alone, as the Imperials have moved into Elsweyr apparently, and neither Ceno or their admiral came. Eager for the war to start, I suppose. She was very adamant about Red-Snow winning and was much closer to him than I expected. She and I had a pleasant enough conversation.” Roland hesitated, and Theo could see him thinking about whether he should continue talking. After a moment he added, “She doesn’t hold anything against me.”

“She doesn’t? Do you think she meant it?” Theo asked, arching an eyebrow. He was surprised that she was so amicable toward Roland, based on how she’d acted when he was in the Imperial City. Then she seemed emotional enough to hold a grudge through the coming war. Of course, much had happened in Cyrodiil since then. Assassination attempts and a child might very well have matured her, or at least mellowed her.

“I believe she meant it. She seemed surprised to hear me apologize, but I think it went a long way to showing I am not you, and it is you she is mad at, not High Rock,” Roland said.

“Apologize? For what, claiming our independence like the Nords she’s so friendly with? We killed far fewer soldiers than they did, and none directly,” Theo said.

“Yes, but the Nords didn’t humiliate her or exploit her trust. Quite the opposite. They helped her take the throne and showed they were willing to work with her as individual kingdoms. I think she appreciated that,” Roland said.

“Neither were the Nords insulted and humiliated by her,” Theodore said. He had not expected this to be his son’s opinion on the matter, though he supposed it was a good thing that he and Dales had met and talked amicably and were not antagonistic with towards other.

“I think it’s admirable, what you did, Roland,” Elayne said. “It’s much better for High Rock in the long run if the Empress doesn’t carry her hatred of your father over to you.”

“Yes, of course,” Theo said, though he had to admit it pained him to hear such talk. It almost made it seem like his course of action with the Empress was a mistake, and that much he would not admit. She had sought to humiliate his family, and she lied, and was altogether an untrustworthy and unqualified ruler. And Theo would not apologize for treating her as such.

“Is it true about Jarl Elisif, that she allied herself with Brund?” Elayne asked, clearly eager to change the subject.

“Unfortunately for her and for everyone there,” Lady Gaerhart said. “She was too prideful for her own good, wanted revenge for her husband’s death and saw Red-Snow as Ulfric’s lackey and so opposed him. Meant to marry Hammer-Fang too. But he was cruel to her at the moot. She tried to kill him and he killed her in front of us. It was a nasty thing.”

“And what of their duel?” Theo asked.

“We were not able to watch,” Roland said. “But Red-Snow won, and Brund was killed, so I suppose it doesn’t matter how it happened. Though from what we could hear, it seemed less a duel and more like they were trying to shout the mountain apart.”

“How many of them have the Voice now?” Elayne asked.

“The Red-Snows, as well as Veleda Fire-Hand. Those are the only we know of,” Roland said. His eyes fell to the floor, and he hesitated before speaking again. “There is something else that happened, though. Why Red-Snow bothered to duel Brund.”

“Yes, I wondered about that,” Theo said. “I would have expected him to simply reject a duel.”

“Brund expected that too, apparently. He needed to incite Red-Snow to fight so he…” Roland stopped again and raised his eyes to look back at the door. Theo thought that strange, until Roland continued, his voice lowered. “He attacked Daric.”

It took a moment for Theo to place the name, but when he did he felt sick at his stomach, and not from the cursed plague.

“He’s likely dead,” Lady Gaerhart added. “They hadn’t found a body by the time we left, though Brund claimed to have killed him, and based on what we saw from him, I doubt there’s anything left of the poor boy.”

“We saw him in Solitude, saved his life, Dame LaViolette and I,” Roland said. “I didn’t expect he would die, not after that. I meant to see if he’d like to come visit High Rock after the moot, before the war started. See his parents again.”

Theo couldn’t imagine what it would be like for Sir Maric, to find out he had a son so recently, and then to lose him. And Roland was taking it harder than Theo expected, but he knew his son was more sentimental than he. Theo’s mind jumped to what this would mean for his family.

Sir Maric was the only one Theo trusted to gather the supplies needed for the cure ceremony. But if Sir Maric knew about his son’s supposed death, he would leave for Skyrim immediately. Even if it meant forgoing his duty as a knight. Theo knew that, now, nothing was more important to Sir Maric than his son. Theo had originally chosen Sir Maric as his trusted guard because he didn’t have any attachments, but since he had discovered both his son and his former love, it complicated things. It left Theo with a sickening conclusion, one he had to make for the sake of his own family.

“We cannot tell him,” Theodore said. He looked at his family members to gage their reactions. His son was aghast, his wife had what looked like a tear in her eye, and Lady Gaerhart simply nodded. Real or not, the aged Lady of Secrets had the courtesy to look solemn, as did Theo, though it was no mere courtesy for him. He continued, “His leadership is too important to finding our cure and we cannot risk our lives by putting this task to anyone else.”

“He deserves to know that his son died,” Roland said, keeping his voice low but clearly angry.

“I know,” Theo said, and he meant it. “But I will not risk our lives so he may search for his dead son.”

“We don’t know he’s dead,” Roland said. “And it’s not our decision to make. He deserves to bring his body home, if nothing else.”

“Don’t be a fool,” Lady Gaerhart said. “We cannot get sentimental over someone like him, not now. It is his job to guard us and that is what he’ll be doing.”

“Is that how we repay loyal service?” Elayne asked. “We are better than this. Surely others can lead this expedition.”

“No,” Theo said, looking at Elayne. “I will not chance our lives by relying on even a slightly inferior option. Sir Maric is the best soldier in my command. We can’t risk Roland’s life.”

Elayne wiped a tear from the corner of her eye and gave a slight nod. “You’re right.” She looked to Roland and said, “We can’t risk losing you. No matter the costs.”

Roland stood from his seat so abruptly that it shifted backwards. “So you would betray Sir Maric, after all that he’s done? After protecting us from assassins and serving us? He’s never asked for anything, but we can’t give him the courtesy of knowing his son is dead or dying?”

“Enough!” Theodore said, standing as well. “I will not be lectured at by my son. Our decision is made and it is final. I will not have your life and your child’s life risked over inane sentimentality. Sir Maric will be doing the job he swore an oath to do.”

Theo could see his son’s clenched jaw and the anger in his eyes. But he didn’t say anything, only sat back down. There was a knock at the door, and Sir Maric opened it. Theo knew they wouldn’t have heard anything except the sound of raised voices, since the room was muffled. Maric asked, “Is everything alright, Your Majesties?”

Sir Maric looked concerned, and Theo gave as false a smile as he ever had. “Yes, just a discussion, Sir Maric. Fetch Winvale for us, please.”

The knight nodded and shut the door as Theo sat back in his chair. “Now, we must discuss who else will be going on this search. I think LaViolette is an obvious choice.”

Roland nodded, “I agree.”

“The Tynes have agreed to as well,” Elayne said.

“Mercenaries?” Lady Gaerhart’s voice dripped with scorn. “It’s one thing to rely on their kind to fetch a pair of heads, but another for such a sensitive task. Are they trustworthy?”

“They already know,” Theodore said. “They happened upon Baron Tilwald and escorted him back, and learned about his mission in the process.”

“Then we should kill them,” Lady Gaerhart said. “The knowledge they possess is too dangerous and they are loyal only to our coin. We can easily send our knights in their place.”

Roland clearly working to keep his voice calm and level, said, “So we lie to our allies or we kill them?”

“Yes,” Lady Gaerhart said. “We did not get here through kindness. We lied to the nobles about Aleron and Lielle, we lied to the Empire, and it was no coincidence that Farr family was killed since they knew of our plot against Aleron and Lielle. I do not remember you protesting as you bedded every noble daughter you could to get information to further our schemes, nor at any point during the war.”

Beneath his short beard Roland’s cheeks went red, though Theo could not tell whether it was from anger or embarrassment. He was of two minds about his son’s sense of morality. It was clear he’d matured and was becoming his own person, but Theo wasn’t sure that his doing so was for the best, if it meant he could not see when certain actions were necessary.

“We need not kill the Tynes, mother,” Elayne said. Roland got this streak of virtuous defiance from her. She had been slow to come around to what was necessary to take the throne. Theo hoped that, like her, Roland would come around as well. Elayne continued, “They will be useful for this venture. One of the ingredients needed comes from some daedric creature, and they have experience summoning. And they are of the Reach, and will likely be better received there than our knights. We suspect they will need to travel there to successfully summon this creature.”

Theo agree with Elayne, though part of him wondered if it might be safer to just be rid of the Tynes. But like the situation with Sir Maric, he was not willing to do anything that might risk the mission to end the curse. And he needed the Tynes for the Reach heritage, if nothing else. After that he could decide their fates.

“Reachmen mercenaries.” Lady Gaerhart’s scowl deepened. “We would do better begging Peryite himself for help.”

“He might hear you out,” Winvale said, snapping everyone’s attention to where he’d appeared beside the tall windows overlooking the ocean. He wore dark green robes and leaned on a wooden staff tipped with an ebony orb. His white beard was short and held together by a gold ring. “From my understanding he is more affable than most.” He turned and looked over the disease stricken royal family, and gave a slight smile. “Though, obviously a bit baneful.”

“I assume you’ve had time to look over the Telvanni’s journal?” Theo asked, not bothering to hide his scowl at Winvale’s joke. Were it that he could be rid of the mage, but until this curse was solved, he needed Winvale. And even after, his training shadow mages would help assure High Rock’s place as an independent kingdom.

“I have. The ingredients are to be combined in such a way that we will summon Peryite, though what is to happen from there is less clear. Seeing that only he could lift the curse, I would assume the ritual in some way compels him to, though that is simply a guess. Your Dunmer friend, unfortunately, did not make it clear what exactly about the ritual will end the curse, and I got the sense that he took that to be an obvious point that is in no way so,” Winvale said.

“What do you mean?” Elayne asked.

“I mean,” Winvale said, as if his point was obvious, “that I will be summoning a Daedric Prince with no clear plan on how, in doing so, your curse will be lifted.”

Theo felt his heart sink. He had hoped for something more concrete, a definitive cure to what ailed his family. “But summoning him is the only way.”

“Yes. It remains to be seen how events will unfold after that,” Winvale said.

“What of the location of the ingredients?” Elayne asked.

“The shadowseed grows in the Dragontail Mountains. The Horse Tribes of the Bjoulsae cultivate it,” Winvale said. “To summon a vavasour takes no small amount of knowledge itself, and you’ll likely only find that among assorted hedge mages and the Reach tribes.”

“As we suspected,” Elayne said.

“We’ll send the Tynes, Sir Maric, and LaViolette to fetch those ingredients,” Theo said. “And, if they return safely from Anvil, your shadow mages as well.”

“Not all of them,” Winvale said. “I need Zuhkal to help me teach the others.”

“You need an apprentice to help you teach?” Lady Gaerhart asked.

“I may be a master of shadow magic but that does not mean I can simply transfer that knowledge onto these students and they will become shadowmages as well,” Winvale said. Theodore thought he sounded a bit exasperated, and was surprised the wizard cared enough to be so. “Understanding how to control shadow magic is more difficult than you can imagine. And if you wish to have shadowmages with which to fight this war, I will need help from someone who can relate to them better than I.”

“But you won’t need Morane?” Theo asked. He almost couldn’t remember her name, though her adversarial disposition was much more memorable.

“You’ve met her,” Winvale said. “I suspect you know she is not suited to such a task. She would be better off going on the search for the ingredients. And I think it would serve her well to do so.”

“It’s settled, then,” Theo said. “Sir Maric, Dame LaViolette, the Tynes, and Morane will look for those ingredients.”

“What of the vampire ancient?” Elayne asked.

“The what?” Roland said. He had been quiet since Joslin rebuked him, Theodore realized.

“We need the dust from a vampire ancient as part of the ritual,” Theo said. He looked at Winvale. “I assume you have some friends you’re willing to sacrifice?”

Winvale chuckled. “Enough to make your skin crawl. There is one in Daggerfall, but that would be a messy affair. There was a woman in Wayrest, before the corsairs, but she seems to have left, or died. An isle in the Great Bay houses another. A few in the Reach. But I think the easiest will be Urzoth the Shadow.”

“An Orc?” Theo asked. He hadn’t expected that.

Winvale nodded. “And a necromancer. She has recently moved into the ruins of Orsinium.”

“Why?” Theo asked.

“I could not say. My ability to scry on her was always limited and stopped completely soon after she made the move,” Winvale said.

“Why were you scrying on her?” Elayne said.

“She’s been rumored to use some shadow magics,” Winvale said, as if that alone was an explanation. Though Theo supposed for someone like him, keeping an eye on others needed no explanation.

“And she’s the easiest one to kill?” Roland asked, obviously incredulous.

“She’s the youngest, and far removed from civilization. Unlike the Reach vampires she has no allies that I know of. Besides whatever undead she’s raised. Sending your soldiers after her shouldn’t be much different than sending them to clear out a bandit fort,” Winvale said. “Or a village of Orcs.”

“We can easily disguise our reasons for sending soldiers after her,” Lady Gaerhart admitted.

“Are there any other questions?” Winvale asked.

Theo shook his head and was about to say ‘No,’ but Winvale had vanished before he could.

“Who shall we send after this vampire?” Elayne asked.

Theodore wondered the same. He would send an army if he could, but in doing so he was just as likely to scare the vampire away as kill it. “It cannot be too large a force, otherwise she’ll see them coming and simply run away. It must move quickly and quietly, then. I think Sir Virelande and Sir Galien should lead.”

“Is that wise?” Lady Gaerhart asked. Theo knew she meant sending Sir Galien, who was Sir Maric’s second in command. Between those two and LaViolette, the three highest-ranking members of the Knights of the Bull would be leaving Camlorn. He would never have imagined doing this, but it only took a glance at Lady Gaerhart, Elayne, and himself to see how dire the situation was.

“We should be safe,” Theo said. “I doubt we’ll be leaving our rooms, much less the castle, once Mon is executed. And if we do, Traven’s man Thonir can guard us, along with the rest of the knights. But we cannot risk sending out lesser soldiers to complete these tasks.”

“We’ll need to tell Virelande and Galien to gather the ashes once the vampire is killed,” Elayne said.

“Virelande won’t ask any questions,” Theo said. “We will send some of his battlemages as well as knights. I do not want to risk this mission failing.”

“Are we done, then?” Roland asked. He no longer looked angry, but had a calmness about him that Theo knew was only a mask for the anger.

“If we’re all in agreement, yes,” Theo said.

Roland didn't say anything or look at his family members as he stood and left.

As the door shut behind him, Lady Gaerhart sighed. “I worry he has too much of his grandfather in him.”

“Is that something to worry over?” Elayne asked. “Father was a good man, better than us. If Roland is that kind of ruler he will be beloved.”

“You know as well as I how naïve your father was,” Lady Gaerhart said. “People did love and respect him, that’s true, but on the eve of war and in a world of free kingdoms, Roland will need more than love and respect. He will need to know when to do what is necessary to survive.”

“Give him time, he’s still young,” Theodore said. “He will come around, I’m sure. The world we live in is too dangerous for him to not see things our way eventually.”

Between the war, the Thalmor, Cyrodiil, and this curse, there were certainly threats to the royal family. Theo only hoped his son would see that and realize that there was a time and place for kindness, but that this was no such time.

***

Simone LaViolette
 

Dame LaViolette strained to make out the voices of the royal family and court wizard. She wasn’t particularly interested in what they might be saying, but any distraction was better than her own thoughts. Those kept going back to what awaited her, now that she was back in Camlorn, and it was not something she wanted to linger on. Unfortunately, the door was too thick and the voices were to low, so there was only indistinguishable mumbling coming from the royal chambers. Even when someone inside had yelled, she was unable to make out what they said, though the King had assured them it was nothing but a domestic spat.

She looked up and down the hallway but found no immediate threats or anything out of the ordinary. Besides her, she could see Sir Maric, who looked as serious as ever. There was no indication that he was open to conversation, nor was she, not with him at least. LaViolette had known him for more than a decade, since she came to Camlorn around the age of twenty, and in all that time he’d never been a talkative sort. He didn’t need to be, since his stern and solemn aura he projected and the skill he demonstrated was more than enough to earn the respect of the knights.

In recent months, with the arrival of his now wife and the discovery of his son, he had lightened up. But LaViolette feared what would happen when he learned about his son’s fate. Prince Roland wanted to be the one to tell Sir Maric, and that was fine by her. It was better she not speak to Maric, because she worried he would be able to tell something was wrong.

She adjusted her hand to rest on the pommel of her sword, still not quite used to the way it hung on her hip, just as the voices on the other side of the door stopped. A moment later Prince Roland exited, his eyes trained on the ground and his hands clasped tightly behind his back. LaViolette closely followed him as he walked quickly toward his chambers down the hall. Tapestries and paintings lined the walls, and with the rugs covering the stones beneath they travelled a quiet path through the castle.

When they reached the Prince’s and Princess’s chambers LaViolette moved to stand beside the door but Prince Roland, without turning around to look at her, said, “We need to talk.”

She hesitated for a moment, long enough to wonder what he wanted. But before she could formulate a possible reason that accounted for both his mood and needing to talk to her about it, she entered and closed the door. He was staring out the window at the glittering ocean below, his arms crossed tightly across his chest.

There was nothing but silence in the room, as Roland didn’t respond. The quicksilver chainmail clinked softly beneath her longcoat as she shifted her feet, waiting for the Prince to speak. Eventually, she cleared her throat. Only then did Roland turn to face her, the anger having given way to determination.

“I need you to do something for me,” he said.

“Whatever you need, Your Majesty,” she said.

“You and Sir Maric will soon lead an expedition to gather some the materials we need to cure this curse,” Roland said. “Your group will head to Evermor first. Once you leave Evermor, I need you to tell Sir Maric that his son is missing and presumed dead.”

Stendarr’s mercy… She tried to hide her surprise with a look of concern, but knew she didn’t. “I thought you were planning on telling him?”

Roland ran a hand through his brown hair and shook his head, though not in answer to her question. She thought he looked far too weary for his relatively young age. “My father wants Sir Maric to lead this expedition and he won’t trust anyone else to do so.”

That was a blow LaViolette hadn’t expected. Roland continued, “He knows that if Sir Maric found out about his son, he would leave for Skyrim. But I can’t agree with not telling him. He deserves to know.” He lifted his eyes from the floor and looked at LaViolette. “And I trust you enough to know you can get what we need.”

“Why can’t we tell him sooner?” LaViolette asked. “His son is missing.”

“I know. But I can’t go against my father on this, not openly,” Roland said. “Once you leave Evermor, you’ll have passed out of the sight of whatever eyes he has. Then you can tell Sir Maric.” Roland stood and walked over to his desk, and from a drawer pulled out a tightly bound scroll. “And give him this. It will allow him to teleport to Kyne’s Watch. Maybe there he can find some direction on where his son is and what happened.”

LaViolette grabbed the scroll and tucked it inside her dark blue longcoat. The situation was gut wrenching, and she felt awful that Sir Maric didn’t know. And yet in the back of her mind she couldn’t help but be excited at the prospect of leading the expedition. She hated herself for thinking that, in light of what Sir Maric would soon go through. But the familiar voice she heard in these moments urged her to seize this chance. It’s what you’ve always wanted. To have the renown he has. This is your chance to prove yourself, to rise.

She ignored the voice. Roland was looking her in the eye, the worry evident on his face. “I’m counting on you, Simone. This is the right thing to do, but you can’t fail. My family is depending on you.”

“I won’t let you down. Whatever it takes.” She hated that she meant it, because she knew what it would require. It’s for a noble cause, she told herself, and she hoped that would be enough to quiet the guilt she felt.

Prince Roland dismissed her, and she was free for the rest of the day. She couldn’t think of a worse fate, to be left alone with her thoughts once again, and so she wandered the grounds of the castle inspecting the guards and looking things over. She kept her thoughts to preparations to make for the expedition, for the war, and how she would break the news to Sir Maric, but eventually she could distract herself no longer and she made her way to her room in the keep.

Her room was exactly as she had left it, tidy and neat, with only a small spider web formed in an upper corner and a layer of dust to mark her absence. But the familiar dread was there, dread that had been blissfully absent during her time in Skyrim. The chest at the foot of the bed was still padlocked, but she ignored it for now. Anything to put off the inevitable confrontation, even if only for a moment. 

LaViolette removed her close helmet, her quicksilver gauntlets and greaves, her padded longcoat, her leather jerkin, and finally the quicksilver chainmail. Once the armor stand was dressed she checked the pocket of her longcoat to see that the goblet amulet was still there, but she didn’t take it out. It would only feel wrong. Sacrilegious, even.  

Sighing and rubbing her temples she wandered over to her basin and splashed water on her face. In the mirror she saw a tall woman with pale blue eyes and reddish brown hair, a few light freckles on a clearly Breton face. There were a few scars, as one would expect from someone who’d spent most of their thirty-two years on Nirn learning to fight and becoming a knight. There wasn’t any confidence there, though, only trepidation and doubt. And more than enough guilt. She knew why Prince Roland trusted her to tell Sir Maric and lead the expedition. She’d saved his life from assassins five years ago, and had been by his side ever since. But his trust didn’t remove her self-doubt.

She splashed herself with the water again and tried to cast those feelings aside. There was no time for those thoughts, not now. She moved to the chest and unlocked it, pushing aside the piles of her old clothes and tattered blankets within until she uncovered the one-handed war hammer resting at the bottom.

It was a beautiful weapon, the skilled craftsmanship clearly evident. The whole head was made of silver. The face was hexagonal in shape, while a pick stuck out from the other end. There were a series of runes and symbols carved faintly into the metal, a double layering of them, one set over the other, but she’d never been able to discern their meaning. She didn’t want to know what they meant. The bottom half of the shaft was wrapped in leather that stopped just short of the pommel. Within the circle of the pommel was a small dark stone that seemed to shift colors, at one moment a deep blue, then violet, then black as night. It was the Hammer of Bangkorai, the ancient weapon of the commanders of the Bangkorai Garrison, thought to be lost to history. It may as well still have been, for LaViolette knew it was no longer the same weapon. It had changed.

She picked it up from its resting place at the bottom of the chest, and the instant she touched it she could hear the voice in her head. It was an unpleasant voice, cruel and grating, but with no discernible accent. She had never been able to tell if it belonged to a man or a woman, a human or mer, though she hoped it was mundane enough to be one of those options.

How dare you leave me here, it hissed. She could hear it in her mind though the room remained quiet. After everything I’ve given you. Insolent, ungrateful.

“Given me?” She did not say these words aloud, only thought them, yet she knew the hammer would hear them all the same. “I wasn’t the one who needed help.”

And have I not rewarded you? Yet you cast me aside like trash. I can always find others. As the words faded LaViolette could feel the tendrils of energy, like vines constricting the life from a tree, crawling up her arm, weaving themselves around her veins, her muscles, her bones. Reaching toward her heart and her mind.

“No!” she yelled, out loud this time. Then, only in her mind, “I can help you, I have helped you. You need me.”

Perhaps…perhaps not, it said, yet she felt the energy retreat into the hammer all the same. But I will not suffer such slights again. And now I am owed.

“Then you’ll be happy to hear what’s happened. Sir Maric’s son is missing, and the King is sending us on a quest. I’ll be leading it, once Maric learns about his son. You’ll get your fill.”

The time has come for you to rise. You should not linger in his shadow. They will see what we can do. Together.

She felt a shiver run down her spine, but she knew it was true. She needed its help, no matter how appalling the prospect. It was too important that this mission, and that she, succeed, and she would not let her fears lead to failure. “Yes. Together.”

She could not see it, but she felt the voice smile. It was a feeling she knew she’d never grow used to.

Good. Now, I must feed.

LaViolette felt the surge of energy, invigorating that spark of magicka within her, even as she felt that same energy wearing away at the edges of…she wasn’t sure what was wearing away, though she felt it all the same. There was a give and a take, and she knew better than to let that taking linger within her. Better someone else, someone deserving of punishment.  

That night a murderer died in his cell beneath Camlorn Castle. When he was found hanging from the door of his cell the next morning, with no blood spattered about to mark the injuries hidden beneath his rags, his body was simply burned. No one cared to look at a dead murderer too closely, and so no one noticed the black bruising on his chest, or the one deep puncture mark into his heart.

Edited August 13, 2018 by BTC

[BTC]

Morane Lynielle
 

It was a few days after the arrival of the Prince that the Drudging Jack returned to Camlorn. As it pulled into the bay, the enchanted lanterns of the upper class district around the castle were just coming to life. Below, closer to the docks, the growing darkness was punctuated by dim torchlight. Above it all stood the high walls of Castle Camlorn, and above those two towers. Winvale awaited in one of them.

Before the boat docked, Morane and Zuhkal teleported into the castle, both disinclined to climbing up the steep streets from the docks. They had spent their trip formulating a plan to convince Winvale that, given time, they could earn Borkar’s trust and get the books. But Morane still feared his reaction to their failure.

They appeared outside the door to Winvale’s study atop his tower. When they entered Winvale had his back to them, staring into a silver basin filled with water. Morane knew he used it for scrying. “Sit,” he said, without looking at them.

They did, and after a silent minute he pulled away and hobbled over to his own chair. He glanced between the two of them. “You do not have the books.”

Morane wasn’t surprised that he knew. “No, we couldn’t get them.”

“And Laure is gone,” Winvale said.

Zuhkal nodded. “She left us a note, but it doesn’t say where she went.”

“Why did she leave?” Winvale asked.

“There was a curse on Azra’s journals,” Morane said. “A despair or dismay spell. It must have affected her pretty badly.”

“I knew Anvil would be dangerous, but I expected that three of you could do it. Now only two return and with no books.”

“We have a plan to get them,” Zuhkal said.

Winvale frowned. “I have no interest in your plans. You failed, and now other matters require our attention.”

“If you’d-“ Morane said, but Winvale raised an arthritic finger to cut her off. She scowled in return.

“There will be no discussion on this matter,” he said. “I won’t have you waste my time by sailing back and forth to Anvil. The war is here, and you two are not yet ready, as your failure clearly indicates. While the others are scarcely mages, much less shadowmages.”

“So what ‘requires our attention,’ then?” Zuhkal asked.

“You will help me teach the others, as you are suited for such a task.” Winvale turned his gaze to Morane. “And you will be leaving on a quest for the King.”

“A quest?” It was bad enough he hadn’t even listened to their plan, but now to send her away on some other quest was an insult. “What’s more important than training or getting the books?”

“Nothing as far as I am concerned,” Winvale said. “But the King has need of you and you will go. It should not take long, and you might even learn something.”

“What’s the quest?” Zuhkal asked.

“The King and his family are afflicted with a plague and need certain items to cure it. You and the others he’s sending will fetch them.”

“Who else is going?” Morane asked.

“Sir Maric, Dame LaViolette, and two Nord mercenaries, the Tynes.”

Morane knew who LaViolette was though they had never spoken, but she had no idea who the Tynes were. And any trip with Sir Maric was likely to be a dull one. He was far too solemn, and it seemed to infect those around him. “Where are we going?”

“To Evermor, and then the Reach.”

“Great. Can’t wait.”

“It should not take you long. And you may get a chance to use shadow magic in the field. At the very least, you can reflect on how you may better use your abilities so that you do not fail in battle as you did in Anvil. Infiltrating a castle is one matter. Infiltrating a Dominion camp or city is another entirely, one which neither of you are prepared for.” Winvale looked at them, and when neither made a move to respond, he continued, “I suggest you two get some rest, then. You will be heading out tomorrow, Morane, following the execution. And that is when you will return to your studies, Zuhkal.”

Once they left the wizard’s study, Morane said, “Let’s talk.”

They descended the tower to their barracks, only to find the rest of the shadowmages there lounging around. They both wanted to discuss what Winvale had told them, so Morane led the way down the stairs the winding stone staircase and out into the overgrown wizard’s garden.

It was a cool evening, with songbirds singing their last songs of the day in the low, twisted trees and shrubs. Bees buzzed around their hive in a dead tree and dragonflies flitted about the pond, some falling prey to fish or frogs. Winvale’s large white dog Ki lay in his customary spot beneath a tree, a spot where he’d worn away the grass. Flowers were blooming throughout the garden, and the air with thick with their collective fragrance.

Morane and Zuhkal walked over to the pond, where two large rocks provided somewhere to sit that wasn’t overgrown flagstones or the muddy ground. The sounds of the birds and crickets peaceful, and for a moment they sat there listening to it all, while Winvale’s tower loomed behind them against the backdrop of a deepening purple sky.

Morane broke the silence by picking up a pebble and tossing it in the pond. “We could leave and get the books on our own.”

“We can’t abandon the fight before it’s even started,” Zuhkal said. “He’s right, we aren’t prepared to face the Thalmor. And befriending Borkar wouldn’t help us get better in that regard.”

“How is fetching potion ingredients so the King feels better supposed to help me get any better?” Morane said.

“You know that everything’s a test with him,” Zuhkal said. “I’m sure this is just another one.”

“It’s fucking pointless. I need to be learning something besides teleportation. We can get into anywhere we want, but once we do we’re back to alteration and conjuration. If he really wants us to prepare for the war, then he’d be teaching us something new.” It felt strange to say that. Morane had left the Institute for Thaumaturgic Enlightenment in Farrun because she got tired of studying one subject, of sitting around and reading books on alteration all day. But now things were reversed, and she wanted to be able to dig into shadow magic, into the books she’d stolen.

“I can’t imagine he’d waste your time,” Zuhkal said. “I don’t trust him, but there’s a reason he’s been sending you to get the books. I imagine there’s a reason behind him sending you on this mission too.”

Morane didn’t say anything and kept tossing pebbles into the pond. A fish came up to investigate but dove back down as another splashed nearby. Morane knew Zuhkal was right, and no matter how inscrutable it was, Winvale always had a reason for doing what he did. She’d realized that the first day she met him. But now she felt she was past tests. And she couldn’t see how this new mission might help her practice skills she didn’t even know. “At the very least, I’m going to take one of the books with me.”

“I’m sure he’d let you if you asked,” Zuhkal said. “I plan on going through them myself.”

“Try not to learn too much while I’m gone,” Morane said.

“If I’ll even have time. Who knows how teaching the others is going to go.”

“He’s right though. You are suited for it.” As she tossed in another pebble, she saw him smile out of the corner of her eye.

“I just hope they’ll be ready by the time the war starts. I hope we’ll be ready.”

“We will be,” Morane said. If Borkar had been right about anything, it was that she and Zuhkal were strong willed. And she knew they weren’t going to let what happened in Anvil happen again. It wasn’t in their nature.

Morane and Zuhkal parted ways, he staying in the garden and she heading back into the tower. By the time they met again, in the shared shadow mage barracks, she was holding Winvale’s copy of Shadow Draining: Elucidation on the Transliminal Flow of Essence.

***

Damon Ivy
 

The sixty year old bard leaned against a building at the edge of the crowd, keeping within the shadows cast by the mid-morning sun. The air was cool and crisp, but without any clouds to diffuse the sun’s rays, he worried about the top of his head getting sunburnt. The sides would be fine, still covered in a horseshoe of not too thin grey hair. He wasn’t particularly bothered by his lack of hair, but there were practical concerns that had to be considered. He knew he should buy a hat, but he never seemed to remember that anytime he was out shopping.

He looked down beside him to check that his fiddle was still there. He could just make out the shimmering outline of the illusion that let it blend into the wall that it leaned against. He didn’t trust it out of arm’s reach, especially not in a castle. Even the King’s. He’d known too many bards who had a greedy servant or jealous noble take their instrument, only for the liege lord to wave away such trifling problems. Thankfully, he still knew enough magic from his younger days as a street magician that keeping his fiddle close but hidden was of no concern.

And he wanted it hidden. He didn’t want anyone with sticky fingers to get any ideas. Already he’d made a half dozen pickpockets moving amongst the crowd. Today was the day of the execution, and it seemed like half the city of Camlorn turned out before the steps leading up Cavilstyr Rock. The promontory, the site of old festivals, now held Camlorn Castle, the massive stone walls towering high above the assembled crowd, even though they were a good thirty or so yards away. But Damon wasn’t interested in joining the rest of the castle’s entourage up on the steps. No one needed to know his role in this.

Living and playing in the royal court had been a nice reprieve from wandering High Rock. After King Theodore hired he and his companions, the husband and wife duo the Montclairs, they had entertained nobles and courtiers in the halls of Castle Camlorn. They slept on soft beds, ate delicious meals, and found the comforts of a royal court most enjoyable. Though they hadn’t played much for the first busy and then sick royal family, they spent plenty of time entertaining the members of the Council of Lords and whatever guests visited the royals. The past few months here were much more comfortable than his youth spent with a travelling carnival, or the time after as a petty magician and lone troubadour.

Which meant it had been an exceedingly stupid thing for the Montclairs to spy on King Theodore for Duke Mon. And it had brought Damon no joy to report them to Lady Gaerhart. But as members of the Scenarist Guild, the Montclairs and Damon were supposed to be neutral in the politics of High Rock and Hammerfell. Their jobs were to spread joy and help people while observing and reporting what they could to the guild headquarters, so that events might be recorded for posterity.

That did not include spying on a king for coin. They were to record history, not influence it. And with little recourse other than reporting the Montclairs to the King to prevent them from influencing events, Damon had broken the rule himself. It seemed justifiable, though, and through his conversations with other guild members in the city he had assuaged his guilt. Still, he did not want it widely known that it was the case he had interfered along with the Montclairs. The neutrality of the Scenarists was valued by nobles and commoners alike, and allowed them to move easily in both spaces. It was bad enough two members would be revealed to be spies, and Damon had no interest in letting people know a third member had interfered as well. Two could be dismissed as an aberration, a pair of bad apples, especially since they were a married couple. Three was a pattern.

And so Damon hid from the sun and from notoriety by keeping to the edges of the crowd. But he still needed to be here, since observation of these type of events was part of his job, alongside the singing and playing. And the execution of Duke Mon for conspiring with the Thalmor was most definitely an event that needed to be recorded for future generations. Damon had a front row seat to political drama, and with Mon’s forthcoming execution it would be the end of this story. Then Damon could return to the Dragontail Mountains and the guild’s citadel and relay just what had transpired between Mon and King Theodore.

After another minute of waiting the massive iron reinforced wooden doors to the castle swung open. The crowd let out a cheer in anticipation of the bloodshed soon to follow. They would have to wait, though, as more guards poured forth and took up positions at the front of the crowd and alongside the wooden platform erected for the occasion. Besides those guards were the ones moving around the perimeter of the crowd, and a few mages standing on roofs and balconies.

Then the royal family came. First were Prince Roland and Princess Lyenna, arms linked and holding each other close. He wore a brown doublet with gold shimmering on the front in what Damon knew was a bull. She wore a loose gold gown with rich brown trim and a fur collar. It was loose enough he knew it would hide her pregnancy from those that didn’t know about it. Close behind them was their personal guard, Dame LaViolette, in mail armor with a dark blue longcoat, wielding a one-handed war hammer.

Damon expected to see Lady Gaerhart following them, even though, like the King and Queen, she’d been sick. But she didn’t appear, and instead King Theodore and Queen Elayne came. He knew they were ill, but from this distance they gave the appearance of good health. Sir Maric, resolute and imposing in his ebony plate armor, his sword at his side, followed them. The King and Queen smiled and waved to their subjects. A few of the members of the Council of Lords followed. Lord Traven was first, with Thonir, his Nord guard, nearby. Then came Sir Virelande, the Royal Battlemage, Duke Theirry, the Lord Admiral, and the Court Wizard Dryston Winvale. They all took their seats as well.

The prisoners followed, escorted by still more guards. Duke Mon was a skeleton in chains, thin and pale and already dead. He was mostly carried by the guards at his sides and then dropped on the platform as the royal family and their entourage sat in thrones behind him. Next came a dark haired woman struggling against the guards who dragged her to the platform. Senna Silver, resisting to the end, had to be held down on her knees by two guards. Her sister’s head stood on a spike atop the wall behind her. Next was a man even skinnier than Duke Mon, and walked as though in a trance. He was the scribe to the Direnni traitor. He was not made to kneel, but forced to sit upon a stool beside those that kneeled.

Like Mon and Senna, the scribe wore rags. It reminded Damon of something his mentor in the troupe used to say, that, “clothes are armor.” Damon hadn’t really considered it before, but seeing these prisoners marched out in rags and looking helpless all the while, he thought there might be some truth in that. In comparison to the nobles, the prisoners clearly had no protection to speak of, nearly naked and laid bare before a crowd eager to see them dead.

It was then Damon noticed two empty chairs behind the scribe, and before he could wonder who they were for, he saw the Montclairs being escorted to the platform. Unlike the others, though, they were not in chains, but impeccably dressed and smiling. He was a Redguard, she a Breton, and both were among the prettier people Damon had ever met. As travelling companions, though, they were rude and selfish. Damon did not have time to wonder about this turn of events, though, before King Theodore stood and the crowd excited murmuring stopped.

Damon realized at that time there was no priest on hand, as with most executions. There would be no solace for the souls of these traitors, it seemed.

The King’s voice, magically amplified, rang out over the crowd. “Citizens of Camlorn and of High Rock, I come to you today overjoyed at the prospect of finally bringing an end to the plot against us.”

A short cheer went out, and Damon pulled forth a journal and jotted down a few notes. Theodore continued, “Duke Mon sought to ally with the Thalmor to bring my family down and plunge High Rock into chaos. He would have undermined our relationship with the Direnni and the alliance we’ve built with Skyrim and Hammerfell. He sought to turn High Rock into the bitch of another empire, an elven empire, but High Rock bows to no man or elf.”

The loudest cheer yet. Damon had to admit, though he found King Theodore conniving and selfish, like most of High Rock’s nobles in that regard, it was clever tying Thalmor domination to the Empire’s former rule. High Rock had enjoyed a relatively privileged position under the Empire, and Damon knew a few folks who thought breaking away would bring more harm than good. But so long as the populace believed a free High Rock was better, and the nobles profited from it, retaking the kingdom would be a difficult venture indeed. And whatever he thought of Theodore, he could admit the man was a kind host.

“No, we bow to no one, and we do not suffer those who would put us under a yoke once again. But it is not enough to root out traitors. No, we must take the fight to those they would have us enslaved to. We must ensure our freedom from the elves once again. We must and we will destroy the Thalmor, for the good of High Rock and the good of all.”

The crowd cheering at that would’ve been surprising less than a year ago. Damon remembered the grumbling in taverns and markets when Theodore fought Lielle Rolston for the crown. No one wanted to die fighting a noble’s war. Damon knew now, though, that that war was as much about preparing for the war with the Thalmor as it was about securing the crown. The populace had survived and was better prepared to weather a longer and deadlier conflict, and so instead of grumbling at the prospect of war, they cheered it and welcomed it. Or at least they did so when anticipating an execution.

“But their time will come, when we meet them alongside our allies from Skyrim and Hammerfell. For now, we take pleasure in ridding our ranks of these vermin.” King Theodore motioned and Mon, Senna, and the scribe were made to stand and brought forward. “Duke Mon allied with the Thalmor, and he paid the Silver Brigade, led by Senna Silver and her sister, to attack Cyrodiil in order to provoke them to war with us. An idea put into his head by a traitorous Direnni and his pitiful assistant.” Motioning again, the prisoners were returned to their knees and the Montclairs came forward. “But thanks to the help of the bards Emeric and Tahla Montclair, these betrayals were revealed to me, and I crushed the plot.”

So that’s it. In order to wrap up the narrative in a nice, tidy bow, King Theodore had spared the Montclairs, keeping Damon out of the narrative and making the Scenarist Guild look better as well. Though the Montclairs had still interfered, most would see it as a noble act and not a betrayal of their ideals. Not to mention, the Montclairs would not dare to speak out now that they’d been spared, and if they told any story, it would only corroborate the King’s version of events. Damon wondered how the other members of the guild would react to this turn of events.

“Duke Mon,” King Theodore said, “do you have anything to say for yourself?”

Mon was not brought forward or made to stand, but after a moment his voice rang out, cracked and broken and as sad a voice as Damon ever heard, “I confess to it all. I confess…please be done with it.”

“Good,” King Theodore said. “Now, these traitors will die.”

He went and sat back down, and a man with an axe stepped forward. Damon knew Theodore had executed Aleron Rolston himself, and assumed he was too sick to do so this time. Or maybe he didn’t want to dignify the traitors by doing it himself. Doubtless that’s what he’d tell anyone who asked. So instead the axe wielding man raised his blade high and brought it down on Mon’s neck. The crowd cheered and jeered as his head rolled off the platform and down the steps where a guard picked it up. Having let Mon’s head roll to the bottom of the stairs for maximum affect, the headsman brought his axe down on Senna’s neck, releasing her head to make the same trip as Mon’s, with the same fanfare.

Damon made one last note about the scribe not being executed as the royal family and their entourage stood and left back into the castle while the crowd dispersed. The heads and bodies were collected onto a cart and taken back into the castle. To be burned, Damon suspected.

As he waited for everyone to clear out, Damon took a moment to finish his observations on the execution. Once done, he turned in his journal to the song he’d been writing about this fight between Mon and Theodore. This day had been coming a while now and he’d pieced it together bit by bit. He didn’t know when he’d premiere it, but he felt confident the reception would be warm. Especially from the King, who had liked his last ballad quite well. Damon had long ago found flattery was the best way into a noble’s good graces, and there was no better flattery than that of a song.

He dispelled the illusion and reached down and grabbed his fiddle in its leather case, cradling it in his arm as he walked toward the castle. The guards recognized him and let him pass. He was eager to learn what was to become of the Montclairs, now that they’d been pardoned. He didn’t think they’d stick around in Camlorn for long. Or be too happy to see his crooked toothed grin.

***

The Tynes
 

The balding castle servant's beady brown eyes could find rest anywhere in the bathchamber but on Asgen, who found it immensely funny to stare into them and see where they darted next. After a few moments of this, he shook his empty wine bottle. "Well, will you bring more or must I call for someone else?"

The servant met his eyes and then immediately looked away when Asgen grinned. Still, he spoke well enough for a nervous man. "I don't know if that is... advisable, sir." He made a twitchy gesture at the water, which had a pink tint after Asgen had accidentally spilled the contents of his third bottle, and then purposefully spilled the fourth as a joke. "You have already had quite a lot of-"

Asgen stood up, exposing himself to the man who now seemed to have spotted something very transfixing on the ceiling. "You have not served many Nords, friend. The two things we love best are drink and a good fight. Would you prefer if I seek out the latter?"

The servant's head jerked from side to side. "No, I merely-"

"You'll merely bring me more wine. Unless you expect King Theodore's guests to drink flavored bathwater." He clapped his hands twice, and then laughed as the servant left in a hurry. Falling back into the bath, Asgen glanced down at the colored water and frowned, then dipped his mouth in for a sip. The sweetness was faint, but present. He'd had worse.

Gods, this is the life. Only in his wildest dreams had Asgen imagined that he and Faida would find themselves in the private chambers of royalty, with servants, hot baths, and all the wine they could hope for. It was every sellsword's dream to be where he was now.

Sure, it was temporary, but perhaps it did not need to be. Theodore seemed like a reasonable man, happy to reward those who served him well. They had, and now he was giving them a chance to serve him again.

How could they ever go back to chasing bounties just so they could eat, or fighting for their lives on some lesser noble's front lines after this?

They couldn't. Or at least, they wouldn't. Asgen was sure of that. He would go back to Skyrim before living like that again.

The servant did not take long to return with his wine, but by then Asgen's skin was starting to wrinkle and he was ready to get out. He wrapped himself in a towel, took the bottle in one hand, his sheathed dagger with the other, and headed back to his quarters. There, he dressed in plain clothes that had no holes or tears, combed his hair in front of a glass mirror. and drank the rest of his expensive Illesan wine.

Asgen was taking a piss in his very own privy when there came a knock on his door. He shook the last few drops loose and shouted, "Come in!"

He heard someone enter his room, and left the privy to find another servant, this one notably more composed and better dressed than the first. He said in a strong and clear voice, "His Majesty, King Theodore Adrard summons you. You are to follow me to his his study the moment you are able."

Asgen fastened his belt buckle and started to put on his boots. "I take it we will stop by Faida's room on the way?"

"She has already been summoned and awaits you by the staircase."

Asgen smiled. "Well, I'd hate to keep both the king and my sister waiting. Lead on, friend."

The page led Asgen out to the wing's main staircase, where Faida awaited them dressed in a gray-green robe beneath a leather jerkin. There was dirt on her fingers and sweat on her brow. As they neared, her nose twitched. "You smell like wine."

"They bathe in it here," was all Asgen said of that. "You smell like dirt. Did you finally get into the garden this morning?"

"I did." The twins walked behind the servant as he headed them down the stairs. "This was the first time I've gone that the king's wizard wasn't using it to train those nightblades of his. You wouldn't believe how much grows there, Asgen! So many plants I've never seen in my life, and others not since we left Skyrim. I'll show you everything when we get back. You'll love what I can do with them."

The castle was large, but the servant's long and purposeful strides brought them to their destination in very little time. As usual, there were two guards stationed outside, one of whom was the ebony-clad knight who had ushered them in a few days before. He did so again now, and the Tynes entered Theodore's study.

They were not alone in the room. Theodore sat slightly slumped down in a large plush chair by the window. His skin was pale, his nose and eyes inflamed red. He was dressed more regally than they’d seen up to this point, in a gold silken doublet with his bull sigil embroidered on the chest. Besides him, there were two others waiting. A slim Breton woman with black hair who was roughly the Tynes’ age looked out the window. She wore no armor except for bits of leather on her forearms and shins. When she turned around she didn’t bother hiding an annoyed look.

Standing at attention like a statue was a knight in chainmail and a padded blue longcoat, this woman nearly as tall as Asgen and slightly younger than them. She had a serious look on her face and reddish brown hair, which showed as she held her helmet in the crook of her arm. From her hip hung a one-handed war hammer. And the knight who showed them into the room stayed as well, moving to stand beside the other knight. He took off his ebony helmet, and the Tynes saw he had sharp Breton features, with short dark brown hair and a clean shaven face. He was in his forties, judging by the slightest hint of grey at the temples, and was average height for a Breton.

The King smiled as they entered, looking from each person in the room to the next. He was clearly sick but he seemed in good spirits. “Asgen, Faida, welcome. I trust your stay here has been pleasant?”

"It has," replied Asgen, as he did that funny Breton bow. Afterwards, he followed his sister closer to the strange group. "More than pleasant, I should say. Felt like half a king, myself. And Faida got to do some much needed shopping."

"Among other things." Faida was still sizing up the people they were standing with. She did not recognize the tall woman, but the one with dark hair had been among the nightblades she'd seen in the garden. They were in dangerous company. "Who are these people?"

“Your companions on this mission.” Motioning to the ebony clad knight, Theodore said, “This is Sir Thomas Maric, my trusted Captain of the Guard. He will lead the expedition, and all of you are to follow his orders.”

Sir Maric gave a nod to the Tynes and said, “You two have done good work. I’m glad you’ll be joining us.”

Theodore continued, “Should something happen to him Dame Simone LaViolette will take over in his stead.”

The tall woman gave a nod as well, and with a slight smile said, “A pleasure to meet you.”

Finally Theo motioned to the dark haired woman. “And this is Morane Lynielle, a nightblade in my employ.”

He paused to allow her to speak, but her frown remained firmly set in place. Theodore spread a hand toward the twins and, addressing the others, said, “And these two are Asgen and Faida Tyne. Mercenaries who have more than proven their worth to my family.”

"Might even call us friends," Asgen said, folding his arms. He grinned at their new allies, and lingered on Morane in particular. "Fine greetings to you all."

“Friends indeed,” Theodore said with a grin, though it did not linger. “But I’m afraid there is no time for further introductions. You are to leave immediately on your quest. You’ll be hunting down the ingredients needed to cure what plagues my family.” He was addressing only the Tynes, as evidently the others already knew.

"Well then, what ingredients will those be?"

“The pods from a shadowseed plant, located in the hinterlands of the Dragontail Mountains. As well as a mixture of vavasour blood and the ground petals of a corpse flower. That was why I elected to send you two, given your professed experience with Daedric summonings.”

The twins exchanged a glance. Neither of them was going to say it in front of the king right after being dubbed the party's daedric experts, but the same thought was going through both their heads. What the fuck is a vavasour?

"Good call," said Asgen.

"Shouldn't be too hard," said Faida.

Theodore clapped his hands together but any exclamation he was about to make was cut short by a cough. When he recovered, his voice was hoarse. “I’ve given Sir Maric more specific directions, as well as a journal from the Telvanni Baron Tilwald made contact with. That should have more information regarding your Daedra. You have an hour to prepare, and then I will meet with you in the great hall to see you off.”

With that, the group was dismissed and quickly took its leave. Asgen was tempted to speak with some of the others as they filtered out into the hall, but the nightblade wasted no time in heading off in her own direction and Sir Maric remained behind to close the door on them. "Well that was short," Asgen remarked. Only Faida and Dame LaViolette remained to hear him.

“The King is not usually like that, but today is...well, it’s not an ordinary day,” LaViolette said, her voice quieter than her physique led one to expect. “Duke Mon and Senna Silver were executed this morning.”

"Heard about that," Asgen said. "Shame about Senna. She was good at what she did."

"Annoying to hunt, though." Faida added.

"Yeah, annoying to hunt. And that Brigade of hers was some of the meanest competition in High Rock." The three of them were headed in the same way for now, so they walked together. "It's Dame LaViolette, right?" Asgen asked. "You from Camlorn?"

“Only for the last twelve years. I was born and raised in Jehanna.” She was no Breton noble, and both Tynes caught the pang of sadness or bitterness one in her voice towards the city of her birth.

"Beautiful city," said Asgen. "We ain't been home in a long time neither, but Jehanna was the next best thing. I take it that means you've got some Nord in you, then?"

“My father and a grandfather on my mother’s side. What about you two?” LaViolette glanced between Asgen and Faida as she spoke. “Tyne is an awfully Breton name for a couple of Nords. Though being from the Reach would explain that.”

"The king tell you about that?" Faida glanced at Asgen, who shrugged. "Aye," she said, "that would explain it. But not for us. Ma had all the Reach blood."

"And most of the Nord blood too," Asgen continued. "Papa Tyne hailed from Riften. As plain a Breton as ever you'll meet."

“Nordic Reachmen with a plain Breton father. And now mercenaries working for the King of High Rock.” LaViolette chuckled. “Not the usual path, I’d say, if there is such a thing.”

"Ain't a lot of usual paths that end working for a king," he agreed. "What of yours? How did a woman from Jehanna come to be a Dame in Camlorn?"

Her jaw clenched tight behind her pursed lips and there was a moment where the Tynes thought she would ignore the question before she said, “I was a Crusader of Stendarr in Jehanna.” She paused and gathered her voice as they continued down the halls. “In High Rock, some knights find religion and leave their knightly order for a divine one. Others lose religion and take the opposite path. That was me.”

"And that led you here?"

“I needed to leave Jehanna, and met someone who suggested I go to Camlorn. I’ve been here ever since. But enough about me. How did two Nords of the Reach end up working in High Rock?"

"Not much story to that," said Asgen.

"Your nobles have a lot of money," said Faida.

“A lot of money and a lot of enemies. Makes High Rock a good place for folks like you two. And for folks like me,” LaViolette said. “Though it seems like you two did pretty well in Cyrodiil. How did you two pull that off, kidnapping Senna out from under the Brigade?”

Asgen shrugged. "Mostly by killing them."

LaViolette rolled her eyes. “Come on. Kidnapping the leader of a two hundred strong mercenary group had to involve more than just killing.”

"It's a lot less than two hundred now." Asgen grinned at the look she gave him. "What? Do you think we'd be working for the king if we weren't good at what we do?"

"I imagine that Maric fellow is among the best knights in High Rock," said Faida, before she could respond. "And the nightblade is trained by Theodore's own wizard. I'm sure they've done things that are no less impressive. You probably have too, or you wouldn't be here."

LaViolette nodded. "No, you're right. We've all done things to deserve to be here, and I have no doubt you're highly skilled. I just don't think you two are here because you cut your way through the Silver Brigade." She still had an amiable smile on her face and she gave a shrug. "But who knows. Maybe you two are the deadliest of this lot. I look forward to seeing what you can do regardless.”

"Likewise, Dame LaViolette."

It wasn't long before the Dame's path broke off from that of the twins, so they said their farewells for the moment and returned to their rooms. Both siblings had already packed their bags for the trip, so preparing did not take very long. Asgen collected his shield, dagger, and a new sword and helmet from the castle armory. Faida double-checked the contents of her ingredients and potions bags, and sheathed a new dagger at her belt. Both of them changed into more appropriate riding clothes, and re-emerged in the hallway at nearly the same time.

"What do you think my coat-of-arms should be?" Asgen asked as they walked. "You know, if the king knights me for my valor."

Faida snorted. "You want to be a knight, now?"

"Why not? You've seen the way these people live. And we're already part of it now. Might as well make it official."

"Your sigil should be a big ol' jug of milk."

They reached the great hall, where King Theodore, Sir Maric, and an older Breton man awaited them. None of the others had made it back yet.

“Asgen, Faida, meet Damon Ivy,” the King said as the older man beside him nodded in greeting. Theodore coughed and when he brought up a handkerchief to wipe his mouth, his hand was shaking. Sir Maric cast a concerned look at the King, who continued, “He will be joining the group.”

“Only temporarily.” Damon smiled, revealing crooked yellow teeth. He was mostly thin, with his belly protruding just a bit over his belt. He had a horseshoe of grey hair with a large bald patch on top. In his right arm he cradled a leather instrument case. “I will be your guide to the citadel of my guild. Hopefully our archives can help you in your endeavor for the King.”

"You're one of those Scenarists?" Faida asked, nodding to the case. She didn't need to wait for an answer. "Aye, as many books as you lot have, I imagine there's gotta be something useful in it all."

Damon gave the case a loving pat. “I’m sure if I knew what you were looking for I could help-“

“Your guide services are all that’ll be required,” the King said, his voice firm even if he was unsteady standing there.

Damon had a playful smile on his face. “I couldn’t very well call myself a Scenarist if I didn’t at least try.”

The King didn’t seem amused, his mouth set in a hard line. Damon shrugged and turned back to the Tynes. “Either of you musicians?”

"We're more the singing types," said Asgen.

“Well it just so happens my singing companions have...moved on,” Damon said, his eyes darting toward the King. “So it’ll be nice to have a pair of singing voices on the trip. Knights aren’t known for their singing, after all.”

”What about Dames?” LaViolette asked as she walked into the great hall.

”Not in my experience,” Damon said.

”And you have a lot of experience with Dames, do you?” LaViolette asked.

“Once upon a time,” Damon said, another playful smile spreading across his face.

LaViolette chuckled. “Are you coming with us?”

”Only as far as the Citadel.”

“Well, at least part of the way it’ll be a lively trip.” She looked around and asked, “We still waiting on Morane?”

“Who?” Damon asked.

“A nightblade in my army,” the King said. “While we’re waiting, Sir Maric, if you would.”

“Of course,” the knight said. He reached into the pack resting on the floor by his feet and pulled out a leather bound journal. Handing it to the Tynes, he said, “This should have more information that’ll help you with your task. Hopefully the Guild’s library can fill in any blanks the journal doesn’t.”

Faida thumbed through a few pages. The wizard hadn't spared an inch of paper from his sketches and hastily-scrawled notes. The handwriting was damn near illegible, and some of it was even in daedric. She closed the journal and gave a nod. "Anything useful's in here, we'll put it to good use."

“I trust that you will,” the King said. The main doors to the great hall swung open as Morane entered. King Theodore walked towards her, the rest of the group following closely behind. “I trust that all of you will do your utmost to complete this task.” He glanced over each of them in turn. “Good luck, and thank you.”

The guards pushed the doors to the yard open, revealing six horses saddled and waiting. Warhorses for Maric and LaViolette, a courser for Morane, and an old nag for Damon. Waiting for Asgen and Faida were Ulf and Rosille. As the bells tolled the fourth hour of the afternoon, the group left Camlorn behind, riding east.

***

Joslin Gaerhart
 

The last few hours of Joslin Gaerhart’s life felt like she was slowly sinking deeper and deeper into the ocean. When she’d first realized this was the end she still had her bearings, but they were slipping away from her with each passing moment. And so she ordered everyone but Roland and his wife Lyenna to leave her, so that she might speak to them one last time.

They sat on either side, each holding her hand. Joslin tried to sit up but found herself unable to lift herself. She lay her head back down and closed her eyes for a moment. “You two are our future. All of what we’ve done is for you.”

Neither of them spoke, but Roland squeezed her hand, and Joslin continued. “There will come a time when you must rule, when you will steer High Rock. Remember what we’ve done to build it. You must realize what it will take to keep it together.”

“We do, grandmother. My disagreement with father…When the time comes, we’ll do what we must,” Roland said. But Joslin could hear the indecision in his wavering voice.

“Lyenna, dear,” Joslin said, but stopped as heaving wet coughs racked her body. Roland rolled her over on her side so she could spit up the acidic green pile coating her throat. Lyenna looked concerned as she squeezed Joslin’s hand, and Joslin gave her a reassuring but pained smile in return. “Lyenna, your father has taught you well. Continue to observe and learn, and you will make a great queen.”

 And a pretty one, Joslin thought, with her slender jawline, long dark hair, and bright green eyes. Her grandson and his wife were a perfect royal couple, both young and pretty, smart and kind. She only hoped their kindness would not get in the way of what their fathers had taught them.

She did not feel like talking any longer, and quickly fell into a restless sleep. When she awoke, her family sat around her bed, muttering comforting words that she couldn’t really make out. But she knew they were there, and she could still hear their voices, and it was a comfort nonetheless.

As time dragged on she became increasingly disoriented. Whenever she tried to speak she either gagged on the bile filling her mouth or her words were incomprehensible, even to herself. She lay beneath half a dozen blankets, and still she felt so cold. Her grey hair, usually fixed so neatly, clung to her sweaty scalp. Every cough was another dagger plunged into her body, while her lungs continued to fill with whatever pestilential liquid was eating at her insides.

There was one moment of clarity, when she was able to force down some sort of potion. She could hear Elayne’s voice clearly then, saying, “It’s alright, mother. We’re here.”

“Elayne, dear.” Joslin coughed, the potion threatening to come back up, but she tensed every muscle in her body to keep it down.

“Yes, mother?”

“It’s yours now. Daggerfall, my position. You are the Lady of Daggerfall and of Secrets. You must be…” And then the potion did come back, her cursed body rejecting any sort of balm. She was just happy she’d talked to her daughter one last time.

Light seemed to fade as she sank even deeper below the waves. She hoped she might see a whale, the sigil of the Gaerhart family. She’d always enjoyed taking their ship out to where Eltheric met the Iliac, where, beneath the cliffs of Betony, pods of whales gathered every spring. She was saddened that she hadn’t got the chance to go this year.

She saw no whales as the darkness enveloped her vision. It felt like the end now, and she was ready to accept her fate, but then the darkness began to fade. Her eyes adjusted to the low green light. She blinked and there was her husband, greeting her with a surprised look but a warm smile on his weathered face. He was standing on a barren, rocky field, dead plants surrounding them, while vapors slowly drifted into the sky from cracks in the dry ground.

“Dilborn.” She reached out to take his hand, but as she did she noticed a figure standing behind him.

No, figures. It was Dilborn’s parents, and behind them his grandparents. The entire Gaerhart line, going back almost two hundred years, watched and waited. Dilborn’s hand was still outstretched, his familiar smile beckoning her to join him and his family. After another moment’s hesitation, she did, grabbing her husband’s hand and squeezing it tightly.

That was when the laughter came, cackling and malevolent. Joslin turned around to where she had first appeared, and there was an old woman. She was even older than Joslin, with a hunched back, stringy blonde hair, with a large wart on the side of her nose. Her smile revealed the gaps in her yellowing teeth. Joslin’s blood ran cold. The woman was familiar, frighteningly so, but she could not place her.

Joslin looked back to Dilborn, whose hand she had dropped, but he was gone. In his place was a four legged, serpentine dragon. It wasn’t large, only twice height of a man, with sharp ribs poking through its leathery pale green skin. It cocked its head to the side like a dog. It seemed calm, peaceful even, and unlike the old woman, Joslin felt no wickedness from the dragon. It exhaled and she smelled its noxious breath, but that only made her feel slightly drunk. When she staggered, one of the tattered wings reached out and propped her up.

The dragon smiled at her, and she felt nothing as it swallowed her whole. The last thing she was conscious of was the old woman’s cackling laughter as her mind finally slipped away.

[ColonelKillaBee]

Kyne's Watch: Vigge's

 

"Ragna. Ragna..... Ragna!"

Baldur lifted the girl up by her pants and made her face him, which was not the best idea. Ever since he gave her the wooden axe, everything from plates, mugs and Stuhnir were falling victim to it. Baldur was added to the long list of notches upon her belt when she gleefully swiped at papa's eye, almost reenacting how he got his scar in the first place in Camp Romulus.

The two were in Vigge's old place, visiting the Iron-Brows, though Mila was away learning squire work like Baldur told her, he hoped. Or at the very least staying out of trouble. Meanwhile Baldur was trying to quiet his thick skulled daughter in front of his brother.

He took away her axe and placed it on the dining table, making her focus on his face. "Ragna. That hurts papa. You don't hit papa, you hit elves and milk drinkers, got it? Now sit and think about what you've done."

As Baldur put her down, Ragna was already half walking and stumbling her way from the corner.  He brought over a ham, bread, cheese, Black-Briar mead and his own Baldurbrau which practically shimmered with frost around every bottle.

"This stuff will knock you on yer arse, Boldir, be careful. I put frost wraith essence in it. It's colder than Molag Bal's balls." As Baldur said that, he immediately got to making himself a sandwich, not noticing that Ragna managed to stand herself up with a chair to try and reach her axe.

"Good. Gods know nothing brewed in Cyrodiil was able to." Boldir took Ragna's wrists and steered her away from the table. Stubborn like her parents, she kept looking back at the axe, so he produced a large seashell that Mila had collected and handed it to her. She promptly sat down and put it in her mouth. He turned back to Baldur. "What happened to not speaking the names of devils?"

“That was mostly for Rebec’s benefit,” said Baldur with a grin. “Though yea, it ain’t a good idea to casually throw out the name of Daedric Lords, even in jest. And I’m already on that ‘un’s bad side. Had some vampire wenches near the town. Killed one in my trials. I’m not nearly as worried about that one though as I am the one you got wrapped up with.”

"Aye, he's a prick." Boldir grabbed a bottle of his brother's ice beer and took a swig. "Gods," he nearly choked. It felt like the snows of Atmora were running down his gullet. "How's this stuff not turned to ice?"

“Don’t tell any Nords but... magic,” said Baldur with a wink. “It’s the ice wraith essence. It’s almost like a ghost's ectoplasm. Whatever the stuff is, even over a fire, it stays cold. Like it’s enchanted. But on its own, it will never freeze. Maybe that’s why an ice wraith is so swift despite being frozen.”

Boldir took another drink and found it easier to stomach the second time. Strangely enough, the cold seemed to dissipate before it reached his belly. "It ain't bad. Just don't you go turning into an alchemist on us. I saw one of those freaks eat an eyeball down south."

“Speaking of... In- hey!” The sound of broken plate drew papa’s attention. Ragna got bored of the seashell pretty quick and managed to get back at her axe.

Baldur snagged a stunned Ragna away from the broken plate and pointed to a target made of straw that Vigge had on the wall. He drew his axe, making sure Ragna was paying attention before chucking it at its center. 

The baby’s eyes grew wide, mouth agape and exposing her tiny new teeth. Then papa put her new axe in her hand and placed her back on the floor. It took a minute for her to grasp the concept but eventually she started throwing the toy axe like her papa showed her.

Even if it fell short and sometimes didn’t even hit the wall, as long as Baldur cheered her on and acknowledged her, she’d crawl, wobble and stumble over to wherever it landed and try again.

”There, that should keep her busy for a while. Now. Where was I... Right, Ingun... You know I met with her right? She filled me in on much of what happened. In fact the way she told it, I got the feeling she had eyes for you...”

It took Boldir a long time to answer. When he did, his voice was quiet. "She was there when Carlotta died. I almost killed her." The memories still seemed fresher than the tattoos on his head. The castle had fallen. The Jarl was in the middle of dying. Ingun had looked him in the eyes, terrified and rightly so. "Sometimes I wish that I had. If the gods were at all just, Sibbi's death would've been the end of that family."

“Looks like she didn’t tell me everything then...” said Baldur, sighing hard. He took a long drink before looking Boldir in the eyes. He studied him for a time, looking him over. He was so different now, and it wasn’t just the tattoos or the haircut. His fist clenched and trembled as he spoke.

“Brother. Words are my forte, but for once I’m at a loss. I look at you and all I feel is anger. So many men I want to put my axe in, but you and Mila got to them first. I hate this feeling, and I have no fucking idea what to do with it.” 

"Aye, there ain't any elves for us to carve up this time," Boldir said, dryly. He looked his brother in the eyes. "I can't tell you how to get rid of that anger. Mine still burns hot." He shook his head. "Taking care of Mila. That helps. Distracts from it. Protecting that girl is the only way I can do right by her anymore."

Baldur watched him as he spoke then diverted his eyes to a corner. He didn’t say anything for awhile, just watched Ragna trying to take her booties off while yammering to a stuffed mammoth she had on the floor. 

Swishing his drink around, he said, “You know I’ve got your back, no matter where we’re headed. But I’m afraid one day our paths will diverge so much that no amount of Grim Ones will reach you. Tell me, after this is all done, where will you go?”

"Wherever they'll take me, I suppose." He sighed. "If such a place exists. You've done some amazing things, brother. I've seen some of them myself. But I doubt if even the gods could convince our people to forgive me. Still... Skyrim is my home. And whatever they think, I didn't betray it. Maybe I won't go anywhere. Imagine what folk would think of that." He laughed bitterly. "It doesn't matter. I'll worry about my future after Mila is saved. Not before."

Baldur started to drink again, then after a pause at his lips he placed the bottle on the table, suddenly finding it unappealing. Sighing, he pushed it away and said, "You know, Rebec somehow predicted this. I doubt she even remembers. The day we left Whiterun behind, she asked me. She said, 'If they decide not to come with us, could you live with it? Could you still be happy with me?' Or something like that. She acts as daft as a horker sometimes, which only makes it that much more annoying when she starts making sense." 

His divorce from his drink didn't last too long, downing its contents after another long pause. Long pauses made him thirsty, especially on moments like this. "Say, remember when she came at us about the damn giants? Got paint on her as much as that gods damned cow."

"How could I forget?" Boldir chuckled, and realized that his own bottle had run empty. He reached for another. "You had a whole clan of them chasing me so you could sneak the beast into their camp."

"Way I remember it, you caught quite the eyeful that day too, didn't you?" Baldur's eyebrows lifted and fell. "Changed your whole outlook of life that giant did. I'll be careful not to let you see me taking a piss so you don't have to relive the day."

"Reliving it now's bad enough." Boldir frowned. "Far as we could tell, all that nonsense worked. The giants left barely a week after you did."

Baldur was chuckling a bit much for the stupid joke he made, which meant the mead was working. Or, he was feeling a bit like his old self again. "Yea I guess it did. We should've retired that very day and become painters, you and I. Well, maybe not you."

"You sound like Mila," Boldir said, a little defensively. "I can paint."

Baldur nodded. “Of course. Of course. Maybe some warpaint, if you didn’t always wear that helmet. Which reminds me, where is it?”

"I lost it in Cyrodiil. Probably got picked up by some Colovian." Boldir shrugged. "Looking for it wasn't exactly a priority at the time."

“Sounds like a story, if Iron-Brow left behind his iron...” said Baldur, signaling with his bottle to continue. “I know everything Thorald knows, but obviously there’s still a lot he doesn’t know.”

"He knows what's important: the stuff about Vile and Mila's soul, the people I need to kill. I never told him about the wizards and necromancers. Or the witch who turned into a bug. I lost my helmet fighting a monster from Oblivion who made me look like a Breton by comparison."

Boldir proceeded to fill Baldur in on all he could remember since Riften. He described the lonely journey south and his run-ins with Sibbi's mercenaries, his long months in the Imperial City, where he nearly died of poison and cut a path to Black-Briar only to find him dead already. He told his brother about Gwella and Stoit and that Knight of the Thorn who helped him find Mila, all dead now, and of the necromancers and wizard who met the same fate. "What were those bastards' names? Ral? Rythe. It was Rythe. And the other was Dresan or some such. I suppose it ain't important. I killed the one who had Mila, and he killed the necromancer."

Boldir continued to tell him about the nightmare that was Oblivion, at leat the parts he could recall. That whole experience had felt so strange, so wrong, that it was hard to separate what happened from things he might've dreamed. One thing that he knew to be real was his encounter with Clavicus Vile, and the pact they formed. "I've never seen anything like it, brother. Not ever. The devil took the shape of a boy, but his eyes were... wrong. I have never felt as powerless as I did in front of that thing."

"Should've brought more mead," Baldur said after another long pause. He bit his lip, fingers racking at the table. "This isn't right. This war's complicated enough without their involvement. I'm not sure it's entirely coincidental, either. For whatever reason, Daedra are paying attention to this war. Or those that will be involved in it. The second soul, Lord Naarifin. You recognize that name, don't you?"

"Of course. But Vile explained well and good why he wants the elf's soul. It ain't about the war for him. It's about profit. Other Princes want it, so he's trying to claim it first."

"It may not be about the war directly, but the war is involved," said Baldur, more to himself than Boldir. "The reasons aren't that important really. Only the end. I don't suppose he mentioned who the other soul is, or what other Daedra want Naarifin's? Things could get even more complicated if other Lords really are looking to acquire his soul."

"He didn't tell me the third soul, but said that there are a lot of daedra who want Naarifin's. He named two in particular: Boethiah and Molag Bal."

Baldur's face went pale at the mention of the first devil. "Well that's fantastic. Brother, things just got more complicated."

"I've got to kill the elf for Vile before someone else does for one of the others. How is that complicated?"

"Well, see. The thing is, I somehow managed to attract the attention of one of those devils you mentioned... Boethiah," said Baldur. "I have no idea how far a daedra's influence extends into this realm any longer, but it means we may need to consult an expert. Otherwise any aid I give you could be compromised. And who knows how that might effect things if your devil knows we're close."

"He knows." Boldir took another drink and cursed, "Shor damn it all! How did we both end up tangled with these bastards? I don't suppose you got snagged into Oblivion as well?"

"Shhh... Not so loud. Never know what the little one will pick up. Last thing I need is her yelling 'Bwivion' in front of Rebec..." He leaned back in his chair, eyes closed. "I don't even know if it was real or not. My pa found me atop Snow-Throat while I was in training. My dead pa. Said he fought with Brund to buy me some time, then he took a ring I got from this orc fellow in the woods. Somehow he used it to drag me to her plane. And there she was, a fiery wench in a pit of lava, trying to get me to claim her sword. Then, I woke up, still atop High Hrothgar, missing my ring... I grew up reading about her. My father was a devout worshiper of Shor but his true master was Boethiah. And I know for certain she typically has more than one chosen. Some of them may come after me, eventually."

If it was anyone but Baldur telling him this, Boldir would have thought he was being mocked. Even coming from Baldur in a very serious discussion, it was hard to believe. "We must be cursed, brother. This kind of nonsense doesn't happen to regular people. You mentioned experts. Does being king mean you can make one of those college types come down here?"

“Let’s hope so, because even though I read a lot, an expert on occult worship and all things Daedra, I am not. I only know what my father taught me. One thing that did stick though was that Daedra love to bargain. And so, I’m thinking we’ll need leverage. That sword she’s been trying to get me to claim, that might come in handy for a number of reasons.”

"Why would a devil care about you getting some sword?"

Baldur chuckled, knowing Boldir would get a kick out of this. “It’s... complicated. Take another sip of mead before I go. Good? Okay. It’s because of this Ash-King business. Windhelm’s people got it in their heads that I’m ‘Wulfharth reborn’. A shezarrine. Don’t suppose you ever read the 36 Lessons of Vivec? He connects Boethiah to Lorkhan. Shor. I’m probably a possible interesting collectible to her in any case. But having that sword, it could be a good backup plan if for some reason a soul is out of our reach. Or if another Daedra comes seeking your target, perhaps we could offer it as trade.”

Boldir understood most of the words his brother used. Most. He still had no idea why this sword would help them or what made it special, and 36 seemed like a lot of lessons to be reading. Vivec was... a ruined elf city, if he recalled correctly. And 'shezzaneen' sounded like a word that was made up on the spot. He did understand the Wulfharth part, though. And he could tell that Baldur had some kind of weird and undoubtedly esoteric idea floating around in that big brain of his.

"So people think you're Ysmir." Boldir grinned. In different times, he was sure Baldur might've had fun with something like that. "That sounds about right... as for the rest, let's assume that I didn't understand any of it, and that explaining would only confuse me even more. If you think there's a sword that can help us with this daedra problem, tell me where it is and we'll go get it."

Baldur grinned at the earnest simplicity of his brother. No task was too daunting for him. “That attitude brother, is how we beat the Imperials. If you hadn’t blocked off that pass, who knows if they’d have been desperate enough to ally with us. If they should be calling anyone ‘Ysmir’, it’s you. Anyway, this sword is not just any sword. It’s her sword. And it’s something I’ll have to do alone. But I will get it, I promise you that.”

"That was my attitude, not long ago," Boldir said somberly, "that I needed to do something alone. It got a city destroyed. And this ain't Maven Black-Briar we're talking about. If this sword can help us, great. But don't make the mistake of thinking you can play these devils. There's not a promise in the world that could get me to deal with them more than I have to already."

Baldur raised his bottle. "Fair point, brother. Fair point. In any case, it's an option. I'd still rather have something to bargain with beyond our souls if we have to go that route. And it will come in handy with something I have planned for the war."

"We can talk about the war in time. I need to survive these trials of yours first" Boldir finished his own bottle. What number was he on now? Three? Four? He frowned when he saw that they were out of Baldurbrau. He hadn't touched the Black-Briar mead. As irrational as he knew it was, the stuff made him feel uneasy. Not that he'd show it in front of Baldur. "So how many people are you going to tell about me? Can't keep it a secret from everyone."

“No, but we’ll be keeping the number as small as can be... I don’t like lying to my men, but I also won’t tempt fate. At most, maybe I’ll tell the other commanders of the Grim Ones, but I’d rather keep it between the three that survived.... you. Which reminds me, I’ll need to speak with them.”

Baldur hadn’t noticed his brother’s hesitation... too much mead. But he did notice Boldir stopped drinking and gave him the rest of his own before grabbing the Black-Briar himself.

"These commanders. Mila tells me that you made them kill bears without any weapons. Any truth to that?"

“Ha! Of course not. Unless you’ve got giant blood, and some of them do... fighting a bear without steel or thu’um is suicide. But even still, the final trials are tough, and unpredictable. The gods themselves, they walk the path with you. But you won’t need to worry about that part of it, at least.”

"True enough. I'll go along with these trials if you think it's best, but no more than I must. I ain't as young as I used to be."

Baldur gave him a nod. "You and I both. I wouldn't have you take them if I didn't think it was necessary. Though, I must say, it's only because of my interference. Brother, I hope you can forgive me."

Boldir didn't answer immediately. He had thought about this for some time. If not for their capture, there was a very good chance that Naarifin would be dead and his daughter would be that much closer to freedom. Not to mention how nearly they had come to being killed for resisting, and the things they'd been forced to do to prevent that. Killing those Grim Ones had bothered Mila even more than it had him.

Yet in spite of all that, Baldur was his brother, something that would never change. And he was far less responsible for their situation than Boldir himself. Carlotta and Mila had forgiven him for his mistakes, and Baldur deserved the same.

"Aye," Boldir said at last. It was easier than he had expected. "You wanted to help your family. No one can blame you for that." He hesitated. "Mila's the one who will need convincing."

"Aye. Though I understand why the girl is upset. It just felt wrong to leave you two be while you were on the run. I should've had more faith in you both. I... I was just afraid of what might happen to you. And, I missed you both something fierce."

"I know. You don't need to explain yourself. Not to me anyway." Boldir finished his bottle and laid it aside. "I need to piss," he announced as he stood up.

“Mhm, me too now that you mention it.” He stood as well, though it was obvious he’d almost lost balance in doing so. “Wow, this stuff really sneaks up on you.”

"I'll be wanting more before the trials," Boldir laughed. He pushed open the door and was surprised to find that the sky had grown dark. "Huh. You know I forgot how short the days are up here."

Baldur was following him but turned back, grabbing a sleepy Ragna and putting her up on his shoulder. “Almost forgot the beb. How long were we talking?”

"I don't have the faintest idea. The sun's down and it's clouded up."

“Well whatever, hurry up, Iron-Brow. You’re blocking the doorway with your massive frame.”

”Papapapapapa...” said Ragna, babbling tiredly.

Boldir stepped outside and waded through the snow to the side of the longhouse. He unlaced his trousers and did his business in a little round bush that sprouted next to one of the walls. "You never told me where that blood came from," Boldir said as he pissed. "Back at the fort."

Baldur shrugged. “What’s to tell, something me and the wife wanted to try got a little out of hand is all.”

"That doesn't sound like a long st-" Boldir got cut off by the sound of a woman shouting. He finished and turned around to see Baldur's mother storming in their direction with two more robed women a short way behind her. Every one of them looked annoyed. He walked back to the door and stopped. "What's this, then?"

"Hehey! Mother brought pie!" said Baldur, waltzing over to the gathering. He stretched his hand out to the cloth covering the hot dish and was greeted with a hard rap across the knuckles. "Hey! Ma, control your wenches!"

Ysana answered this with a smack on Boldir's head with her broom. "You're lucky you're holding my granddaughter or that would be directed to you! Why is this oaf peeing on my wreath?!" 

Boldir had to stop himself from snatching the stick from her hand. Instead, he rubbed his head. "What in Talos' name are you on about, woman?"

Ysana smacked him again. "That is a blessed wreath of the three women of Shor! Mara, Dibella, Kyne! Complete with flowers of each, to bless this house and protect it! And you were pissing on it!! What is up with you drunks and always trying to piss all over everything!"

"Was I?" Boldir glanced back at the 'bush' he had stood at. "Maybe you should’ve hung it up." He was ready this time, and caught the broom handle in his hand. Drunk as he was, Boldir couldn't stop himself from laughing. "I'll make it up to the gods soon, okay?"

Ysana looked like she wanted to try for his snowberries but the women with her put their hands on her shoulder and beckoned her to come with them. She looked at her son who was noticeably out of broom or kicking distance, shook her head and left.

One of the women, the younger dark haired one turned back around and gave Baldur her pie and a kiss on the cheek, then did the same to Boldir. “I’m sure the gods couldn’t stay angry at such good men as yourselves for long... my King, if you’d like, I could show your big friend here around Kyne’s Watch...”

”Svenna! Move it.”

”Coming, Ysana!” said the woman, letting her hand linger on Boldir’s arm a while until she heard Ysana’s boots crunching closer and scurried off. They both heard giggling and swearing in the distance.

Baldur dipped his finger in. “Mmm, honeyed snowberry surprise. Just what I needed. You should go with that lass, I’ll man the pie.”

Boldir gave his brother a weary look, then took the dish and went back inside. 

Ragna was up again thanks to all the commotion, getting the pie smeared on her face as she tried stuffing handfuls in her mouth while Boldir took to doing the same.

Baldur came running through the door after relieving himself, making sure he got there in time before his "big friend" and ravenous daughter ate all the pie. It was the best thing to go with some good mead, though something with a little warm spice to it would've been better. 

"Little one, stop being so messy," said Baldur, missing the irony of the statement. He lifted her up from the floor and sat her in his lap at the table. "I guess I gotta bathe her anyway. Look at her. I'll be scrubbing that shirt for hours trying to get this out." Ragna was trying to mumble something but it couldn't get out past the pie.

"Mhm," Boldir grunted with his mouth full. He swallowed and glanced from the red-stained shirt to Baldur. His face grew serious. "You killed the Imperial, didn't you?"

Baldur had a wooden spoon full of pie twice the amount meant for the eating utensil and was just about to shove it down his gullet before Boldir uttered his question. Pie frozen before him, he eyed Boldir and said, "Of course I did. Does Mila know?"

"No."

“Good.”

Baldur finally ate his bite of pie, studying his brother as he loudly chewed the crunchy golden crust. “You’re not actually upset over him, are you?”

"Are you kidding? I'd have done the cur in myself given the chance." Boldir shrugged. "I'm glad he's dead. But your Empress friend won't be."

“That’s why she’s never gonna hear about it,” said Baldur with a wink. “I won’t lie and say I dislike the little Breton girl. She’s... I dunno. Entertaining. But don’t presume too much of this alliance, brother. I’d kill anyone, anything in service of Skyrim, and certainly to protect my family.”

Boldir looked at Ragna. "You hear that, child? You might be the best protected cub in all Skyrim."

Baldur looked to Ragna, whose head looked between the two men as she said, “Bububupapapa!” Her arms flailing as her red pie grin stretched wide at suddenly being the center of attention. 

Baldur kissed her forehead happily. “Especially with the two deadliest men in the whole goddamn Stormcloak army protecting her, am I right, Iron-Brow?”

Boldir nodded. "Damn right."

Baldur nodded in turn and downed the half of a wine bottle he grabbed from a cabinet behind him and passed it to Boldir. He looked at his hands, lost in thought a while and said, “I’m not a perfect man Boldir. I know this. But I’ll die before I ever betray you outright. Even if your path takes you and Mila someplace else, you’ll always have me to count on. If you need me.”

"I know." Boldir finished the bottle and set it aside. "I'm no king. Not sure if there's a thing I could do for you that a hundred others wouldn't already. But for what it's worth, you can count on me as well."

Baldur put his elbow on the table, holding his open hand in front of Boldir. "There isn't a single man in this kingdom I trust more, Daedric nonsense or not. I trust you with my life, my wife's life... my child's. But right now, I'm not worried about what you can do for me. We've saved each other's lives aplenty already. Right now, it's my responsibility to help you. Whether you needed my help before, or not."

"And you are." Boldir clasped his brother's hand. "We'll figure this mess out like we always have."

Ranga’s pie covered hands were smearing the table as she tried to climb towards theirs from her spot in Baldur’s lap.

Standing up with her, he said, ”Okay, I think it’s time we left before this one makes an even bigger mess. Pretty sure she needs changing anyway. And you, you’ll need your rest for what’s to come. You’ve been through a lot already, but even you will be tested in the Trials. But I know you’ll prevail. Eat well, sleep in, relax.”

"Relax." Boldir repeated. He couldn't remember how long it had been since he had relaxed. He dipped his head in a mock bow. "As you command, my king."

Baldur punched him on his good shoulder and pointed at him. “Don’t do that, Iron-Bruaow,” he said, mocking his strong eastern Skyrim accent poorly.

Boldir laughed. "Well you ain't gone mad with power, at least." He waved at the door. "Go on, then. And come back soon, eh? I doubt we'll get many other visitors."

“How’s tomorrow morning sound? Maybe we can hunt for Horker. Vigge’s old things should still be around. I don’t know if you’ll find it all that relaxing, but I like it.”

"It's been years since I've seen one of those ugly bastards, let alone gotten to hunt one." Boldir gave his brother a nod. "Tomorrow morning. I'll be ready."

Baldur nodded, gathered Ragna’s toys in a bag and wrapped a blanket around her before having Ragna wave her hand. “Say bye bye to uncle, love.”

”Bubupapapa,” said Ragna before her head settled against his neck.

”Close enough. See you, Boldir,” said Baldur. He started a lullaby as the door swung open, filling the house with the sounds of angry winds briefly before the door slammed shut.

***

It took just about as long as Baldur expected to get Ragna cleaned up, especially because the girl kept bouncing from sleepy to energetic. He did what he could and even tried to tire her out by practicing walking and getting her to chuck her axe and go after it. Unfortunately Ragna got bored rather easily.

It was well into the night before the girl finally let him sleep, enough that he was late for the hunting trip they'd planned the following morning, though Baldur's idea of 'early' was always skewed.

He enjoyed their brief moment of peace together, though both of them had so much on their minds that they couldn't get lost in the thrill of their hunt entirely. Baldur specifically had taken the battle with Scathe's men to heart and immediately went to drilling his men upon their return from the beaches. He gathered the Grim Ones not leading the Trials and had them pitted against groups of Stormcloaks, practicing something they called the Grim March.

The Grim March was a like a living war machine, something they'd do in an emergency to provide support for their men in a pinch, alternating between holding the line once they fought their way to the front, and marching upon hearing the signal from Baldur, the signal being his thu'um. The signal to regroup would be Tinvaak, and after Baldur released Yol, they'd fall upon the enemy line hard and fast, until they heard Tinvaak again.

It didn't matter what was being thrown at them or how many casualties they were taking. If they started the Grim March, they would advance upon the enemy position, even through the very gates of Oblivion.

They kept that up for a while and didn't stop until Baldur was struck in the neck with a practice arrow in the middle of his thu'um. The Stormcloak in question was given a case of his best mead, and they resumed once more, this time with Baldur thu'uming less often and less predictably, and with his shield raised.

One of the men on the opposite end caught some of his fire despite him shouting just above their heads, but luckily it was snuffed out quickly, as Baldur also made a point to better control the intensity of his power at will through his emotions, which was still a work in progress.

He got odd looks that he couldn't quite make out from his men, but it was something that needed to be done. As Rebec said, they had to get used to their thu'um or it would be a detriment, rather than a boon.

Baldur stayed behind in the practice field as a nurse tended to his bruises and cuts with spell and ointment, though he wasn't the only one that decided to stay behind. Thorald Gray-Mane, Ivold Big-Bone, and Hrondar the Goat still remained. He had told the trio to meet with him soon. Now was as good a time as any.

He thanked the maiden and had her run along as the men eventually gathered around him. They stayed silent as ever, and as the Grim Ones were now famous for, even in the pitch of battle. If it was eerie to onlookers, it was so especially to Baldur now, seeing from the outside what he'd shaped them into. 

They looked at him expectantly, as though awaiting orders. Baldur beckoned them to the campfire where the nurses were tending to the injured earlier and passed around the spiced wine. 

Breaking the silence, he said, "I didn't have you three come to me for orders, I had you come for speaking. The four of us need to talk. I know all of you are likely feeling conflicted right now about my behavior and the Boldir situation. And don't give me that 'whatever you will, King Baldur' horker shit, I'm tired of hearing it. Hrondar? Why don't you start."

"He should be dead," Hrondar said without hesitating. Baldur knew that of the three, he was the only one who did not get a chance at Boldir in the Abecean. He had been adrift at sea while his brothers around him sank. He also had family in the Rift.

“Good!” said Baldur, with an approving nod. “Anyone else? Any of you angry with me? How about you, Ivold.”

"I ain't happy," Big-Bone replied. "How could any man be?"

“Of course, obviously." said Baldur, nodding again. "And you, Thorald?”

Gray-Mane's expression didn't so much as twitch. "Boldir protected his clan. I do not hate him for that."

Baldur’s eyebrow raised. He always was surprised with Grey-Manes. It was as though wisdom came early to them, same as the very real grey manes upon their heads.

“Hmm. Did not expect that, Thorald. But you are correct. I’ll try and refrain from giving a speech and speak plainly. What you think happened in Riften is wrong. Yes, Boldir raised an army of brigands and cut throats. Yes he lead them against our brothers and sisters. What you don’t know, is both Sibbi and Maven Black-Briar worked hard to keep me unaware of the situation while raising my men against him, forged the letters I received, and used his adopted daughter’s knowledge of my relationship with Boldir to make it more convincing. My brother is not guilty of treason, as I see it. And the ones who are, are already dead. Ingun Black-Briar is the one that gave me this information. Were any of you in the same predicament, with your wife and children in harm’s way, I’d spare your lives as well. Boldir is not my brother by birth blood, but by blood of battle, same as the three of you. Do you doubt my words?”

"No," said Thorald. Ivold nodded in agreement. It was Hrondar who remained stubborn. 

"I believe you," he said. "The Black-Briars were cunts, the whole lot of them. But as I see it, any man who can be goaded into taking arms against those who call him brother is no man at all. He is a craven son of a bitch."

“Know this, were it my family being held hostage, I’d kill you without hesitation,” said Baldur. He looked directly at Hrondar. “And I’d expect no less, from a true Nord man. But, I didn’t bring you here to tell me you’re convinced. And you’re right, Boldir regardless of the reason killed our brothers, and even though he didn’t lead them to the gates of Riften, he is still responsible at least partly. And that is his burden to bear. But I cannot kill him. Even were word to break out, and all of Skyrim knew I, Baldur Red-Snow, the fabled Ash-King and great hero that shits gold and pisses mead harbored the man who is now hailed as one of our greatest traitors yet... I will not budge. I didn’t take up Ulfric’s crown to look good, I took it to kill elves and do the right thing. I do not believe killing a man whose family was threatened by those who would manipulate a High General to be the right thing. If I killed him now, it would be out of fear of what others would say, and then what sort of King to you would I be? No better than Imperials.”

The Grim Ones were silent for a while, until Hrondar finally spoke up. "Is that all you have to tell us, High King?"

Baldur stayed silent as well a time, wondering if he were too honest with them. Regardless, these were his men. He trusted them, whatever they felt about him and his decision. 

“Yea, I suppose so. Words can’t bring back the dead. Not Tamrielic ones, anyway. Oh, I almost forgot. You three will have the pay I already promised, plus that of your fallen brothers. So that’s five times the pay you’d have normally gotten. And don’t worry about paying their families, I’ll take care of that myself. Now go on, I need to think.”

The Grim Ones went off without another word, leaving Baldur with his thoughts. He sat back against the log he was sitting on, hind quarters now in the snow as he nursed another spiced wine. Sighing he whispered into the winds, “Being King is hard.” 

The winds whispered back to him and kept him company for as long as he wished to remain in his Sky-Mother’s presence. That day, he chose to stay very long indeed.

[The Good Doctor]

Mila
Kyne's Watch
 

Mila's nights were racked with dreams. It was nothing new, but they had grown more vivid as of late. Good, bad, about people she'd lost, people she'd killed, and about the few people who were still with her. Boldir was in most of them, and the Red-Snows as well. The best dreams had her mother in them, and the worst had the dog. Barbas took different forms in her dreams just like in the real world, but he always had the eyes of a devil. The dog never hurt her, yet somehow those dreams frightened Mila most of all.

Mila woke from one such dream early and easily, as she often did nowadays. Across the room, Boldir still snored, though she knew he would be rising soon as well. Her father never slept late, and very soon he would not even have that option.

She took care not to wake him as she crawled out of her blankets and began getting dressed. Even in the summer, the cold northern air gave Mila chills, so she made sure to bundle up warmly. Afterwards, she wrote a note, grabbed her rucksack, and went outside.

Magnus had not yet greeted Kyne's Watch, but that did not stop the townsfolk from climbing out of bed and beginning their daily routines. Along the beach to the east, Mila could hear a group of soldiers singing a cadence as they ran the Grim Trials, and the first stirrings of sailers and fishermen could be spotted throughout the town. She headed that way to avoid alarming the sentries Baldur posted, but after moseying trough the streets a bit, changed course and ventured south, heading away from Kyne's Watch entirely.

The walk that followed was long and made dreary by the predawn fog. There was no road or trail to help Mila navigate the rocky beach, but she was able to stick to the path by following her magical torchbug guide. The tiny yellow light drew her further and further away from town and into the steep hills that grew into mountains further south.

The sun was poking up by the time Mila reached her destination, though even with light, Kyne's Watch was shielded from her sight. The spot she had chosen to train in was decently flat, and covered in long, gray grass sprinkled with snowberry bushes. There were a few spots that were splattered with frozen paint, and a few empty jars had been discarded to one side.

"Build us a fire," said the voice of the witch. "Then we will begin."

Mila fetched a few logs of the firewood she had brought out several days before, then, using grass as kindling, mustered up a fire spell that may have been strong enough to light a candle. A few blades of the grass curled up and blackened, but it did not catch. Frustrated, Mila tried again, focusing hard on that living spark that rattled around inside her. This time, the magicka emerged in her hand as a ball of hot flame. Mila let it drop onto the pile and grinned when the little campfire ignited. 

"That's better." Valga hovered closer to the heat. "Now, draw your mark."

Mila removed her gloves and rummaged in her pack for the jar of black paint, which she set aside. Next, she dug out her spellbook and flipped to the page where she had drawn a recall mark. Laying the book out so she could see it, Mila opened the jar, dipped a finger, and started painting.

The mark was not very difficult to recreate. It was essentially just a circle made up of daedric symbols that were simple in design. Every time she finished one, she muttered the spell's "sealing words" under her breath. According to Valga, more proficient casters did not need to create their marks by hand. They could just do it with a spell. Mila hoped it would not take her very long to reach that stage herself.

When she was done, Mila ran her blackened hand through some grass and sat back to admire her handiwork. The circle was not perfect, but Valga told her that it didn't need to be. The art of mysticism was rarely born of perfection, she said. In this case, the witch made a clicking noise and remarked, "It will do." 

Mila went over to the other side of her fire and sat on her knees, staring into it. I made that fire. She pondered on the idea of it. It wasn't the gods, or daedra, or wood rubbing together. It came from me. Mila could not see the magicka that resided within her, but she could feel it. She envisioned it like a tiny white glow that could change the world. Everyone had the glow, and hers was not special. That meant the world and its restrictions were not special either. Anyone could change it. Endar Drenim had once said that the most ridiculous sort of laws were the ones that told them what could not be done. She was beginning to understand what he meant.

Mila manipulated her spark, calling the magicka to her fingertips as Valga had taught her. "You wouldn't write a letter using your teeth," the witch had said. "This is no different." Mila concentrated, closing her eyes as she focused on the spell. The mark was a tether, the end of a tunnel through Oblivion itself. Though she would not feel it, her spell would carry her very briefly across dimensions. Mila did not fully understand it, but she could see it clearly in her mind's eye nonetheless. In her mind, she was still sitting, but no longer by the fire. She was at the center of the painted mark. Yes, Mila thought, clenching her jaw. I've got it.

She held out her palms and and let the magicka flow. The spell came with a crackle and an otherworldly flash, and right as Mila opened her eyes, the mark she had placed went up in a blazing flame that made her campfire look like a candle. Mila cried out in alarm and fell backwards. For a single mad moment, she had believed that the recall had worked, and that she had been inside the flames. Now that her wits were collected, she could see that the spell had not moved her an inch. "What in Talos' name was that?" Mila stammered as she looked for Valga.

"That was a failed cast," replied the witch. Mila realized that she had drifted away from the campfire, as if in anticipation of something going wrong. "This is not exactly a beginner-level spell you are attempting. And your understanding of the arcane is poorer than most. This will happen."
The magical flames turned green, and then died down quickly, leaving nothing but foul-smelling burnt paint in their wake. Valga hovered just above Mila's shoulder. "Just be grateful you were not in it. That happens too."
 

***

Later that day, Mila found herself wandering the town, tired and a little sore. She hadn't made her way to the beach yet, so her hands were still caked with dried paint. It was late in the afternoon, and the fresh snow glistened like a blanket of diamonds under the sun's radiant gaze. Kyne's Watch was unlike any place Mila had ever been. The newest town in Skyrim, yet somehow it felt like something pulled out of stories from eras past. The Nords here were not the city folk of Whiterun or Riften. They were a harder sort, who wore the furs of their kills and decorated their skin with tattoos depicting the exploits of their clans, some of which dated back to the days of Ysgramor. Most dwellings were adorned with totems of the gods, some shaped like men and others like animals.

The town's center was marked by a young Gildergreen like the one Mila had grown up with, but the locals called it their 'time tree' and there was no priesthood of Kynareth. Here, they called her Kyne or Kaan and said that Rebec was her High Priestess. Mila wasn't sure which of those things was the strangest. That afternoon, a group of Nords from some island were gathered around it, building fires and speaking to one another in a strange tongue.

Mila hung back and watched them. As Magnus set and the moons came up, the islanders brought out instruments and started to sing. It was not like any bard music she had heard before. The islanders' voices were deep and heavy, their songs slow like drawn out thunder. Mila did not know their foreign words, but she felt a power behind them that almost seemed magical. Like Nirn itself had braced to listen. She wondered if this was what the thu'um was like.

Mila was so enamored that she didn't notice for some time that Baldur was standing next to her. When she looked up at him, the High King of Skyrim was watching the islanders himself with an expression that was hard to read. The fires reflected in his eyes, reminding Mila of the Baldur she had seen in her dream, so many months ago. Ash-King! Ash-King! Ash-King!
After a long time, perhaps too long, Mila finally worked up the nerve to speak. "What are you doing here?"

Her uncle’s eyes wandered down to meet hers, his old expression melting into a smile. “Same thing you’re doing,” he said. “Studying, observing. We’re witnessing the birth of a culture, here. It’s rare that anyone gets to see that. Especially one that’s a product of your own machinations. The islanders have had an interesting effect on the other townsfolk.”

Mila believed it. The strange Nords had drawn her in without singing a single word she could understand. Something about them just felt right, like they were what the gods created men to be and they knew it. "Who are they?"

"They're a sect of Nords mostly untouched by the Milkdrinkers down south. They were not exposed to the teachings of Alessia or her cult. Their culture is truly Nordic, little one. This is a reflection of what Skyrim could've been like. Sometimes I worry their migration here was a bad idea. They will effect Skyrim's culture no doubt, but ours will inevitably effect theirs as well."

A young Nord with bright blue paint across his back came by with a ceremonial necklace of flowers that bloomed at the base of the time tree. He held them up in front of the two, until they allowed him to put it around their necks. Then a woman, Breton by the look of it with her breasts exposed and covered in the same blue paint decorated their faces with red. She painted a single wavy mark on his forehead that curved up the middle of it, then added what resembled a cobra hood. For Mila, she painted what looked like a fox, then the two moved on.
When they were done, Baldur said, "Though, perhaps that wouldn't be such a bad thing."

"Why not?"

Baldur pointed to the ones who had painted them. "Those two are slaves. Their slaves."

Mila didn't even know people in Skyrim were allowed to own slaves. Looking at them now, the pair did not seem particularly trapped. There were no chains, and slipping away would have been easy in all the commotion. She knew it was wrong, but it was hard to pity them after spending over a year at the tip of Black-Briar swords.
She decided to change the subject. "What's the paint for? Boldir told me that some Nords pray over it. He never did, though."

Baldur pantomimed opening a small jar, dipping his fingers in the imaginary paint. 

“A single swirl upon the cheek, like a gentle breeze on the face. A kiss of Kyne to bless her child. From her daughter to me. A child of the Sky."

He smiled as he put the invisible jar away and looked to the islanders again. “Not every Nord does it, and it’s personal for every Nord. Mine acknowledges Rebec as a favored of Kyne, and pleads for her blessing indirectly through her. I’d been treating her like a priestess of Kyne long before she was offered the role.”

"I don't know any prayers," Mila said. "Not like that, at least.... Does it work?"

“Honestly? I have no idea, Mila...” her uncle sighed heavily. “Maybe. It’s worth it to try anyway. No one taught me that rite, I observed Rebec’s, then made my own.” 

"I see." She fell silent for a minute as she watched and listened to the islanders. Mead had been brought out, and was now being passed around. After a while, she asked, "Which god should I ask to help Boldir?"

“All of them, child. But, seeing how you already picked one yourself...” Baldur tapped her forehead where the girl painted a red fox. “I’d say Stuhn would serve you both well. He watched over me during my trials, perhaps he’ll watch over Boldir too.”

Mila nodded. Stuhn. Maybe there was some sort of blessing behind all the rites and prayers. What could it hurt? These Nords certainly seemed to get something from it.

A shorter man who Mila guessed to be another slave brought them both mugs of mead. The stuff was dark, strong, and burned going down. Though the taste of honey lingered in her mouth. After a few drinks, Mila knew it was not the cheap ale of Cyrodiil or even the Black-Briar mead she'd grown used to. And it wasn't long before her heart was pounding and she couldn't decide if she wanted to join in on the singing like a fool or fall to her knees and pray like a bigger fool.

When she looked back at Baldur, the Ash King was deep in his own mugs, though seemingly still sober. A thought struck her then, perhaps awakened by the strong drink and intensifying beat of the islanders' war drums: she was supposed to hate him. How couldn't she hate him after what he had done? What he had forced her to do?
He has been kind to me, Mila thought. However, when her uncle glanced at her, she immediately looked away. He thought of her as kin. He wanted to help her and give her a home. How could she hate him?

Mila spun and started to walk. The music was hard to detach herself from, but she realized that she couldn't be there any longer. The songs faded as she went out into the night, and the world started to feel real again. 

She found a rock at the edge of the Sea of Ghosts and sat on it. The freezing waves washed up around her, not quite reaching the surface of her perch. She dipped her hands in, and watched as the black paint started to come off in the moonlit water. Behind her came the sound of footsteps. She'd known he would follow. The voice that Mila spoke with was more forceful than she expected. "Go away."

The footsteps kept coming though, until her king uncle was sitting right next to her. “Sorry, kid. You can’t get rid of me that easily.”

"I wasn't trying to get rid of you," She said. "Just get away."

“No,” he said bluntly, eyes trained on her. “If you’ve got something on your mind, then speak. You can’t run away from everything girl.”

"I don't run from everything."

“Then show me,” said Baldur. “Look me in the eye and say your piece. You have my full attention.“

Mila did look him in the eye, and what she said next surprised even her. "You're as bad as Sibbi. And you almost killed your brother."

Baldur's mouth was wide open. He struggled hard to find any words, but before he could say anything, Mila continued, too absorbed in her anger to stop now.

"You also made us kill people. Good people. Men who Boldir once called brothers, whose screams I can still hear when I close my eyes." Her voice started to raise. "You sent them after us because you didn't trust him! Because you couldn't leave us well enough alone and so you dragged us back to a land where we ain't welcome!" She was fuming, and the cold air made it easy to tell how hot her face was. "In Whiterun, you made him promise not to return to the war, and now you're pulling him back yourself! You're taking him away from me again!" Something snapped in Mila then, and tears formed in her eyes. "He's all I've got, Baldur."

He forgot all about that promise. It was so long ago, back when Carlotta was still alive...

His hand reached to touch her, but fell short. He turned away from Mila, instead looking out towards the sea. ”I killed my own father. Boldir ever tell you that? He was a son of a bitch. Put a sword in my one hand and a book in another, started teaching me what it meant to be a legionnaire at the tender age of eight. He’d beat me, tell me my mother was a whore, which in his defense wasn’t totally inaccurate... and even so, he was still my papa. The day I killed him was the loneliest day of my life. He was all I had in the world. And then I met your father.”

Baldur stood up, wiping his eyes so Mila wouldn’t see. "You’re right about me, child. Everything I’ve ever done has been out of selfishness. I became king not to protect Skyrim but to protect my family. Because now that I have one I can’t bear to lose it all over again." He walked away then, but stopped to say, "I’d hoped the little girl I held in my arms not too long ago would grow up thinking better of her uncle, but... well I guess it's too late for that. You're a woman now, and like all women you can see a man for what they really are. Shame. I'll do right by your father. Make up for what I've done, if I can. Then, I'll leave you be. Like I should've from the start."

Mila didn't answer. She didn't even look back at him. But he had said his piece, so Baldur turned and left the girl to be alone.
 

***

 
The following days seemed to pass so quickly that Mila felt like she'd returned to Oblivion. In truth, the days here were simply shorter, and there wasn't a moment of them that she did not fill.

Mila spent the bulk of her time with Boldir, training on the beach and visiting in the longhouse. She would read to him out of books from the town, and he would tell her stories she'd heard a hundred times before but was happy to hear again. Mila never mentioned her encounter with Baldur. Even when Baldur came to visit, she held her tongue and let her father enjoy having his brother back. Besides, she could not bear the thought of Boldir knowing what she had said that night. Mila still wasn't even sure how she felt about it, herself. 

One day as they trained, Mila stepped back, exhausted, and then noticed something in the clouds far to the south. It was a massive thing, the size of a ship. She pointed with her wooden axe. "It's Nahfahlaan!"

Boldir looked confused, but understood when he turned and saw the dragon just before it disappeared behind the tallest mountain of the range. "I'm surprised you've remembered the beast's name."

"How do you forget the name of a dragon?" Mila waited in anticipation, hoping the creature would reveal himself again. It was not so. "Baldur told us not to say his name too loudly. But Nahfahlaan is on our side... do you think he would hurt us?"

"I think I never want to be close enough to find out." Boldir rapped her shield with his axe. "Let's worry about enemies we can actually defend against. Your guard is down."

Mila resumed her fighting stance, but Nahfahlaan never strayed far from her mind.

After spending much of the days with her father, Mila's evenings often brought her back to the time tree. Even when the islanders were absent, she found herself going just to be there. She wasn't completely sure why. Perhaps the gods would notice her if she stuck around long enough. Perhaps the Gildergreen reminded her of happier times. 

It was on one of these evenings that Mila decided to kneel, and whispered, "Kyne?"

The goddess did not answer, but a cold gust of wind from the Sea of Ghosts sent shivers down Mila's spine. She pulled her cloak tight. "I'm sorry for killing your children," she prayed. "I thought I had to at the time. I was wrong. I'm wrong about Baldur too, ain't I?"

She sat alone for a long time, listening to the rustle of leaves and the distant pounding of waves. Other Nords came and went, muttering prayers or kneeling in vigils of their own. But all were gone in time, and she was left alone, head turned downward and swaddled in furs.

It was very late, and the moons very bright, when a woman approached and placed a hand on her shoulder, saying in the sweetest voice she'd ever heard, "Go to bed, sweetheart. It's late."

"Mamma?!" Mila cried out, but when she opened her eyes, nobody was there. Her only company was a torchbug hovering inches from her face.

"Mamma?" Roseloe Valga mimicked in that shrill tone of hers. "Don't be stupid, girl. It's time to go home."

Mila blinked, and felt the sleep in her eyes. "How long have I been out here?"

"Long enough for your father to send me after you. What kind of fool sleeps outside in a place this cold?"

Mila ignored her insults and nodded tiredly. "Lead the way, bug."
 

If the main part of her days belonged to Boldir, and her evenings to the gods, Mila's mornings belonged to Roseloe....

"Damn it!" Mila kicked an empty paint jar into yet another fading green pyre. This was her third failed cast that day, and her eighth overall. Every time Mila just knew she had it right, either nothing happened or the spell failed horribly. It wasn't always the fire. Sometimes it was a brief flash of strange colors, or an invisible force that made her paint splatter in a random direction. But usually it was the fire. She was lucky that her failures did not give off smoke, or half of Kyne's Watch might have come to investigate. "I don't understand," she groaned. "I've said the damned words, I've painted the damned symbols, and I've cast the damned spell! Why isn't this working?"

"Because you do not understand," the witch said in that condescending tone of hers. "I've told you, you need to spend more time studying the fundamentals. Galerion's principles were written so that a novice could grasp them. If you insist on starting with a spell that is beyond you, you should at least have basic knowledge of the laws of magic."

"Magic has no limits. Any law that that tells us what we cannot do is stupid."

Valga snorted, despite her lack of a human nose. "What drunken half-wit told you that? Was it one of these barbarian priests?"

"No. He was a great wizard. Greater than you ever were."

"Ha!" The witch bug's light flared up brightly, something she often did when excited or angry. Mila figured it was to make up for her inability to make faces. Valga continued, "Perhaps I'd take insult were the notion not so amusing. You did not know me at the height of my power, girl, but perhaps when Lord Vile frees us, you will get a chance. Until then, let us pretend that you did not meet this "great wizard" and are a novice who stands to benefit from listening to what I say. And what I say is this: magic may indeed have no limits, but men, mer, those other ones, we all do. You broke into my home. You saw my library, my laboratory, the thousands of notes and experiments. Do you believe that I became powerful through hope and willpower alone? Of course not. It took decades of study and training, sacrifice, rituals with my sisters under bright and bloody moons, favors from daedra, skooma-induced bouts of inspiration, it took-"

"I get it!" Mila scowled. "But I don't have decades or bright bloody moons! And it's a daedra who's behind all our trouble in the first place."

 "Oh, I doubt that. The Prince of Pacts doesn't just steal souls willy-nilly. He trades for them, not always fairly, but that is where the risk comes to play."

"Well you're wrong about that. I didn't sell my soul. I just woke up and it was missing. There's even a scar where it came out."

"A scar you say?" The witch paused, as if deep in thought. "By the Void, I do believe I'm speaking with a living sacrifice!"

"What?"

"You heard me, girl. Someone killed you and fenced your poor soul to Lord Vile like an ill-gotten organ. I have... erm... seen it done many times. But for you to still breathe must mean that the killing was a farce, close enough for the perpetrator to lay claim to your soul. That, or Lord Vile himself saved you from death."

The idea made Mila feel strangely sick. Boldir wouldn't have done it, and nobody else had survived. Could one of the necromancers have faked his death and followed them into Oblivion? Why though? They didn't care about her. She tried to shake the uncomfortable thought from her mind. "It doesn't matter. My point was that I'm not going to spend decades or join some weird coven."

"And that is why you are lucky to have me," Valga proclaimed. "Few others can boast such an advantage. I will not be able to make you an arch-mage over night, but what you strive for is within my abilities. First though, you must learn to listen. To give me your full attention and focus. No more talk of this great wizard. No more playing swords with your father. No more singing at trees with foreigners. I need you to act like a true apprentice."

Mila felt a little uneasy at that. "Look, right now I just want to learn how to recall."

"And you will," said the witch. "And so much more."

[The Good Doctor]

Boldir and Mila
Kyne's Watch

Dawn was still nearly two hours away, but clan Iron-Brow was awake and moving. Boldir fetched a pail of water from the Sea of Ghosts while Mila lit their hearth with magic and placed some salted horker meat on the spit. While his daughter cooked, Boldir rubbed the cold water over his face and scalp, then used a knife to shave away the head stubble that had begun to sprout. The cold touch of the knife stung against his fresh tattoos, but by now he was used to the sensation.

They broke their fast in silence. Despite their tiredness, both their minds were racing over what would come next. Boldir was a veteran of two wars for Skyrim and another for his family, yet he knew that the challenges he was soon to face would push him regardless. Mila was less worried. After all they had been through, how bad could some extra training really be? Her main regret was that he would no longer be allowed to live with her until his trials were done.

When they were done eating, Mila started to clean while Boldir gathered what few belongings he intended to take -an axe, a dagger, and extra clothes- and rolled them up in some furs. He then turned to Mila with a sad smile. "Probably best if you ain't seen with me when I go."

She understood. If someone saw them together and figured out who Boldir was, there was a chance they might come after her as a means to punish him for Riften. Mila wasn't afraid of some angry Nords, but it was still a risk that they didn't need to take. "Wait a moment." She went over to her pack and dug out two jars of war paint, one blue and one black. "Before you go."

Boldir eyed the paint. He had never been one to decorate himself as so many of his kin liked to do. But he'd gladly wear his daughter's mark to the trials. He got on his knees beside the hearth while Mila turned the lid. "I didn't know you knew anything about war paint."

"I didn't a few days ago. Close your eyes." Mila dipped two fingers into the black paint and rubbed them over her father's right eye socket before tracing his cheekbone and down in a long stripe. She then moved to do the same on his left side. "Darkened eyes, like the those of the valiant dead. Mirrors of the brothers Tsun and Stuhn, and the great chieftain, Shor."

Boldir opened his eyes. "Where did you learn this?"

"I made it up. Now hush." Mila wiped her fingers on a rag then opened the blue jar. She dipped all her fingers in this time, and ran them over his forehead until it was covered. "A storm above the brow, to test the son of Kyne, but never break him, for he is iron."

When Mila stepped back, Boldir could see in her eyes that she had meant everything she'd just said. She wasn't blindly reciting phrases taught by another. She has come to know my gods better than I do, he reflected.

"Thank you," he said, placing a hand on her shoulder. "I'm feeling the gods' presence already." His face became solemn. "Six weeks isn't very long. But it's enough time to become stronger. For both of us. Promise me you'll continue your training while I'm away."

"I promise."

He removed his hand from Mila's shoulder and patted her cheek. "That's my girl. When this is over, the heroes of Sovngarde will raise a toast to what fine warriors we will be."

Boldir and Mila exited the longhouse together, and then parted ways for the first time in months. Him going north and her going south. It was time for the Grim Trials.
 

***

Marawihk

Between the crashing of waves and the shouting of Nords, the beach had all the volume of a bustling city. Kyne's Watch was near a mile away, and the only souls to be found were Grim Ones and the poor fools who hoped to join their ranks. Boldir stood in line with the latter group, silent and ready, while the captains walked among them with scrutiny in their eyes. The grizzled warriors hurled insults and jokes, they mocked and berated, all things that no doubt worked wonders on the younger men he stood with. Boldir took it in stride, knowing that most of them were holding back on what they really thought of him. He could see it in every contempt-filled glance that turned his way. 

Eventually, they were told to strip down and run. They did so, but Boldir was stopped before he could even finish undressing. The captain who approached him was a mean old Nord from the Rift called Hrondar the Goat. Boldi knew him to be one of the three who had come after him in Cyrodiil. "These trials are holy, whelp. The gods test us here, they do not help. Wash that shit from your face, then you can run."

Half the people he stood among wore war paint on their faces. Boldir stared hard at the man. He would run Baldur's trials, but he would not play their games. "Fuck off."

That earned him a back-handed smack to the face, and before Boldir's trials had even begun, he was wrestling one of his commanders to the ground while the man cursed and kneed him in the gut. Two more Grim Ones came and tore Boldir away, and together with the Goat, they dragged him to the Sea of Ghosts and held his head underwater until he ran out of air. They lifted him out choking on salt water, and threw him face-first onto the beach with wet paint seeping down into his beard.

"Much better," Hrondar said. He lowered his voice. "Do that again and I'll drown you, Turncloak."
The sensible half of the hopefuls had taken off on their sprints without sticking their noses where they didn't belong. The others had remained to watch the display. Along with Boldir, they were ordered to run twice as long, and thus began Marawihk, the easiest of the Trials.

***

Mila stood on the edge of a steep cliff, looking at the distant lights of Kyne's Watch. She focused, closed her eyes, called out the magicka, and opened her eyes again. Mila now stood in a hidden campsite, surrounded by paint and empty jars. The sight made her smile.

"Not bad," said the voice of Roseloe Valga, whose light flickered on the far side of the camp. "But do not look so proud of yourself. One successful cast does not make for a mastered spell."

No, Mila thought, but it means I can do it. There had been days that had made her doubt. Between Roseloe's condescending lectures and her own constant failures, the prospect of recalling herself had grown more daunting throughout her training instead of less. She made note of everything in her journal, detailing both the technical manipulation of magic and the emotions she had felt throughout the day. According to the witch, there were many "interference factors" that commonly inhibited young and inexperienced mages, and most were tied to emotions. the more Mila listened to her, the less crazy it seemed that an insect like her could have once been a caster of truly terrifying power. Valga was eccentric, but she far from stupid.

With Boldir gone and nobody really holding Mila accountable for the 'squire training' that Baldur had suggested, she was able to devote far more time to her magical studies than before, just as Roseloe had wanted. The witch was a harsh and relentless teacher, who taunted failures and was not impressed by successes. She refused to let Mila waste a second of daylight on anything but her studies and training, and insisted that this would be her only hope of even becoming an intermediate spellcaster in any reasonable amount of time. Mila had protested this at first, and spent her first couple days alone ignoring the insect while she ran Boldir's drills and spent time getting more familiar with Kyne's Watch. That came to an end on the third day, when the witch threatened to cease training altogether if she did not devote herself to it properly.

That led to their routine beginning in earnest, and ultimately to Mila's first successful recall. She attempted six more that evening and failed the first two, but on the third, just as she was beginning to wonder if it had been a fluke and she'd gotten lucky, Mila refocused her mind and channeled the spell again, and again, and again, recalling to the mark three more times with success before getting too anxious and failing the final attempt. By then, Mila was running low on paint and they had to quit.

When night fell and Mila paid her visit to the time tree, she knelt down and prayed to Stuhn for her father. Then she drank some mead offered by an islander and moved on. There was no time for late nights of song and dance. She needed her sleep. Tomorrow, she would be even better.

***

Boldir emerged on the beach dripping with freezing water and feeling numb all across his body. His hand was wrapped around the pale gray wrist of an Orc whose name he never got to learn. The son of Mauloch had been strong and brave, but the cold had been too much for him. Boldir dragged his corpse away from the ocean and dropped it in front of the captains. So far, he was the second to die in Marawihk. Tomorrow would mark the beginning of Stuhnwihk, which was when he knew the bodies would truly start to pile up.

"You should've left him to the sea," said Ivold, one of the Grim Ones who had pursued him in Cyrodiil. Apart from Thorald Gray-Mane, he was one of the very few captains who did not seem to be after Boldir's blood. That wasn't to say there was any love between them, but it was clear that the man's loyalty to Baldur outweighed his hatred for Boldir. That was fine by him. It made it easier to pretend like he needed to answer to people he had bested less than a month ago in the Abecean, and commanded in Falkreath only a couple years prior.

Boldir didn't respond to what he said. Partly because he didn't want to and partly because the cold had sapped so much of his energy that he could hardly think. When he and the others made their way back to the barracks, he heard someone say the word 'Riften' and noticed a few of the trainees looking at him. Baldur had done his best to keep him hidden, but some secrets were impossible to keep. Let them look.
The next morning, Boldir woke to find a pair of crossed daggers sticking out of the the wall beside his cot.
 

***

Roseloe was explaining magicka burn to Mila when they came upon four sets of tracks in the snow. "Hold up."
The witch made a "Hmph" sound, but fell silent when she saw them. The prints were human, and headed into the hills in the direction of their campsite. "Someone must've gotten close and heard us," Mila muttered. "Or spotted the smoke. It was cold yesterday, and the stack was thicker."

"Or perhaps they have merely ventured south to hunt," suggested the witch. "These Nord types cannot go long without killing something. It's like shopping to them, what with all the pelts and bones they do so love to wear. One would think that they'd take more to Lord Hircine."

Whatever the group's reason for passing this way, it had not been long ago. The sun was barely up, and falling snow would have covered their tracks by now if they weren't fresh. Mila glanced at the witch bug. "Let's go find out."

"You must be joking," Roseloe started, but Mila was already on the move. She trudged through the snow following a different path. By now she knew the area well enough to approach the campsite without following the tracks. She moved through the rocky hills with the ease of a snow fox, using the loud winds, gray sky, and colorless terrain to her advantage as she stealthily approached the spot that had been a second home to her for the last two weeks.

Sure enough, as Mila drew near, she started to hear voices. She crawled on her elbows and knees to a ledge that looked down on the campsite, and spotted four figures just as they arrived.

"Shor's bones," gasped a woman. She covered her mouth with her hands. "You were right, Boggi."

"Of course I was," answered the man beside her. "What do you make of this, priest?"

From their plain clothes, Mila guessed that the two speakers were townsfolk. To their left stood a tall man with a hooked staff and fur-lined robes that dragged through the snow. And to their right was an armored man whose sash was Stormcloak blue.

"Dark magic was performed here," the robed man said after a long moment of silence. He stepped deeper into the camp and pointed to one of the marks Mila had painted. "These are summoning circles, no doubt used for some sort of foul necromancy. Do not step on them or your souls will be snatched into the runes."

Mila snickered and Roseloe let out an exasperated sigh. "Do you think he actually believes that nonsense?" groaned the witch, to which Mila shrugged.

"This place is evil," said the townswoman. "You know it's here, great. Now we should leave."

"I agree," said the one called Boggi. "Who knows what wickedness has already been done? These hills could be crawling with monsters."

The Stormcloak nodded and lowered a hand to his hilt. "Follow me, then. I must warn High King Baldur about this at once. Can you destroy the circles?"

"I can," said the robed man. "Go on. All of you. I will deal with this devilry."

"Gods guide you, priest."

Mila waited until she was good and clear before erupting into a fit of laughter that returned three more times before she made it back to the longhouse. "They think we're powerful necromancers! Us!"

"I am a powerful necromancer," the witch reminded her. "Or I could be, if I did not find the art so crude and brutish. The smell alone will have you burning dresses every week."

"Yes but you can't even raise a blade of grass right now. And they think I've gone and summoned an army!" Mila lit the hearth with a spell, then slumped into a chair and laughed some more. 

"Yes, that is terribly funny, but what does it mean for your training? Are you certain we cannot do it here?"

"We're not doing it here," Mila snapped. Rebec had given them the longhouse, but it had been her father's before that. Even Mila wasn't disrespectful enough to cover it in paint and use it for studying arts that the deceased man had probably despised.

"Where then?"

"I'll find a place."

"Well you had best do it quickly. Every minute we don't spend training is a boon to our enemies."

So it's 'our enemies' now?  Mila wondered if Roseloe was getting better at disguising her tricks, or if the witch really did see it that way. She was pondered on this for a while, until her thoughts drifted back to the recall magic, and then to dragons and the one who lived on the mountain to the south. Nahfahlaan.
Then it hit her, something Baldur said on the day they arrived. Their longhouse wasn't the only empty building in Kyne's Watch. "Daric."

"Come again?"

"Baldur mentioned someone named Daric," Mila said. "Offered us his house before Rebec gave us this one. That means it's empty."

"So you intend to break into this person's home for our training? How do you intend to do that?"

"The same way I broke into yours."

The witch bug hovered there for a while, clearly trying to work out an answer to that. "Hmph," she said at last. "Well at least it will be warm."
 

***

Stuhnwihk

The roaring Sea of Ghosts was drowned out by the clashing of axe and sword. 
Bare-chested with his scars exposed, Boldir launched assault after assault against the poor Nord he had been paired with. The lad was half his age, strong, and the closest to his size they had, but he was also slow, and wielded his sword more like a club than a blade. When he went for a sideways blow, Boldir easily caught it on his shield and came down with a powerful overhead strike of his own. He could have cracked open the boy's skull then and there, blunted axe or no, but instead he aimed for the shoulder. The young Nord's legs buckled, and he collapsed face-first into the ground. 

"Fucking pathetic," Captain Ivold basically spat. "Did you think to come here with no training at all, boy?"

The Nord climbed back to his feet, snow and mud dripping from his face. "No Sir!" He scooped up his gear and came at Boldir again, this time actually making an effort to use whatever training he claimed to have. He attacked high, then low, then from the left, then high again, his face getting redder and redder as every attack failed to break through. At last, Boldir ended it with a kick to the young man's shin as he overstepped. As soon as his face was in the snow a second time, Boldir stepped on his back and brought his axe down for the "killing" blow. 

"That's enough," Ivold said. "Get off of him, Filnjar."

Boldir removed his boot from the lad's back and stood at the ready. Ivold motioned for more combatants to join in. This time, they sent two men to face him, which was more of a test than the one, but they were far from the best who had entered Baldur's trials. When it was done, they laid in the snow not far from where the first one had gone down.

"Every fucking time," grumbled Hrondar the Goat as he made his way over to their section of the beach. He stepped next to Ivold. "You can't find one man who can take on the traitor?" Ivold glared at him, and the Goat rolled his eyes. "Take on Filnjar?"

Boldir gave him an insolent look. "Perhaps you would like a go?"

Hrondar's already bloodshot eyes grew large at the challenge. So far, Boldir had played the good recruit as best he could, but the Goat's constant references to his past had begun to eat away at his patience. He couldn't know for certain, but he suspected that they played a part in the rumors circulating about him now.
"I'd like nothing more, Filnjar," growled the goat. Had it been anyone else, he'd have called them a maggot. But to the Goat, calling Boldir by his false name was a much deeper insult. "But this is not my trial. Toss your weapons to me, now."

Boldir did as he was told. No doubt Hrondar had something nasty planned for him, but he doubted if the Goat could even conceive of a challenge that could match half the things he had already endured. Next, four recruits were summoned. Unlike Boldir, they were not commanded to drop their weapons. Two of them looked grim as they faced him, but the other two had a gleam in their eyes that told Boldir everything he needed to know. The largest, a red-headed man with a wild beard and silvery eyes, flashed an ugly grin, and said very low, "This is for the Rift."

And then they attacked. Had he been armed or facing only one or two, Boldir might have prevailed, but with four coming at once, circling wide around him, moving skillfully and carefully, guarding their weapons like dragons guarding treasure, unarmed Boldir stood no chance. The first blow caught him in the back while his attention had been on a man to his front. The second crashed down on his shoulder, so hard that it nearly dropped him to his knees. Letting loose a battle cry, Boldir charged a man, crashing into his shield and sending him sprawling onto his back. But as they wrestled for his sword, three more weapons came raining down from all sides.

When the beating was over, and Boldir lay bruised and bloody, the red-bearded Nord leaned in close and spit on his head. "You got some gall to be here, Traitor. You ain't gonna survive these trials."

Boldir reached for the man's head, to smash it against the ground until it was a red pulp, but before he could so much as touch him, the man stood up and kicked him square in the temple.
The next thing Boldir saw was a healer, frowning down on him as he forced some bitter-tasting liquid down his throat. "Swallow. That'll do for the internals. Now get back to your trials, soldier."

The potion accounted for the wounds, but did little for the pain. Boldir wanted nothing more than to sleep for a week, but instead he returned to the trial grounds and continued to fight. It took everything he had to power through the pain and maintain the same speed and precision he'd had before. More than once, he slipped up and gave his opponents a chance to earn a strike. They usually did.

After they sparred, the recruits ran, exercised, and spent more time in the freezing sea. By the time he fell into his cot, Boldir thought he would sleep better than ever in his life, but instead the gossip of his fellows pierced his mind like a spear.

"You hear the news?" one recruit whispered to another. "Word is we've got a necromancer close by. Been summoning ghosts and zombies up in the mountains. Folk are saying its a one of them Forsworn shamans, back for revenge. Got the townsfolk on edge."

"Horker shit, I say. Red-Snow's got a dragon out there. If those hills were full 'o monsters, which they ain't, it would'a done cooked 'em by now."

The second man was right, of course, but it did not prevent Boldir from spending his short night's sleep dreaming about undead creatures chomping on his flesh. If the nightmarish slumber had rejuvenated his body at all, it wasn't enough for him to notice.

The following days were hardly any better. Boldir could more than hold his own against anyone out here, including the Grim Ones, but any time he started to excel, Hrondar or one of the others would throw him into some impossible challenge and leave him beaten to near an inch of his life. Despite all of this, Boldir refused to hold back. At first it had been out of pride, and maybe even duty to Baldur. But as Stuhnwihk dragged on, it became harder and harder to tell what exactly motivated him anymore. There was Mila, of course, but he only needed to survive in order to protect her. The way he pushed himself came from something more immediate and primal. Sometimes it felt like anger at the people who hurt and insulted him, and other times, it seemed like nothing but pure spite.

Every time they set him up to lose, he told himself that it would be the time he won. He was wrong, of course. Boldir got his licks in where he could, but those who wanted him to suffer were not fools. They knew exactly what he was capable of and always took care to give him no chance of victory. If it was pain alone, Boldir may have been better able to grit his teeth and take it, but the damned taunts, which started as whispers in the early days, grew bolder and more hateful with each passing day. Traitor, they called him. Turncloak. Kinslayer! City-burner!

Gerdolf, the red-bearded Nord, delivered a kick to Boldir's stomach. "How's that, ya fucking traitor?"

Boldir collapsed. It had been a short fight. He'd almost gotten one of their weapons this time. It had been in his hand. But the bastards moved quickly when they saw, and attacked with every ounce of ferocity they had in them. There were five of them that time, and by now beating the man who'd burned down Riften had become the only joy they could find in the harsh trials.

Boldir was weak from the pain, and his attempt to curse the man only came out as a mumble. "What's that?" Gerdolf grinned and leaned in closer, then gave a start when Boldir's fist suddenly met his nose.

The others moved in quickly, but not before he could get another two punches off. Thorald Gray-Mane arrived to intervene before they could kill him, and soon enough Boldir was staring at a healer again. It was a woman this time. In his condition, it took a while for him to recognize her as the young priestess who'd been with Ysana all those weeks ago. She looked upset as she ran her healing hands over his wounds.

"I'm not a traitor," he managed to say. The look she gave him was one of confusion, so he grabbed her arm and repeated it. "I'm not a traitor."

"I believe you," the healer said. "You're not a traitor."

"Thank you." Boldir released her arm and allowed her to pour a potion between his lips. 
When he returned to training, he felt as lifeless as a draugr, but somehow he fought even harder than before. "Gods hear me," Boldir prayed that night. "All of you. These tests of yours will not break me." For the final part, he quoted Mila, "I am iron."

Boldir had to believe he spoke true. The alternative was death. Come Tsunwihk, the healers would be gone.

***

Finding Daric's house was easy. The man had been well-liked throughout town. Mila didn't ask what had happened to him, but judging by the sad looks people made at his name, she figured he must've died somehow, and not very long ago. 

The place was small and mostly empty. Apart from furniture, the man's only belongings were a bloodstained practice sword and some dusty old books, which suited Mila just fine. Their schedule had to change, of course. They couldn't just stroll in and out of the place for everyone to see. Instead, Mila had to enter under cover of night, and leave only after Roseloe could slip outside and confirm that nobody was close enough to see. That was how it went the first few days at least, but before long, Mila's skills progressed to a point where she could simply leave a mark on his floor and recall to it at will. By the final days of "Stuhnwihk", Mila was able to create the marks with a spell and ditch the paint entirely.

As she progressed in skill and magical knowledge, Mila found herself growing more and more anxious. Their fundamental studies were broad enough that they applied to far more than mark and recall, but even those spells alone opened up a world of possibilities. She could escape from any danger now, no matter how great or terrible. Warriors, wizards, monsters, dragons, it didn't matter. As long as she kept smart and placed her marks, Mila could survive them all. 
And I will.
Boldir wouldn't want her marching to war with him. Even after all their training, she knew that when the time came, he would ask Baldur to keep her safe in Kyne's Watch. She hoped that her mastery of these spells would ease his mind, perhaps enough that he'd forgive her for going against his wishes. 

Mila sighed and sat down on Daric's dusty bed. I wonder how he's doing now. It was strange not having him with her, telling her what to do and how to do it, coming up with plans for their next move. Roseloe's training helped distract and keep her productive, but the witch was no substitute for Boldir.

"I take it that your empty gaze means it's time for a break?" Roseloe hovered in front of her, flickering her light as she waited for an answer.

"Yeah, S-" Mila stopped herself before she apologized to the witch. "My mind's far away right now. An hour, that's all I need."

"Fine, but no longer."

Mila readied her spell. Drawing on the magicka was easy to her by now, even natural. Wielding it correctly took more focus. And focus she did. She released the spell with a dim flash, and a circle of purple runes suddenly marked the floor. Following that, Mila recalled to her previous mark, the one painted behind their longhouse. She'd hung up some furs and sheets to obscure the spot from passing boats. Mila didn't go inside. Instead, she started along to beach to where the Grim Trials were being run.

The sound of fighting rang out loudly, and men were gathered in clusters to spar or watch. The heavily armored Grim Ones patrolled the site, calling out orders and hurling insults at any warrior who did not impress. Mila followed the sounds.

"You, girl. stop!" She froze as a Stormcloak guard approached her. "You've gotta turn back, young lady. This area's off limits to civilians."

Mila put on her best innocent face and turned to him. "I'm only here to give a message to my uncle. I used to do it all the time."

The soldier's eyes traced her up and down. He looked very skeptical. "What's your name?"

"Matilda Gray-Mane."

The doubt remained, but Mila could see a flicker of uncertainty now. "You're from clan Gray-Mane?"

Mila nodded and started to respond, but her mouth shut tight when a big man in the armor of a Grim One came up behind the Stormcloak and said plainly, "Back to your patrol, soldier. I'll handle this one." The soldier gave Mila one last look and then saluted and hurried off, leaving her alone to face a scowling Ivold Big-Bone. "Well? You know you shouldn't be here, girl."

There was no point in lying. "I wanted to see him," Mila said. "It's been nearly three weeks."

"And it'll be three more. Bad enough for a civilian to be out here, but you? No." He motioned back to the town. "Run along, alright? This is no place for you."

Mila folded her arms. "I'm not leaving until I see him."

"Don't play games with me, girl." Ivold glanced at the soldier he had just sent off. "I can have you carried home if I wish it."

"Then I'll come back later," she said angrily. "Or are you gonna tie me up again?"

The Grim One let out a frustrated sigh, and he knelt down so he could speak to her more quietly. "Listen, Baldur told me everything. I don't blame you or your father, and well I'm sorry for how we treated you at sea, maybe even before that. If I'd known then what I do now..."
His scowl deepened, and he turned back to the soldier. "You, get back over here," he barked. The man returned, and Ivold took his shield and axe without resistance, then forced them into Mila's hands. "Hold these." Glancing at the soldier, he said, "Your sash, and your helm."

The man looked confused, but removed his blue sash and helmet and handed them over as well. Ivold nodded. "Good. Now back to your patrol. You'll get these back later."

The perplexed Stormcloak started off, and Ivold looked at Mila. "Put those on." As she did, the Grim-One knelt and dug into the dark earth until his fingers were coated with black mud. He smeared it under her eyes and cheeks like some cheap war paint. "You will keep your head down. You will not stray an inch from my side. Got it?"

"Yes."

"You will not speak. Not unless I tell you to. When you see Boldir, you will not approach him." He put his hands firmly on her shoulders and gripped them tightly. "I don't care if you're looking at his bloody corpse, you will not approach him. If Baldur or any of the others find out that I'm doing this for you, it'll be me who gets skinned alive, got it?"

"I got it," said Mila. "Thank you."

The Grim One led Mila to the sparring grounds, where she watched some of the fiercest fighters she'd ever seen batter one another without mercy. Even after training under Boldir, the speed and precision that they moved with astounded her. Her father must have held back against her, she realized, if he was even half as good as any of these people. Ivold led her past the first group and to a second. This cluster was smaller and tighter. Mila recognized Hrondar the Goat standing back with a smile as seven men battled in what seemed to be a free-for-all melee. Then to Mila's horror, she realized it was no free-for-all. It was six fighters against one. And that one was Boldir.

Not since he'd nearly died in Colovia had Mila seen her father look so beaten. His already scarred body sported so many bruises and cuts that finding a spot that wasn't hurt proved to be a challenge. But more worrying was his expression. Boldir's face contained all the hatred of Mehrunes Dagon, and the fury in his eyes was downright animalistic.
Mila grabbed Ivold's arm and squeezed it. "Why is he alone?"

The Grim One hesitated, then pulled away from her grip. "I said not to speak. Your father brings this on himself."

Boldir lunged after one of his opponents, ignoring the blows of a two training swords that racked across his shoulder and arm. The man danced away, keeping Boldir at spear-length while two of his comrades moved up behind and aimed at Boldir's legs. He managed to step over one of the swipes and turned in time to kick away another, but then a shield met his back with a loud twack and Boldir went tumbling to the ground. Amazingly, he managed to roll into one of the assailants and grab his sword by the blade. In the time it took Boldir to wrench it away, the entire group descended on him like wolves on a wounded elk. That's when the fight turned into a beating.

"No!" Mila tried to move toward them, but Ivold's iron grip clasped around her arm like a cuff. She almost hurled her axe at them, but a hard look from the Grim One made her stop. "They're killing him," she cried. "Why are you letting this happen?"

"These are your father's trials," Ivold answered. Even as he said it, Hrondar's voice thundered at the assailants to 'back the fuck off, the traitor's had enough'. The Goat pushed through the crowd and helped Boldir to his feet. Mila didn't get to see what happened next, for Ivold stepped between her and the scene. "Your father is strong," he said. "And getting stronger. He could avoid this if he wished, but he chooses to challenge us every chance he gets. I don't believe he would do that if he thought it would end in his death."

"There's no way Baldur would let this happen."

"Baldur wanted to keep your father secret. It isn't working as well as we hoped. Don't worry, he won't be killed. I can promise you that much." The Grim One was silent for a moment, then said, "It's time for you to go, now."

Ivold walked Mila back to the edge of town, then took her gear and helped wipe the mud from her face. "Listen," he said. "Your father is one of the toughest bastards I've ever met. And also one of the most troubled. Sparring and running on beaches ain't what he needs, understand?"

Mila didn't understand. Not at all. But nothing she said to the Nord could convince him to go easier on her father. As she returned to her own training, she realized just how trivial it was by comparison. What were some lectures and flickering between two houses compared to the hell Boldir was undergoing? Or even to the horrors she had endured surviving alone in Cyrodiil? Pain makes us stronger. Pain and danger.
Mila knew that she couldn't continue training as she had been. She needed something more.
 

***

Boldir felt like he was one voice in his head away from madness. His last fight had been among the worst yet. Six against one. Even with those odds, he'd held out surprisingly long. And then his mind played a cruel trick on him. As he'd dodged and danced with his enemies, an image of Mila watching from afar pulled his attention away, and the next thing he knew, Gerdolf and the others had closed in on him.

He knew it wasn't real, of course. The pain and stress he faced had driven him to seeing things that weren't there. Even so, the very idea of being beaten and called 'traitor' in front of his own daughter enraged him beyond belief. He would have killed them if he'd been armed. He'd have cracked their skulls and opened their throats before a healer could even be summoned. That night, he promised the gods for the hundredth time that he would do exactly that.

His dreams were hardly any different. He was alone on the beach, with Mila behind him and the entire Stormcloak army at his front. "Traitor!" they chanted. "Turncloak! Traitor! Turncloak! TRAITOR!"

Boldir awoke before dawn or the trials. He gathered his things and went for a long walk, only stopping once in the area where they sparred. Afterwards, he met with his fellow recruits and set the pace for their morning run, then did so again again when sent out to tread water in the Sea of Ghosts. Many of the others sang or chanted as they endured these trials, and for once, Boldir joined in. Those who knew him gave disapproving looks, but he ignored them and sang all the louder.

Come late morning, it was time to spar. As usual, things started fair enough. Thorald paired him with a strong but squat little man who Boldir bested easily, then again with an opponent who faired no better. As Gray-Mane moved on, Ivold arrived and paired him with Gerdolf. The red-bearded prick didn't fair so well against him in an even duel, and Boldir made sure to inflict as much pain as he could without wounding the man. 

Of course, next came Hrondar, who upon seeing Boldir's success, followed his usual pattern and summoned three more. Boldir dispatched them as well, and then spit on one who called him a turncloak. That did it. Hrondar called Gerdolf and all the rest of his people. The red-beard approached Boldir first with a dull sword in his hand. As he did this, the others moved to flank. Boldir backed up, taking note of where he stood and where he was going. He led them a few yards closer to the beach, and then stopped and took a knee.

"What's this, Traitor?" Gerdolf asked. "You want to suck my cock, is that it?"

The others laughed but Boldir didn't answer. He just kept his eyes on his foe, and his ears on the others. Eventually, some realization seemed to dawn on Gerdolf. The amusement faded, and he merely scowled. "Fuck this."
He walked up and reared back to swing, exposing himself as he did. Boldir's hand came up covered in mud, and plunged a wet black dagger into Gerdolf's heart. The recruit's mouth opened, then closed. "What the-"

He stood there for a moment, long enough for Boldir to snatch the dull sword from his hand. Then the recruit fell and the remaining five moved in as they always did. This time would be different. Boldir pivoted and knocked aside someone's axe with his sword and slashed across his neck with the dagger. Next, he sidestepped a sword swipe while parrying another, and followed up by kicking an assailant's shin so that he fell. With their advantage of numbers quickly dwindling, the three still standing attacked Boldir with more desperate fury than ever before. The one on Boldir's right tried to force him back with his shield, but wasn't quick enough. He raised it to guard his head, but Boldir went low, catching his thigh so that he doubled over, and then hammering down on his skull with the hilt of his sword.

A strike found Boldir's back, then, powerful enough to drop him to his knees. But Boldir had endured worse from them dozens of times by now, and he rolled away without slowing down. The pain barely even registered as he closed in and swung as hard as he could at the next recruit, knocking his sword from his hand. Boldir then pressed up against him and rammed the dagger into his gut.

"Enough!" roared Hrondar. The Grim One stepped forward with an axe that was definitely not dull. At this point, the only ones left standing were Boldir and one other man. "Damnit Filnjar, you'll kill half a generation of recruits at this rate!"

Boldir ignored him and took a step toward the last man standing. One of the fallen reached for his leg and got a boot to the skull for his effort. The final recruit threw down his weapon. "Hrondar says we're done!"

"Then he's wrong." Boldir feigned a swipe with his sparring sword only to make the man jerk away and catch a muddy dagger in his arm. Boldir pulled it out and stabbed again, this time between the ribs where it remained. When Hrondar inevitably moved for him, he stepped away and caught the Goat's arm at his shoulder. Dropping his sword, Boldir flexed and twisted until he felt something pop, followed by a loud crack.

"CUR!" Hrondar bellowed, and brought his good hand around to try and get a thumb in Boldir's eye. Instead, Boldir managed to press a boot against his knee and force it down. Another crack, and this time Hrondar was on the ground with the others.

By now, Thorald, Ivold, and half the recruits and Grim Ones on the beach had stopped what they were doing to watch the display. Boldir picked up Hrondar's axe and took a step back. After a few breaths, he screamed. "I AM NOT A TRAITOR!"
Some of the Grim Ones moved around him. They had their shields up and were ready for a fight. Boldir didn't care. "I was at Riften, aye! I did everything to save my family and keep the city from falling. I failed both, and Oblivion take anyone who doesn't believe me!" He looked down and spat on Hrondar. "I was also at Falkreath, and fought a hundred battles with you people before that. I am a Stormcloak!"
Boldir picked up a shield from one of the fallen. "If there's a true Nord among you who disagrees, come face me now and we'll settle it. If not, then the next craven who calls me a traitor will lose his fucking tongue."

He gave them a minute, but no man came forward. There were mutterings, but none that spoke against him. He spotted Baldur in the crowd, hooded and with a hand on his axe. His brother nodded at him, then turned and went back to Kyne's Watch.
Eventually, Boldir tossed the axe aside and stood at attention before Thorald and Ivold. "I'd like to resume my trials now."
 

***
 

The snow fell heavy, trying to mask the battle between the moons and clouds for dominance of the sky. The leaves of the time tree rustled, and the cold winds whispered in Mila's ear. Be brave, child, they seemed to say.

I am brave, she told the gods and herself. The Nords of old did it. So can I. 
A colder gust suddenly hit her, sending shivers down Mila's spine as if to remind her that she was not a Nord.
Thanks... Mila sat there for a while and fiddled with her glowing dagger. Eventually, she jammed it into her sheath. But I am a daughter of Skyrim.

Her only company that night was a young Nord woman, maybe two or three years her senior, with blonde hair and eyes red from tears. Mila had caught the girl watching her on several occasions, even mimicking the way she knelt as if there was actually something to it. When Mila got up to leave, the girl called out, "Wait."

Mila turned. "Yes?"

"You come here a lot. I've seen it. Do the gods answer when you speak to them?"

"That depends on what you take as an answer." Mila didn't feel comfortable answering this sort of question. What little she knew of the gods came from watching other Nords. "Sometimes it feels like they do."

"My pa was crippled yesterday," the girl blurted. "This bastard... broke him, dishonored him in front of everyone. I haven't even seen him since then. Would you help me?"

Mila was taken aback. "Uh, I'm sorry... what's your name?"

"Heidrun." The look on her eyes was desperate. "Please. The gods won't tell me how to make this right. Maybe they'll tell you."

Mila shook her head at the Nord. "If they won't tell you, they sure won't tell me. I'm sorry, Heidrun. You'll have to figure this out on your own."

She left Heidrun at the the tree and started her journey south. It was cold, and the walk was long. When she reached the hills and looked back, Kyne's Watch was just a collection of orange lights that were hidden in the snow. It was safer there. She did not need to do this. You cannot become stronger without pain and danger. Boldir would understand.

Or maybe he wouldn't. This was madness and she knew it. But Mila pressed on, farther than she ever had, until the shadows of the mountains swallowed up the moons and stars and her world became darkness. Be brave.

It was well past midnight when Mila stopped to rest. She made a fire and spent a few minutes shivering the cold away. When finished, she continued until she reached the base of the tallest mountain in the range. There, she cupped her hands around her mouth. "Nahfahlaan!" Her voice echoed across the skies. Nah-fah-laan! Nah-fah-laan! "NAHFAHLAAN!"

[ColonelKillaBee]

Jadaka and Madura

Ex Pirates. Current Mercenaries and Assassins.

Hammerfell

 

The Alik'r Desert. What a shithole. That was all that Jadaka could think of now as his eyes struggled to see the city before him. Sentinel, in all its 'splendor'. A diamond in the rough, foreigners called it.

Jadaka saw a corn, a big bronze domed corn with walls around it, passed from a harpy's ass.

His nose wrinkled beneath the facial coverings he wore as if he could smell it, scar across his nose and blazing amber eyes all that was visible beneath his thick hanging locks.

At this point, he and his companion were relying on their camels to lead them on, as the great serpents had seen fit to send every wind and speck of dust dirt and sand particle in the direction they were heading. Something Madura was obviously not comfortable with.

"Enough of this!" Her chitin covered hand formed a calm blue ball of clairvoyance. The path before them lit as it always had, but the misty blue smoke was unfocused, shimmering left and right, this way and that, rapidly. Madura's annoyed expression grew deeper as Jadaka grabbed her by the shoulder and beckoned her forward. By now they could no longer see the city, and the winds were picking up.

"Put that blasted spell away! That won't work here anyway, there's magic in the sand!"

"Magic in the sand? What a load of Guar scat!"

"Just look for yourself, do you see the spell working? Now shut it and keep a hold of your camel!" 

Madura took a look at the dumb beast that now held her life in its hooves and wished desperately that they were back at sea. The thing's tail swiped her across the face, as if to hurry her along. They kept walking and although on occasion they caught a glimpse of their destination, it never seemed to get any closer. This was not the case however for the storm that was in pursuit of them. 

"Don't look back!" said Jadaka.

Madura looked back. 

A massive wall of sand was so close that she could probably toss a rock at it. And while she was looking back she didn't notice that the camel decided to hunker in and brace for the oncoming storm. Ass over tea kettle the Dunmer went, her head in the sand and ass pointing for Azura and Jadaka to see. If she lorded over these cursed lands as well that is. Jadaka straightened her up, covered his friend with his cloak, and for an immeasurable amount of time, their world was nothing but dark, and sand. Jadaka's world was always dark, and sand.

The storm raged on and Jadaka could make out the squeals and calls of the things that hunted among the storm. Creatures and demons unseen by most men unless they were unfortunate enough to befall a fate similar to their current predicament. The fate of the slow and of strangers to these lands. 

The bird-like women known as harpies grew closer, until he was certain they were nearly upon them. Ever nearer they came until the earth rumbled beneath them and made such a sound as to make the enraged winds all around them pale in comparison to the fury of it. Jadaka cursed, knowing full well what that rumbling was... the harpies knew it too and the more sensible of the lot fled. All he could do however was close his eyes and pray Tall Papa would protect him. Perhaps let his kin take the elf as an offering for his life instead... Nah. An elf she may be but even Jadaka wasn't so crass as to sacrifice such fine hind quarters.

He didn't have much time to fantasize as the shrieking of the harpies turned to screams and fearful cries. Madura had an iron grip on his forearm that he tried to fight as he left the security of the sand and his cloak, armed with nothing but his flute. He heard her call for him, but he ignored her, marching on as though mesmerized by the tune of another.

But it was no tune that drew his steps once his eyes peered through the sandy veil of their making. Even amongst the sand and wind, the gaze of a Sand Basilisk was unmistakable. The great serpent's head swayed side to side as it crawled from under the sand to reveal its true size to him. It was as though Sep had finally come to devour him personally.

Jadaka acted quickly, legs moving methodically as he danced, playing his slow mournful song as best he could in the storm. Madura stayed where she was, watching him a while until the idea to amplify the sound of his tune finally came, before she cowered back beneath his cloak.

Even as he moved, the Basilisk was dangerously close. He could smell it's sickly sweet breath wraught with the slow digesting flesh of previous prey in its belly. It was coming closer still until finally its eyes began to close, and the great serpent slid back into its hole as quickly as it arrived.

As soon as it was gone, Jadaka ran for Madura as quickly as he could. He was so distracted by the prospect of what almost happened that he couldn't possibly have reacted when his eye caught the butt of someone's spear.

***

"Wake up. Wake up! By Azura, will you wake up!"

Jadaka's eyes slowly parted, blinking the coarse sand away in futility before a cold bucket of ocean water stung them anew. The water dripped from his feet to the stone floor beneath him, making pitter patter sounds that seemed strangely audible in whatever dark dank dungeon he now found himself in.

"Wake up, desert hare," said the man in the shadows before him. Jadaka still couldn't quite make out his surroundings but from the pain in his wrists and his dangling, he was pretty sure he was in a cell. He could make out his jailer however, or at least a part of him... his skin was dark, even for most Redguards. And his eyes, his eyes were like burning coals. Was this an illusion?

"I'm up, Sep take you," said Jadaka, cursing whoever was responsible for the head splitting pain he felt currently. The sound the man made at the sound of that name... it was hard to read but it almost sounded pleasureful. Like he enjoyed it.

"Sep almost did. If it weren't for that flute of yours. Interesting trick, desert hare. Now, you'll answer my questions," said the Dark Man. "And then, we'll see what happens. Where did you come from, why are you here?"

Jadaka cleared his throat, trying his best to keep his body still but his feet were just out of reach of the cool stone beneath him. "It would be nice if you could tell me where here is... are we in the palace dungeons? I'm just a traveler, no need to imprison my like."

"What Ra Gada is foolish enough to brave such a storm? Any fool here knows how to avoid them, and to predict when they'll come. Plus, that sword of yours is no mere traveler's sword. That is the sword of a true Ra Gada warrior..."

Jadaka couldn't help but smile. "Good point."

"I thought so," said the Dark Man showing his own crooked yellow smile. "It seemed to me like you two were in a hurry, for reasons besides the storm perhaps... speaking of, the girl. Who is she to you? When we found her, we ordered her to carry your limp body as we returned to the city gates, and she decides the best way to do that is by summoning scamps, right in front of us. Not the brightest elf I've ever met."

"The elf is my body guard."

The Dark Man's laugh filled the cell. "The she-elf is your bodyguard. You, you amuse me. But you're not a very good liar."

"I guess not," said Jadaka. "It doesn't matter. You're either going to kill me or not. But my business is my own. I apologize for my companion's display but as you said, she's not the brightest elf around. We're not Daedric Cultists or Thalmor spies. You want to torture me, go ahead, that's all you'll come to find out. Be done with it."

The Dark Man ran his eyes over Jadaka's exposed body. Stripped of his baggy pants and leather vest, red sash, as well as the great serpent medallion placed at its center where his heart would be. But even without these things, Jadaka was never as exposed as he was without his father's scimitar. It was simple, with an ebony hilt and golden guard. And the blade was less thick than most you'd find in Hammerfell, but it had more reach. Right now, with this man's eyes running over him, he wished for nothing more in the entire world. 

"You aren't a cultist or a Thalmor. I know of that ilk intimately. And as I said, you are a terrible liar. So I know this is true. However, those scars and those tattoos, as well as the tattoos of your friend... I also know of those quite well. I know what you are. Merchants of a sort, once upon a time, but now..."

A loud thud followed by another came from Jadaka's wooden cell door, and he could hear the two individuals whispering, though the Dark Man's voice sounded... different somehow. He couldn't put his finger on it... perhaps he was masking his voice, changing it to be more intimidating for the interrogation. Before he could finish the thought, he heard another voice, this time in his own head.

"Jadaka, Jadaka! Are you awake? Jadaka! Jadaka! Jadakajadakakakakakabajabakalabamatataka...." The voice just kept going on and on even as the Dark Man returned.

"Our time for now has come to an end. Prince Jabreel will speak to you in the morning. Sleep well. You'll need it."

Still the voice screamed his name, or mocked it, whichever. It wasn't until Jadaka heard the door slam shut and the locking mechanism clicking into place that he cried, "I'm awake you blasted red eyed whore!"

"....Good. Thought you were dead."

"IF ONLY!"

"Shh! Keep your voice down. Now listen..."

"No you listen, elf. What in the name of all that is holy did you think you were doing? You summoned Daedra in front of the guards? In Hammerfell!? You may as well have painted Thalmor Spy in bright red across my back!"

"...Are you done?"

Jadaka nodded, then cursed silently at himself for doing so alone in a dark cell. "Yes."

"Good. This spell's not simple to maintain and I still gotta get you out. And to answer your question, I used Daedra because it's hot out, walking in sand is hard, you're heavy, and I'm small. The Camels were gone, probably eaten by that disgusting gigantic... thing, before you ask, and I wanted to reach the city before another storm came our way. That cover everything for you? Besides, we're right where we need to be."

Jadaka breathed deep, then exhaled slowly. "Fine. They took away the contraption though didn't they?"

"Of course," said Madura as she rubbed her now free wrists in her own cell. "But luckily for both of us, I'm... me." Madura smiled as she kicked the rusted and broken shackles in a corner. "You know, for people that hate magic so much, you'd think they'd develop stronger wards." She said this as she strolled over to her cell door, using a spell to unlock it. 

Meanwhile, Jadaka waited for her to say... something or hear his own cell door open but when that didn't happen...

"The door's warded, isn't it."

"Ya, it is, turns out. Ah well, no worry. I can't open my cell door, but I should still be able to..." Madura took a peek out her cell through the small barred opening in the door, just barely making out their pack and the shimmer of bronze metal from within beneath the light of a torch. "Ah, what luck," she said as the bag was swallowed up in a dark purple void before being dropped in her hands. The cell door may have been warded, but the cell itself clearly wasn't. Digging around, she produced a long bronze colored rod with a red ruby at the tip and covered in runes and writing most people could never make out in present time. It whistled and whirled as it came to life, the red gem at its end matching her eyes and growing in intensity as her mental faculties were put to work.

Jadaka meanwhile was still waiting patiently for what seemed like another age, but his waiting was soon rewarded with the familiar tapping of Madura's new favorite toy. There was scratching and clicking at the lock, and suddenly a gust of fresh air as his gate swung open. 

"Alright!" said Jadaka.

"You that excited to see someone already? Or were you expecting someone? No matter. Here." Jadaka's frown deepened so much it would've looked comical were he able to see it. And yet at the smell of the slop, it managed to sink even deeper. At least the redguard woman now presenting the slop was far more appealing. Head to toe in red silk that draped well over her feet, neckline cut deep showing off her bosom and jewels... That was who Jadaka was in company with now, and she smelled as good as she looked. The food however did not.

She noticed where his eyes were heading and she let her eyes wander as well. How could she not with a man so exposed and vulnerable before her.

"Hands off the scimitar, lady unless you're gonna get me out of here. Otherwise, take the food and leave me be."

She didn't seem amused. "You really should eat. You'll need it."

"I hear I'll be needing a lot of things around here," said Jadaka.

The woman watched him a while, pulling back her long braids. "Listen, idiot. I put something special in your food. An alchemical mixture that will give you greater strength and endurance. I know what you are and I know you are no Thalmor spy. A pirate maybe, but not a spy. And though you are without honor, that is something I might be able to use. Things have been... different around here as of late."

"Different how?" said Jadaka, changing his tone in voice. "It's okay, you can tell me. I can help." He didn't know why, but he genuinely wanted to. Her skin looked so soft and sweet, but her big brown eyes looked so troubled, sorrowful.

"The King, there's something strange in how he's been behaving. We haven't seen him leave his chambers in weeks for one thing. And the Prince, he's been taking a much more active role in his stead. At this point it's almost like he's the King. I expect foul play. He's also been extra paranoid. You aren't the first traveler to be locked up coming into the city. Most blame it on the upcoming war but..."

"Into the city? Lady, I didn't even make it to the city before your freaky eyed goon knocked me out. If you're so worried then let me out of this cell... you said it yourself, I'm not what they think I am."

"Freaky eyed goon? I don't know what you're talking about but I can't just let you out, not yet. The suspicion is too high. I will come up with a plan in the morning."

"They'll be torturing me by then," said Jadaka. 

"I know," said the woman, her expression seemingly genuine in her worry. "Which is why you must eat."

Jadaka turned his head away as the woman tried to feed him. She seemed hurt but her eyes soon hardened. "Fine, but I warn you, you'll die here without my help. If that is the fate you want for yourself, then perish."

As she walked away, Jadaka said, "Wait... what is your name?"

"Sarabi," she said. The cell was quiet once again.

"Did you hear all that?" said Jadaka to Madura.

"I did. And I recognize the name. Isn't that the..."

"The Queen, I know! She was so gorgeous. And I'm pretty sure she wanted me."

"Well that wasn't what I was gonna say but... wait, what?"

"Yea, you didn't see the way she was looking at me. I could tell she liked me," said Jadaka. 

"I heard that entire conversation and I didn't pick up on that at all!"

"Like I said elf, I saw it in her eyes! The way she looked me up and down... My bedroom voice, when I told her I could help her. That's what it was."

"Okay, listen here, I hate to be the one that tells you this but your 'bedroom voice' is about as subtle as a Nord hiding out in Cyrodiil. Your bedroom voice is so obvious and stupid that you could pass for a politician in Skyrim. In fact, if you're looking to get laid we should probably take a trip that way, I'm sure the women there would go for it."

"Damn, you really don't like Nords, do you."

"Don't get me started. I have family in Windhelm, and lets just say, I'm glad that buffoon they called a king hit the pyre. Why I remember when the civil war was going on..."

"And it has nothing to do with that Nord bard you bedded..." said Jadaka suspiciously.

"I..."

"Listen," said Jadaka, "I'm sure this is a downright riveting story and all but, still chained up here..."

"Oh. Right. Hold on. While you were talking to the Queen, I managed to slip Crawley inside."

Jadaka raised an eyebrow. "Who?"

"Crawley. You get it? Like Crowley but Crawley because he..."

"IT, needs to get my ass out of here, I'm not waiting around for whatever plan the Queen's mustered up to work after I've been tortured!"

"Oh stop your moaning, N'wah, I'm on it," said Madura. Sure enough a Dwemer spider crawled its way from the ceiling to his chains, sending little shocks at the stone around it until Jadaka and the chains fell both. His toes wriggled on the cool stone as he smiled in satisfaction. He let the Dwemer spider burn through his shackles with the spell as well, bracing as it burned his flesh and made his teeth clench until they to fell upon the floor.

"I'm free."

"Great, now time for me to make my escape. I assume you can handle the rest from here?" she said.

"Sure, just tell me where the Prince is," said Jadaka.

"Follow Crawley, I can direct it as I move."

"Good, I'll get my things then. It's time Prince Jabreel met his end. By the time I'm done, we'll be rich enough to be princes ourselves. Kings in fact. King and Queen!"

"You better be right. I could use some coin. And a bath. A real bath, with water. Not gods damned sand."

Jadaka chuckled and said, "Then enough talk, lead me to my mark and lets get paid."

***

"We must be truly blessed by the gods," said Jadaka as he followed "Crawley" through the dark corridors of Sentinel's palace. Getting his equipment past their guards was surprisingly easy, as the prison was overcrowded and they had their hands full enough as it was. The prisoners themselves were also a handful. More than your usual prison too, as though the whole place were on edge.

The palace itself was even easier, as the guards were sparse here as well. It was almost too easy...

That thought and the words of the Queen had made a feeling in his gut hard to shake. If the Prince was so paranoid, there should be guards in every inch of this place but the Sentinel Palace was barely staffed enough to guard his nickers. 

"You sure it's the Prince's life energy you're sensing?"

"Yes, I'm positive," said Madura, who was sipping on wine she bought from a local tavern. She had to stay close to the palace to maintain their mental connection while looking inconspicuous. Which wasn't much of a challenge really with barely any guards around. "You know, now that you mention it, the Prince's life force is a little too easy to pinpoint. Even with the vial of his blood given to us."

"This whole thing is starting to feel far too easy," said Jadaka. "I think I might be walking into a trap... But this is strange, they already captured me. Why would... maybe it's got something to do with this man I met in my cell."

"I thought you said she was beautiful..."

"Huh? Oh no not the Queen, and yea she was downright gorgeous. There was a man interrogating me. His eyes were like fire, and his skin, so dark..."

He couldn't see, but Madura was rolling her eyes. "Sounds like a Dunmer perhaps. Or a Redguard that hadn't had much sleep. Maybe. Could've been a fear illusion too, to make you more pliable."

"Maybe. I don't know though. The air about him was all wrong," he said. 

"Jadaka?"

"Hold on," he said. A guard was walking by, eyes darting around and with his hand on his blade. He must've either heard his whispering or the clanking noises coming from their dwemer contraption in full sprint. Even standing idly, the thing purred like a khajiit in slumber. He wondered how Madura managed to get the thing in his cell without the Queen noticing. Perhaps she did...

Jadaka stood at the opposite side of it, hidden by a pine tree that grew within the palace inside the hallway stretching up towards the ceiling. He waited for the Ra Gada to get close enough to see Crawley, but he paused. The man didn't seem to have noticed Crawley... in fact, as he walked past a wall sconce, he could make out the anxiety ridden, almost fearful expression the man had. His hand was also firmly upon his blade.

It was strange for sure but whatever was wrong with him, Jadaka couldn't afford to let this man raise an alarm. He crept up from behind, tapped him on the shoulder and his hands gripped his throat like a dwemer vise. He slumped over, robbed of breath as quick as that.

"Okay," said Jadaka as he dragged him into a side passage. "Should've muffled this thing or something."

"I'm already working two complex spells at the same time, I'm at capacity here. Make it work and quit complaining."

Jadaka cursed silently, hoping that he'd find the Prince soon and be done with all this. He also hoped he wouldn't run into the one with the fiery eyes again. Whatever was going on, Jadaka was sure it had something to do with him.

The palace seemed even more vast and spacious at night, with large vases and statues and trees looming over him in the dark with nothing but torchlight to pierce it all. On these marble floors, sound echoed far and wide, though it also alerted him to anyone nearby.

His father often told him of stories of this place and its immeasurable wealth. He called it a gilded coconut. Pretty to look at, and round at the dome, but long since drained of its milk. 

Jadaka asked him where all the milk had gone and he said, "Why, the Imperial dogs of course. Who else?" 

"Who else indeed," said Jadaka to himself, and maybe even to Crawley. Madura was controlling it but sometimes when she let it act on its own, he wondered if it had a mind of its own, able to function freely and at higher capacity without its master. Maybe it even fell to whatever machinations the mind of the soul trapped within its gem could muster up, but Madura swore such a thing was impossible.

Crawley displayed such a moment even as he now pondered, stopping in place and recalculating for minutes at a time. He was beginning to think it was busted until it suddenly continued clinking on with Jadaka soon in tow. The sooner he was out of these vast chambers with their smooth marble floors, the better. Too many chances of accidentally knocking over some expensive vase or plate on a wall and causing all sorts of noise.

He especially didn't much appreciate the marble floors when he came upon something wet in the dark. He and Crawley both nearly slipped, and it would've been rather comical were there someone to see the dwemer's spider legs all shuffling to stay upright.

He grabbed a torch from a nearby wall to see what nearly gave away his position and was soon greeted by the sight of a long trail of fresh blood, and several dead Ra Gada cadavers staring back at him... had they any eyes to stare back at him with.

"Madura. You seeing this through Crawley? There's probably more judging from all the blood. What in Oblivion did we get into."

"I see it," she said. "Though I really wish I didn't. I'm glad I'm out here. What does it mean?"

"It means perhaps I can get a double reward for this contract, that's what. The Prince has lost his mind clearly. The Queen might actually pay us when we expose him."

"Jadaka."

"Maybe he's into some daedric nonsense or something. These bloodstains aren't just strewn about at random. They... kinda look like runes or something."

"Jadaka."

"And there's-"

"Jadaka!"

"What?! Fuck!" Jadaka felt the bite of steel at his exposed arms just under his bronze arm band and by instinct rolled away, the blood covering him now.

The one that cut him snapped his fingers, lighting the whole chamber in torch light so that Jadaka could see exactly what the Prince was up to. 

"Well well, look what the hawk caught. Come to kill me, have you desert hare? Well then lets get on with it, I've got places to be, people to see. Kings to spy, and then everyone dies... I'm pretty much done here, time to move on."

Jadaka struggled to return to his feet. The Prince's blade was clearly poisoned. He'd long since been taking poisons in small doses to further his Ra Gada resistance but whatever this was, it was pushing even him to his limits.

Heart racing as he stood and drew his blade, he said, "I don't know what's going on here but the only moving on you'll be doing is to the Far Shores."

The Prince held two swords in his hand casually, and Crawley looked braced for battle as well, front legs shimmering in magical electricity.

The Prince had a smile on his face so unsettling that it made a seasoned warrior like Jadaka want to consider fleeing. It was all wrong somehow, but he couldn't put his finger on it. He studied him as long as he could, watching his stance, his body language. He gave away nothing. 

All that Jadaka was sure of was that the man was bloody cocky. And why shouldn't he be? This was the man that brought his father's enemies to his knees alone.

"Done trying to measure me up? Then lets begin!"

"Hold on a sec-," said Jadaka, holding up his index finger. The perplexed prince watched with intrigue as Jadaka started dumping what looked like the typical slop they gave the prisoners from a pouch he kept under his belt.

"You're a strange one," said Jabreel.

"A warrior never fights on an empty stomach," said Jadaka. "That's one of your 46 lessons or some shit right?" He was talking to Madura, confusing the Prince even further.

"36, idiot, and they're no longer our lessons. Guess we'll see if the Queen was serious about needing our help," said Madura.

"That's the idea. Couldn't hurt," said Jadaka. "By Ebonarm, would it have killed her to add some spices though.”

"Enough!" cried the Prince, charging him and nearly causing Jadaka to choke on the flavorless smelly paste.

"Shit!"

Their blades whirled, slicing through the air with a hum as they both struggled to hit something solid. Even Crawley was a part of it, jumping in when the Prince seemingly was unaware but finding no more purchase than either of their swords.

Redguards called this the Endless Dance. When two warriors of equal skill were locked in what felt like a never ending performance, their blades just barely missing their mark. However, they were not of equal skill and Jadaka soon learned Jabreel was playing with him.

Jabreel's blades practically danced all over Jadaka's now. Their clashing was made all the more impressive by the empty room echoing and amplifying every hit.

Jabreel fought in such a way that even trying to make his own opening seemed impossible. He was unpredictable, reckless, as though he didn't care if he were cut, so long as he'd himself land a blow. And his strength, his strength was enough to almost knock Jadaka right off his feet every time their blades met. He was mad, truly. 

But Jadaka decided to take advantage. Ducking under a cut that took off one of his dreads, Jadaka slid on the blood soaked floor with his knees and swiped at Jabreel's ribs as he flew past. Jabreel cried out, but not in pain but glee. He spun around in time to deflect the sword that Jadaka threw at his back and prepared to run him through with both blades, but before he got close, the same blade he deflected was now dark red and sticking through his stomach.

"The only spell I know... the only spell I'll ever need. Works every time." He marched towards his victim. Jabreel's head was slumped, staring at the blade as he fell to his knees. No human could survive such a blow. 

So it came to both his and Madura's surprise both as she watched the Prince suddenly get up and charge her partner again, slashing at both shoulder blades downward. The leather vest protected him from the cut but he felt the full impact on his shoulders. If he hadn't fallen with the blow, he wouldn't be able to lift a sword in either hand.

Crawley leaped for the Prince's face before being hacked down hard but not before one of its legs managed to cut the Prince right across his eye.

That's when Jadaka saw it. The same eye from before, beneath the palace in the prison. The Dark Man's eye.

That same unsettling smile greeted him again as the Prince loomed over him.

To Jadaka's horror, the Prince ripped his face clean off, and in its place was the red painted visage of a spawn of Oblivion.

"This will truly be a night to remember, mortal! Now the fight can really begin..."

Jadaka scrambled away, slipping and struggling to stand to his feet and ready himself for the fight of his life.

Madura was screaming in his head now. "We're done here, get out of there! That's a dremora!"

"Not just any dremora either," he said as chills ran up his arms. "He is the Pirate King of the Abecean! The thing that sunk my father's ship!" 

"Get out of there now, Jadaka!"

"Madura, you go. Alert someone, find the Queen or the King. I'm staying. He's killed too many of my people, both here and at sea. If you want me to be safe, find me a cure poison potion, and quick."

Madura started pulling at her red hair, not caring who was staring at her. "I'm sorry, did that hit to the head back in the sandstorm make you as dumb as a Nord? This is stupid!" 

"This is the Velehk Sain, Madura. Nords aren't the only ones that crave a good fight. Besides, I'm too excited to leave now...My adrenaline is pumping too hard."

"THAT'S THE POISON YOU IDIOT!"

"Are you done talking to yourself?" said Velehk Sain, still grinning.

Madura groaned. "I told you that you don't actually have to speak..." 

"Woman hush and get me the..."

Velehk Sain grew impatient. A fireball grew at the tip of his blade and was about to engulf Jadaka before the fight even started.

He planted his feet as soon as he saw it, right foot in front, left further back. Before the fireball got close, Jadaka drew one of the dead guard’s sword to his hand telepathically and sliced right through it, or rather, the rushing air around his moving blade did. There was a rumble as the fireball's core was forced to dissipate, blowing the red sash at his thick belt like a sail caught in a gust of wind. The flames seemed to mirror it as they licked at his skin while passing around him.

Jadaka ran his hand over his blade as steam rose from its surface. The Ra Gada may not have Sword-Singing, but they still had some tricks up their sleeve.

Velehk Sain cocked his head. "Interesting." He lifted his second blade, flame gathering at the end of both. "Lets see how long you can keep that up."

"Well shit, this day just gets better and better! Come on then!"

Edited September 6, 2018 by ColonelKillaBee
Grammar n stuffs

[BigBossBalrog]

Imperial City 
Day 

A bloody dragon. Somehow it seemed Dales had managed to recruit a dragon. A red one at that. Didn't really look like Yolvenlaas though as Yornar remembered that that dragon had big, curved horns and a special tint to the scales, and this dragon flying over the city had neither of those qualities. A shame as Yolvenlaas had been one of the more benevolent dragons. But whoever that dragon was would have to wait till later. Currently Krojun had to make sure the throne room and all the servants and courtiers were ready to receive their empress. 

The doors slammed open suddenly, revealing an irritable Breton with with a huge ego. To announce her, a regimental legion war-horn sounded. Empress Draconus strode into the room, her pretty face held high into the air, along with a grin. Dales was almost always sullen, and cold, seemed like she was in an overbearingly good mood today. The servants rose to greet there returned monarch, and we're responded to with a kind smile, and a nod of her head. She was flanked by half a dozen Imperial soldiers, clad in silvery plate and scale mail, the palace guards, which had morphed from the guards of the Palace District to Dales personal guards. The Oculatus has been removed from that honor. 

Krojun noticed something else. Whenever she passed by a pretty face, the Empress winked. Seemed like some old, bad habits had returned to her when she was up north with the Nords. 

The girl still needed to learn subtlety. But it was rather refreshing to see Dales in a good mood again. Something that even helped Krojun give her a genuine smile as she approached. "Welcome home dear," he said with open arms. 

"Greetings Krojun!" She returned, albeit awkwardly. Something seemed different about her. The young Breton moved away, stating, "Held the fort down while I was gone, fine?" 

"There were some... problems. But it's mostly taken care of. But let's talk of that later. Tired from your journey?"

"No! I am filled with energy to see all my subjects once more!" She raised her voice so everyone in the room could hear her.

"Good. I was planning on holding a celebratory feast this afternoon to your arrival."

Dales, retained a smile as she said, "Splendid." Her cold eyes moved around, a small mocking smile appearing on her face.

A nagging feeling told him that this wasn't Dales. Even though the girl acted like her it wasn't really her. At least it couldn't be. Despite caution telling him not to get alone with her he felt he needed to confront her, in private. With a couple of quick steps he walked forward and put his arm around her. "Let's have a little chat," he whispered to her. 

Dales violently pushed him away, with a smirk, and began to swiftly walk across her throne room. Her stone faced palace guard, dropping onto one knee as she left. They walked for a good pace, before finding a sizeable chamber for entertaining guests. "You wanted to discuss something?"

Krojun made sure to lock the door and place a muffle spell over the room. "Who are you?" he asked with crossed arms. 

"I am Dales Motierre, Holder of the Ruby Throne, and Guardian of Cyrodiil, as I've always been, Krojun." Her cold eyes glanced at him. 

"Really?" he said with a skeptical look. 

"I am who I am. The familiarity is gone. The black string of death that tied us together has been cut. I left Dales Draconus, and I return as Dales Motierre," she said flatly. 

Half of him felt like believing her. The other half kept suspecting she was some kind of skinchanger. He didn’t know which was less believable. On one side she would have had to break a chain without a lock that had been forged into her very being, the other was that some skinchanger had replaced Dales under the noses of dozens of the best guards in Cyrodiil. Unsure he kept staring at Dales for any sort of clues. 

"I am no longer under your thrall, Krojun. And if that will be all..." Dales step forward to move past him, and made way to unlock the door with a charm. 

He held out his arm to stop her. ”How?”

"Wouldn't you like to know. There's ancient magic everywhere."  She pushed through, putting her hand to the knob. 

”And why are you in such a hurry to get away?”

"Enough." Dales's anger flailed out for a second, before it dissipated in the cool melancholy of ice, Dales spoke, "I am the Empress, and holder of the Ruby Throne. You will treat me with more respect, Krojun."

”If you want my respect, you will have to earn it.” He turned around and walked away a few steps before turning back to Dales. ”And why should I treat you with any respect when you give me none?”

"I gave you respect, and endless adoration." Her blank eyes starred back at him. "And it was never good enough for you. You used me, took advantage of my trust for you." She turned back, and circled around him, her sharp eyes gazing back. Dales icy eyes had always been the most distinctive part of her. "I've been observing you Krojun. Even if you don't acknowledge it, i've been listening to you're every word, taking in all the philosophy and knowledge you have taught me. I have a good idea of your motivation for all of this. More then anyone..." Her face twisted and she crossed her arms. "You care nothing for the Empire, or the Heartland. You care nothing for her people. It's all a mean's to an end, the power that being Emperor grant's you. To punish the Mer for whatever they did to you in the abyss of time you've been asleep. Am I wrong?"

Krojun remained silent for several seconds. Eventually sitting down in a padded armchair before drawing a sigh. "The only thing about you that wasn't good enough was that you were rather incompetent. Which, truth be told, haven't really changed. But one thing I did think you were good enough at was that you were genuinely nice. I've never raised my hand against you. I've never forced myself on you. I've never let anyone else bring harm upon you. I actually did like you back then."

She gazed at him, before she started laughing. Her laughter echoed, if there wasn't a muffle spell being kept in place, then the laughter would have been heard across the Imperial Palace. "You... you liked me because I was nice?" She continued for another good moment, before her face hardened. "I still had plenty of respect for you, Krojun. But now I'm not so sure. You've changed. You're no longer the iron masked mage who inspired so much dread. You've become... soft. Messily like a fattened bear who can no longer hunt. The Heartland has changed you for the worst. You've taken the worst traits of an Imperial into yourself. And it makes me sad. If anyone has grown incompetent it is you." Her cold eyes remained unchanged,."I ventured to the frozen north and strengthened our relationship with the Nords. I broke these chains which bound me to your thrall. I gained the allegiance of a flame wyrm, a champion of Tiber Septim himself. And today, I have rallied the entire city behind me, which shall soon extend across the entire Imperial province." She paused before continuing, "The Empire must change for it to survive the upcoming centuries. Cyrodiil must change. I will protect my people, from the High Elves, Bretons, Redguards, Nords, and if I must, you as well. Do not make me your enemy."

"Who is making an enemy of who? You'd be dead three times over if it wasn't for me. I even admit I liked you once. Yet all you do is throw insults at me. If this is how you make friends and allies, you'll be dead before the war is over. Your family doesn't like you. The nobles doesn't like you. Your people have their doubts about you. How shall they trust you to take care of them when you leave your own baby to answer the summon of a foreigner that made a career fighting Cyrodiil? Do you think a single dragon is going to change that? Do you know what happened to the old Dragon Temple?"

"Oh boo hoo, does the Witch King of Skyrim feel sad someone is throwing insults at him?" She smirked. "You need to wake up Krojun. I have friends and allies. People who I trust with my life. They are my family, not the bodies I've piled up, who I happen to be related too. The nobles won't dare cross me when they see dragon fire. Nafaalilargus is more then a weapon, he is a symbol. A symbol the people have already begun to flock around. He is a champion, a hero, of Tiber Septim, returned to them in the Empire's darkest hour. The people will rally behind me, the person who freed them from Dominion control, and the one who has a hero of Cyrodiil as her champion! I brought a dragon from Skyrim, no one will care about the sentimental drivel you're spewing! The future I'm building now is for them, and little Abigail.

This throne of smoke you've built is because of me. If I'm gone, you loose it." 

"Maybe." He didn't know if he was supposed to be angry or pity her. Without nobles nor family she would soon find herself hard pressed. Especially when she would find out her cousin had been appointed Master of the Treasury. Though there was still the matter of the dragon. While no small matter, no dragon could maintain rule on their own; the dragon priests and their bureaucracy was what had kept it all together. "Go ahead then. Try your hand at ruling. See how it goes."

"I will let you keep this prison you've built for yourself, I care not. I will keep the method you took power to my grave. You can play pretend husband and wife with the Spymaster as long as you wish. The power and knowledge you've given me gives you that right. We will keep our union as it remains convenient for the Empire's sake, I don't want to fracture the divided nation any further." She paused, "If you put the Empire at risk for your petty revenge, however, know that I will oppose you with all my power. I am no longer your puppet."

And with that, the Empress opened the door, steeping through it, she muttered, "I no longer fear you, Krojun. The survival of the Empire is all that matters to me. I will leave you with this: I have no problem ruling together, if you, like me, serve the interests of the Empire, I will not move against you. But I know what you want. What you seek. The extermination of elf-kind. And I will have no part in it. I reject what you taught me. I learned much by mediating at the steps of the Throat of the World. Of the words of the Greybeards. I have heard the voice of mother Kynareth, and I know the path before me. Peace is the noblest aspiration, but sometimes you need to fight for it, which I shall do.

I am sick of my soul being tainted by anger, hate, vengeance. This thing with the Thalmor. Our rivalry with Skyrim. With the monarchy in High Rock. My family... All these things that hurt me before. And my desire to make them suffer... I am ending it." She said resolutely, "I will be the one who ends this cycle of revenge. I will rule based on what is just, and what is best for the Empire. I will not let my anger and desire for petty revenge rule me. I will drive out this daemon inside me... and build a better future..." Dales left, saying, "You should do the same, 'master'."

Dales was now really getting him on the nerves. Even though it felt like she was provoking it, killing her would be the last option. Instead he would wait. Let Dales try to rule without the cogs of bureaucracy. See how long she would go before she caved in. 

All that just made him angry and weary. Without further thought he went to find Lilly. He needed to clear his head and get rid of some frustration. At least there was one highborn woman in the palace with some sense.

****
Gracchus, 

War had finally come. Gracchus had hoped that, by this time, nothing else would matter, and he could focus on defeating the Dominion and ignore all else. Unfortunately, the politics of the White-Gold Tower meant there was more on his plate than just war.

 First it had been the killing of the Elder Councilors. Gracchus hadn’t seen the evidence himself, but if the information was true about their attempt on the Emperor’s life, he certainly understood why Krojun had killed them. Still, that was little comfort to General Retrius and General Lithin, who had been allies of Councilor Serivus Marillan and the Colovians. Gracchus was once again grateful that he had decided to station them along with border with Valenwood, where it would be impossible for them to stage any sort of military or political retributive action against the Emperor without abandoning Cyrodiil’s defenses. He had written both of them to urge them to focus on the Thalmor, though he suspected he might need to visit them personally to keep them focused.

Now it was the Emperor’s request for veterans from each legion to help train a new Fourth Legion. Gracchus had once pushed before the Elder Council the need to revive General Tullius’ destroyed legion, but now he questioned the decision. Not because he did not support the idea, but because the Emperor’s request mentioned he would be leading that legion. Given what had just happened with the Elder Council, Gracchus had no desire to rile the dissenting generals up even more by requisitioning their troops for the Emperor's personal legion. He did not fear open rebellion so much as their focus being taken away from the war and to politics.

Still, he would have to send the requests out at some point. He would start with the generals least likely to raise a fuss, and save Retrius, Lithin, and Martullus, who was raiding down in Elsweyr, for last. The first two had once advocated for Gracchus to replaced Krojun and Dales on the throne, while Martullus had only expressed his distaste for the Emperor.

Gracchus wished that politics did not enter into his military decisions. It would be hard enough to defeat the Dominion without political distractions. If politics began to weigh too heavily on the Legion, Gracchus worried about their chances of success.

And now there was this business with the dragon mercenary. That almost made Gracchus wish for more political problems. He knew that Tiber Septim himself had employed this dragon, but that did little to soothe his mind. He just hoped the Empress knew what she was doing, working with such a beast.

The one thing that did soothe his mind was knowing that Catia and his mother, Lyra, were safe in the Imperial City. They were back at the Laughing Fox for the moment, though he was planning on booking them rooms in the Tiber Septim Hotel. His mother was still sick, and he wanted her to be as comfortable as possible. For however long she had left.

As he was putting the finishing touches on a letter assuring a merchant the Legion would do all it could to prevent a dragon attacking his caravans, there was a knock at the door.

“Enter,” Gracchus said.

A soldier entered and saluted. “The Empress has arrived, sir.”

“The Empress?” Gracchus said. What’s she doing here? “Have some tea made. I’ll go receive her.”

Gracchus donned his golden chestplate and buckled on his cape, and left his office in Fort Roebeck. The fort was in the final stages of its renovation, so he could hear the work being done to rebuild the buildings and reinforce the walls. He assumed the Empress came by boat, so he went out the back, to the docks alongside the White Rose River. Ironic, since Dales had dubbed him Knight of the Rose so many months ago in Falkreath. We have both come a long way since then.

The gates leading to the docks were already open as three of triremes were being tied to their berths.

As he had predicated, the Empress awaited on the wooden docks. She wore a simple dress of purple, threaded with silver runefabric, embroidering a dragon. But besides that she was rather bare, not carrying the Ruby Dragon Crown, or any such ornament, barring her jewleled Spartha on her belt. Besides her was quite the assembly. Ten Palace Guards, wearing their customary white-gold armour, but besides them a group he did not recognise. A dozen of very tall, bearded men, wearing strange equipment. They looked like Nords, but not quite, and they carried a mixture of strong two handed axes, and sword and shield.

Upon closer inspection...something looked very different about the Empress. Her face was...peaceful? No signs of heavy hardness, black bags, or stress lines. Almost as if a huge weight had been lifted off her shoulders. Not quite how she looked like when they first met, her youthful features had melded too a stern look of strength, but it wasn't troubled by her usual burden. 

 As she saw the ageing General, a small, smile peaked on her lips, as she called out, "High General Ceno."

Dales walked over, and the smile on Gracchus' face mirrored hers. He gave a small bow of his head. "Your majesty, it's good to see you again. How was your trip?"

"Which one?" She laughed, "The boat ride was turbulent, but the march to Skyrim was rather pleasant. The arctic air rather agrees with me, perhaps I should move the palace to Bruma?" She paused, going beside him, "Baldur sends his regards by the way." 

They walked to back to the fort, the Empress' guards and Gracchus' battlemages walking around them in a protective formation. "I was glad to hear he won. I don't know that we should entirely trust the Nords, but better Baldur than Brund. What I heard of him was unpleasant at best, and evil at worst."

"I like Baldur. I don't trust him. But, indeed, he a much better candidate then his counterpart. The man was a dog." She said plainly, "An animal. I heard horror stories from Baldur, but knowing him, I thought it was all exaggeration. I was wrong. He smashed the Jarl of Solitude's brain across the stone floors of High Hrothgar, and he was dripping in corrupting black magic. His death was a service." 

"He did die, then? There were conflicting reports that made there way south. But I'm glad to hear he won't be a threat any longer. Besides that unpleasantness, how was the moot? I was worried it would be a trying time, between the Nords, Redguards, and Bretons, but, if I may be frank, you look as if you returned from a vacation."

She whispered, "Not here." Her smiled returned, as she spoke out loud, "Oh it was a show." She grabbed Gracchus arm for a second, saying with laughter, "The Redguards didn't like me. Most of Nords the didn't like me, and some clearly wanted me dead. Barring Baldur, the most pleasant conversation I had was with Crown Prince Roland, of all people. If I would describe it, it was one giant pissing match! But I must say, it was refreshing compared to the endless underhand intrigue in the Imperial courts. Very direct." 

Gracchus laughed, and they continued to chit chat until they made it to his office. The guards stood watch while the Empress and High General entered. Gracchus prepared them each a cup of tea, and they sat down at his desk.

"It truly is good to see you in such high spirits, Dales. And with a new friend, I hear. Though I suppose he's and old friend to the Empire."

"I knew this would be brought up." Taking a sip of her tea, "Nafaalilargus gave the Legion quite a scare, or so i'm told. I apologize for not...easing him into the capitol. I figured a display of Imperil might would do good for the city's morale with the war so soon. He's...quite the character, but powerful. He will no doubt be an invaluable asset to the Imperial war machine." She took another sip, "Although, I figured some of the other General's...may feel uneasy with the might of a flame drake in my hands." 

"If word has reached them about it, they have not relayed their concerns to me. I think many are still concerned about the killing of the Elder Councilors. Though I imagine the arrival of the dragon won't be welcome news either. There were some who viewed the White-Gold with apprehension, and I'm afraid recents events will only worsen their perception."

"I heard about it just after I got back." Her grip tightened, "Traitors must be dealt with accordingly, but such a brazen act of slaughter in the council chambers themselves will no doubt paint us in a bad picture to many of the surviving councillors, and the Nibense. Krojun acted rash, and with no sense for the consequences, and now my reputation has suffered because of it...it's of no concerns though." She took another sip, saying with a concerned look, "By the way, how is Catia and your mother? I've heard she's taken ill. I do hope it isn't serious?" 

"I think it's mostly old age, unfortunately. She doesn't get around well, and has lapses in memory. But Catia reads my letters to her on her good days, and says they both are getting along quite alright despite, well, everything." He sipped his own tea. It was sweet, probably too sweet and likely to give him cavities, but he couldn't find the energy to care. "And what of Abigail? I imagine she missed you dearly while you were gone."

"That's unfortunate." Dales paused for a moment, before answering, "I only saw her briefly to check in on her. Helen assures me she's in good health and spirits." She closed her eyes, "I-I know it's cruel of me to say...but when I see her sweet face...I see my brother's. I-" She paused, "I know I approached it, telling myself I would love her like a mother, but it's...difficult to do that. Perhaps it's not even those bad memories of him...but the guilt. That i'm responsible for killing her father, my brother." She gave a tired sigh, "You think i'm horrible for that don't you?"

"We don't choose our family. I know that all to well. That little girl didn't choose who her father was, or even know him. The most important thing is that the family she does know loves her and takes care of her. Whatever your brother or father did, whatever you've done, it's not important. It might be painful for you, but for her sake, you have to put her feelings first." Gracchus didn't have any kids, but he knew well from his own father what not to do, and he hoped that knowledge was worth something.

"I'll...i'll do my best. If not for mine, then her sake. Thank you Gracchus." She said, muttering, "Moving from such unpleasant business to even more..." Dales paused for a good minute, thinking something over, stirring her cup of tea with the spoon. It may have seemed like a minute to the General, but it seem like an eternity for Dales. At last, she steeled herself. She said, firmly, "Now, then. I want you to be honest with me Gracchus Ceno. You are always honest with me." She said with a small smile, her blue eyes piercing  "You knew...you knew about...my true relationship, with Krojun didn't you?" 

It was true, then. "I didn't know for certain. Lorgar and Tullius claimed that Krojun had bound his soul to yours. I was skeptical at the time, and even more so later on, because of what became of the two of them." Gracchus knew of Lorgar's supposed plan to infiltrate the Dominion, but he doubted it would ever bear fruit. "I instructed Endar Drenim to look into ways to break the bond, knowing that I had little hope of discovering how myself. I suspect, though, that he need not continue his search."

Gracchus mirrored her smile, but it faded quickly. "How did this come about to begin with?"

"I'd rather not talk about it..." She looked pained "...But when I first visited Skyrim. Krojun abducted me when he was serving with the Stormcloaks. He did the ritual on me without my consent...but I was quickly swayed to his side with his words and promises. He offered me redemption for my actions under my father, that we would save the human race...but those words are hollowed. I know what he wants. And i'll have no part in it..."

"What does he want?"

"Slaughter the Mer. All of them. Not just the Thalmor, all Elven kind. He's beyond ancient...I don't know how old, maybe before the first era. The Greybeards told me his magic was dark, unnatural, and very old." She paused, "I know I sound crazy, but it's true." 

"At this point, I'm not sure anything could surprise me. Who else knows of this, his plans, the soul binding, all of it?"

"I believe Lorgar knew, somehow. At least about the bidding. That dog..." She muttered, clenching her fist, "Baldur knew. He offered to help free me. I-I don't know who else."

"And Krojun? Does he know you're free?"

"...yes. I told him, in no uncertain terms, that I would no longer be his pawn, and would not let him led the Empire down this dark path. I don't think he took it well..." She paused, "Surely you can see Krojun means to use the Empire as a means to an end, he cares not for the Heartland or her people! He's dangerous." She paused, "But powerful. Very powerful. His power could be used to assist the Empire, which is why I told him as long as he doesn't threaten Cyrodilli or her people, I wouldn't out him.  A power struggle could tear the Empire up..."

"You're right about that." Gracchus shook his head. "It seems we have two of them now, between Krojun and the dragon. Two powerful entities whose power could assist the Empire, so long as they don't use that power to threaten it. I suppose the question is, can Krojun be bargained with like this dragon?"

"I...don't know. He craves power. But the power he has, makes him a threat to every Imperial citizen. What do you think we should do, Gracchus?" She asked.

"Defeating the Thalmor is our first priority. Any decision we make should be with that in mind. And with regards to defeating them, Krojun would be a valuable asset. The alternative, getting rid of him, would be messy. Like you said, we can't afford a power struggle, and since he killed those Elder Councilors and replaced the Bretons, half of the councilors are his allies. I think we have no choice but to try and reason with him."

"I'd figure you'd say that. But this is dangerous business in itself. It's true Krojun isn't the most popular person right now, and that display in the Imperial City had surely been a hit with the people" She said with a childish grin, "But he doesn't need their support when he's practically untouchable with his magical power, and has so many in the Elder Council beholden to him....hypothetically, if worse came to worst, do you think the Legions would follow you?"

"I can think of at least three that would move against him if I so much as hinted toward it. The two recruit legions would likely stay put, or not factor into things besides. Mine would do as I command. As for the rest, I cannot say for certain. They've kept their political beliefs close to the chest. Most would fall in line, but I cannot say all would. The problem is that war has begun. To divert any legion to fight against the Emperor is to risk an attack from the Dominion."

She counted on her finger, "More or less, we have the Legions. We have the Flame Wyrm. With my newly arrived battalion of Roscrean Client Soldiers , the Imperial Watch and my Palace Guards, almost complete control over the Palace District and the City as a while.  And I think the people would favour us, Krojun is an outsider, an outsider whose already made a public, very aggressive move for power." She put up her other hand, "He on the other hand, has a good portion of the Elder Council under his thumb. He himself is a very powerful figure. And the Everseeing Eye, the Penitus Oculatus, through the Spymaster, who makes her allegiance clear. I think the balance of power favours us...but indeed, if civil strife broke out, the Dominion could, and honestly, would exploit this weakness to crush us. We cannot risk a war with him...but he's so dangerous..."

"The enemy of my enemy is my friend. That holds true for the Nords, the Bretons, the Redguards, and Krojun. Until the Dominion is dealt with, they are all our friends. No matter how powerful or potentially dangerous, all of them pale in comparison to what the Dominion can do. I've seen their capabilities first hand. Now the fight will be on their land, and they will be more desperate. I think this war will eclipse the last one in destruction and horror." Gracchus gave a sigh and set aside his tea. "You know I don't trust Lorgar. He's lost his mind, I'm sure. We must use everything at our disposal to win. That, unfortunately, includes Lorgar. And it includes Krojun."

"A mad wolf daemon and an accursed Soul Devourer." She closed her eyes, "God's forgive us. But it all comes down to one thing, I suppose. For the Empire." 

"For the Empire indeed." Gracchus picked up his tea, sipped it, and leaned back in his chair. "I should be completely honest. There was something else I knew about the soul binding. Not too long ago Albecias Plebo accused me of planning a coup. He had in his possession a letter the mentioned the soul binding. He confronted me with his misguided ideas about my supposed political maneuvering, and I consulted with Krojun in order to prevent the release of this information. Well, prevent its release as Plebo intended. The information was changed to be outlandish and insane. I imprisoned an innocent man to keep this soul binding a secret. Its release would've triggered backlash against me and Krojun, could've torn Cyrodiil apart. I wish I could've done something to help free you, to not be forced to keep his secret. But as you said, everything we do is for the Empire."

Her eyes were startled, but she regained her composure, "You we're forced into a hard position. There's nothing to apologise for, I would have done the same thing, it would have done nothing but divide the nation further. I'm sure if you knew a way to genuinely help me, you would have done so." She said with absolute certainty, "It's done with, we can leave this soul binding business behind us, and do what we need to do to make the Heartland prosper!" She said with gusto, she finished her tea, before asking, "Back to Albecias, I recall little Helen mentioning the name once. A hack author. Did he say who his source was?”

"He had a letter that I burned. Whoever sent it was targeting Krojun. It prompted Albecias to look into the soul binding and Krojun's past with the Synod. It recommended I, Colonel Quentas, Magdela Bathory, Generals Lithin and Retrius, and the Synod be questioned about Krojun. It was signed 'L.' He seemed to think I was making it seem like Lorgar sent it. I'm inclined to agree with him on that point. I think someone was trying to make it seem like Lorgar sent it, but no one else-" Gracchus froze, as the memory came rushing back. He didn't know how he hadn't realized before. He knew exactly who had sent the letter. "It was Theodore Adrard. He was traveling with me when I got a letter from Lorgar about the soul binding. He must have read it. That's where he got Retrius and Lithin's names from. He prompted Albecias to look into Krojun and the soul binding. But why? Certainly not to free you. Unless, in doing so you would marry his son. Or maybe for blackmail over Krojun."

Her hands...began to shake...violently for a second, before she regained her composure, venom was in her eyes too. "Logar's too loyal to the Empire, even in his madness to do something of the like. It must have been that fucking snake...whatever his reasons, it's ill news for us. No doubt he seeks to weaken the Empire to secure his position as King of High Rock. We need to look at High Rock more closely from now on...Baldur told me they we're going to commit less soldiers to the war effort then us, the Nords, and the Redguards. There clearly going to try and profit from all this chaos. I hate Bretons..." Her fists clenched before she calmed herself once more, "I mentioned I talked to Crown Prince Roland at the Moot. He was...very much unlike his father. He actually apologized what his father did, or the cruelty and pettiness in the way he did so, to put it more accurately. I could tell there was genuine sincerity behind his words. I doubt he would betray his family, but perhaps we could make an ally of him.

"If Theodore was behind this attempt to undermine Krojun, I would suggest we move carefully where his family is concerned. He's been a step ahead of us this whole time. It could very well be that his son is playing the part of carrot, while Theodore is the stick. We must tread carefully. When their troops arrive we will watch them closely. I would suggest that, if you try and make an ally of Roland, that you do so cautiously. Who knows what plans Theodore has in store."

"That would be wise. High Rock is a den of vipers, they would let us all burn if they knew they could get away with it." 

Gracchus didn't think that was true. High Rock would suffer under the Thalmor like everyone else. Though he suspected they would use this war to improve their position, if at all possible. "Enough about them. What are your plans now that you're back in Cyrodiil?"

"My duty. Consolidate power, prepare the country for the devastation of war, and lead Cyrodiil to victory.  I'll start by swearing in the Flame Wyrm to the ranks of the nobility, I offered him a dukeship, Lorgar's old haunt. That will not only bind him to the Heartland, but send a message to both our enemies and the nobility, I will not tolerate dissension." 

"Will a title and land be enough for a dragon?"

"I offered him his share of the loot he pillages during the invasions, as well as a...very large purse as a bonus." She began scratching her chin, "Expensive, but I think a Dragon will pay itself. The other nations in the Alliance will think twice before crossing us if we command dragon fire." 

"If we can buy his loyalty, so can others. I would be careful of trusting him too far. Before his death at the hands of Cyrus, I recall he was employed by a King of Wayrest. I do not know much about dragons, but I'm skeptical that they can be truly commanded."

"I don't trust something that can level entire armies and cities...but it is a necessary risk." She paused, "You've talked to Admiral Tacticus yes? He's experienced the sheer horror of Dominion air superiority. Truly, even with the Televani, do you think we could have matched there sunbirds in the open field without a weapon of destruction of our own? Better we have the Flame Wyrm under the Empire, if not controlled, then anyone else." 

"On that I agree. I simply suggest we not put too much faith in the loyalty of a dragon. Speaking of Master Drenim, have you heard from him recently? He sent a messenger that he would be gone for a while, but that was months ago. He's the only one with any knowledge on how we might defeat the sunbirds, and I had hoped we would have something to use by this point."

"We have one dragon, they have multiple sunbirds, so indeed Drenim's work is very much needed. Perhaps you should send some men after him?"

“I’ll write to Colonel Quentas, have her send some agents to find him. It’s more likely that they’ll turn something up than would my soldiers. I just wish his Dremora has mentioned where he was going.”

"A Dremora?" She paused, "Have you seen it with him before then? Perhaps if we search his laboratory, we could find it's name, summon it from Oblivion, and compel him to tell us anything he knows about Drenim's whereabouts." 

“He appeared for less than a minute to relay the message. It was the first and last time I saw him. Searching the laboratory might yield something, but it might also yield research about the soul binding that we would not want Krojun or the Oculatus to know about. Upon your return I would suggest having your men go through his things, and relaying only the pertinent information to Colonel Quentas. In which case I will hold off on writing her, and allow you to handle that.”

"Agreed. I would like to trust Lilly, but her connection to Krojun is unfortunate. I will have my Palace Guards search his belongings and see if we can find something to tells us we're he went." She sighed, "Even now, we're divided. It's a shame. But it's for the best I think."

“I think so too. This situation isn’t tenable in the long term, but for now it’s the best we can do. I don’t envy you having to go back to the Imperial City. I was almost glad to have the war finally arrive, if only to escape the palace.”

"I have a Flame Wyrm in my retiune, along with three centuries of angry proto-Nords this time though." She said with a grin, "I think i'll be quite fine Gracchus."  

“Still, be careful. Cyrodiil needs you.” Or, at the very least, it needed stability above all else. “I’m glad you are yourself again.”

She got out of her seat, "I hope I am myself permanently this time. You can only mellow in your stupor for so long. It's about time I left you to your work, General I know you're going to as busy, if not more, in the coming weeks." She paused, before putting her hand gently onto his shoulder, "Thank you Gracchus. Really. You've been a loyal friend to me over the past two years. One of the only true ones. I just want you to know that, I trust no one more then you."

He pulled her into a hug, and when they broke apart he said, “Please, stay safe. If you ever need a break, find Catia. I’m sure she would enjoy spending time with you. And remember, that little girl comes before yourself. Good luck, Dales.”

"I will. Thank you General Ceno." She said with a faint smile, leaving the office.

*****
Krojun

It was quite the walk to get to the large cliffs that lay just to the northeast outside the city. Not a great mountain but it had a nice view over Lake Rumare and the city itself. Probably why the red dragon was currently resting there. Not to mention it could see anyone coming from at least a mile away in either direction. He knew the dragon was watching his approach. As he walked across the fields and as he slowly made the short climb for the two to be close enough that they wouldn't need to yell to be heard. 

"Greetings," said Krojun in the old dragon tongue and with the old customary dragon priest salute. Though lacking a staff or spear made the salute a little awkward. 

The dragon cocked his head, staring at him. “...hmmm. Drem Yol Lok. What a surprise to see someone speaking that tongue here. Who are you, joor?”

”Krojun, husband of the Empress.”

“KRO JUN. Interesting. How in the world did one such as yourself end up here. That solute is not known to the fools of this time. Are you who I think you are?”

”I don’t know if I am. Others may have carried that name. But I was the first.”

Nahfahlaan made a noise that sounded close to that of a chuckle. "Many certainly have, joor. I even mistook some for you on occasion. Perhaps it even was. In fact, I might have to stop calling you joor now. What brings you to this flat abomination they have the gall to call an Empire?"

”Comforts of wealth. And personal grudges that still needs to be settled.”

"Hah, well in that you still are like joor. Holding pitiful grudges long into the eras of our lessers. The fahliille are hardly worth your time. You should divert your attention to Keizaal, retake your birthright. Upstart mortals play with the Voice like it was theirs. Rude female joor scream the same word over and over and over again well into noon, disturbing my slumber. If I also weren't seeking the comforts of wealth I'd have half a mind to correct your kin myself."

”I sadly cannot do anything about that. Only Alduin can restore the Dragon Temple now. We’ll simply have to be patient.”

Nahfahlaan's head fell as he covered it with a wing. "Aka-Tusk preserve me, seems there truly is no hope for this time. When Alduin returns, he'll be so angry that he'll surely swallow this land and all of my treasure in it. Bah, now you've gone and soured my mood even more. I've no more stomach for tinvaak. Leave me, I think I saw a few pointy eared ones over that way. Too scrawny for me, so you're welcome to them."

”How long do you wish to be alone? I got important matters that I seek to discuss.”

"You speak with respect as always to the Dov so I'll tolerate your presence a little longer."

”I’ll try to be brief then. What did Dales offer you for your allegiance?”

"My allegiance?" Nahfahlaan's wings spread wide as his head stretched back in laughter. "No mortal has my allegiance. Not even the Dovahkiin that took the mantle of my employer. The Empress and her twin have what I call, professional courtesy. The uglier one gave me a mountain to call my own, one that will be unhindered by pesky adventurers and the like, unlike my kin. Besides damned Paarthurnax, that is. Those fools gave him Snow-Throat itself. And as for your... wife as you called her... she's named me Duke of some rainy lands south of here. I will have words with her about that arrangement. For one, there's barely any Redguards there, and my belly aches for the delicacy."

”Rainy lands?” Krojun hoped it wasn’t Blackwood. That place had already been divided up amongst some of his Nibenese supporters.

"Yes, a very dreary and ugly marshland, with those strange folk that look like starving wingless dov with arms. Frightening, off-putting things they are. And then there's the furry ones, they are most displeasing, and their blood is tainted with filth and impurities. The game there is plentiful however, certainly compared to the frozen lands of Keizaal."

”I think we may have renegotiate the terms of your deal. Those lands are no longer available for claim. Lots of politics happened while my wife was gone.”

"They're no longer available for claim, because they are mine. Ugly land and uglier people aside, I have slaves once again. And a place to hide my treasure."

”Would you be willing to relinquish your claim for a chance at better lands and even a city to call your own?”

Nahfahlaan cocked his head once again. "What's your offer?"

”As you may already know, we’re at war with the south. Currently we are supposed to be laying siege to three cities in the land of large cats. If you help take all three of them, I’ll give you one of them, along with a tithe of the plunder from each city.”

Nahfahlaan looked away. "You just heard me say I found those furry things disagreeable with my palate did you not? The last thing I want is a city full of them. Besides, the land reminds me of those blasted Redguards and is as flat as this one is. The treasure is fine, but I'll already be getting plenty of it from the naval battle and the siege of the elven southern lands. I'm a lot of things, but I'm not greedy. Much." Nahfahlaan let out a roar and stretched his wings. "If I'm to relinquish my lands, I would have a city worth having... There's mountains near the Northern border. Closer to mine. Bruma they call it. There's a city I would accept."

”That would not be possible. But a city is still a city. With a keep and treasury already built. And lands with larger forests and larger game closer to the southwest.”

"And why would it not be possible? A city is a city and a leader is a leader. What's it matter if I'm a Dovah? Are the people of these lands so bigoted and ignorant? Do they not know their history?! BAH! ARE YOU NOT EMPEROR? Don't waste my time! YOL, TOOR SHUL!" Nahfahlaan's Thu'um caused the earth to shake as a stream of fire stretched across the sky above them. "What is it that you really want from me anyway, bron.. If you are the Emperor then your Empress fights the same war. I am sure my services will bring me to those lands eventually anyway. You could offer me nothing and get what you want already. If that is truly what you seek here."

”My wife has little sense for politics nor economy. She wont make friends by giving away what does not have. What I want is for you to fly south as soon as possible to help bring an end to this war. And so that she can’t go around threatening people with dragonfire. I want her to learn. If she makes too many enemies, she wont live for long. Nor may I for that matter. And then there wont be anyone to honor our deal. The people here may even decide to call upon dragon hunters then.”

"Well if that day comes, I still have my mountain. This pitiful Empire of yours is already one step in the grave. If you had any sense about you, you would abandon these lands, or at the least reclaim the ones they lost... I can't believe the state it's in now, and if it proves anything its that you mortals need a Dovah to rule for you. Dovahkiin or otherwise. Bruma should be grateful to have me rule over their city." Nahfahlaan leaped from his perch, flying in place. "Listen, because I like you, Krojun... I will give you time to straighten out your business in this... Black Wood. But as for your infant wife, what she does and what comes about from this war, it is no concern of mine. I am a humble mercenary. War is business, and business is good. You want to end the war swiftly then work that out with your woman. I don't have time for you mortals and your petty politics or your marital squabbles. But if those mortals come for me with dragon hunters, and if the terms of my agreement are reneged on in any way, Black Wood will earn it's title." 

"Then fly south. Give me those cities. And leave Dales alone till she has learnt to listen. And I will do my best to make sure you are given your due."

Nahfahlaan shook his head. "I'm disappointed in you, Krojun. You used to command womenfolk, had them kissing at your footsteps. Now you share power with this whelp? Train your woman yourself and on your own time, I fly to elven lands unless you convince your wench to do otherwise. Or command her to." With that, Nahfahlaan took off north, not even as much looking behind him. "You have a month's time to get your people in line. Remember who you are, Krojun. Or no one will." 

By Alduin's fire... thought Krojun. This was clearly not one of the old city dragons. They had a deeper understanding of politics. But complaining over the cards he'd been dealt wouldn't help. With a heavy sigh he turned around and began to walk back to the city.

 

*****

Dales

The young Empress has once more found herself in a dark place. The sky was littered with shadows, and the sandy beech before looked forlorn and lonesome. The moon shined it's unwholesome light down below, showering the dead sea in silverly light...and before her, a mountain of corpses. Linwyrms from the depths of the black sea, sea dragons from the waves, and colossal, unspeakable tentacled abominations from the blackest benthic depths of primeval waters. Colossal sea creatures, of all kinds, sat, rotting around her...and a lone elf, who sang to herself at the sea's waves.

"The ocean waves beckon me...when will my prince return? When will he come for me?"

Dales, confused, said plainly, "Dunmaor." 

The she elf grinned, "It's not often I have visitors,  and one's that I seldom see more then once. My, my, I wonder what draws you to this one, young Lady Motierre. Perhaps we have a black string of death, binding us? Or perhaps you brought something with you back when glimpsing the realm of the Ideal Masters?"

"The Ideal Masters-"

Her eyes hardened, and she seethed, "Don't think about it. You remember nothing from when the Greybeards smited you across that mountain, yes? Keep it that way. Let the light of Auriel fill you...and don't scratch the wall."

Dales was confused...but she didn't argue, the feeling of sleepiness and tranquilly washing away those dark thoughts. The she elf continued, "It seems like you could have potentially made a great enemy, Lady Motierre. That thing on the throne is not to be taking lightly. Perhaps you should have been more delicate." 

She closed her eyes, the feeling of sleep drifting over her even more. "I am who I am, and I can only do what I think is right. Anyone who poses such a danger to the Empire cannot be trusted, and is a potential enemy."

"Still thinking in blacks and white, my lady?"

She repeated, "I am who I am..."

"And who are you?" 

"Dales Motierre. Defender of the Empire, and the Heartland..." 

The She Elf grinned like a wolf, "Perhaps you surround yourself with liars and sycophants? What if I told you one of your "friends" has betrayed your trust and the trust of the Empire?"

"Lies, I trust all of them to stay true to me what could they have done?!" That woke her up.

“Peddling in whispered secrets is unfortunately not in my nature, alas, my fair lady.” She said with her wolfy grin, “Perhaps you should seek a scion of the Webspinner. Or summon the Abyssal Cephaliarch from the depths of the drowned library.” She began counting her fingers, whilst Dales puffered her face out and frowned, 

“Hmpth. You elves, all you do is deceive!”

She laughed melodically, “I told you before, I am no elf. Not anymore. Perhaps i’m just telling you this to drive a wedge between the human alliance?” Dales grew cold. “Or maybe I just love the way you squirm!” She put one of her bound, gloved hands to her mouth and chuckled, as Dales got flustered. “The words I offer you on this twilight shrouded night, my Lady, is trust the words of your general. The enemy of my enemy is your friend. Nothing more, nothing less. You all have common cause facing those inbred apes on their island.” She said drolly, rolling her eyes, “Once that breaks, i’m sure chaos will follow, as it always does. The Nords have a hugely inflated sense of self importance, obsessed with dead traditions. The Bretons think their better than the rest for their elven lineage, and shiny armor. The Redguards are brutes, drowning in their own self righteousness. And you Imperials, think you’re decaying “Empire” is something more than a living corpse, with an awfully annoying persecution complex, despite your “apparent” dominion over Tamriel. You will quarrel. And even if peace is maintained, for war creates bonds not easily broken, for how long. For a year? A decade? A century? It will begin anew.” 

Anger once more welled up inside the young girl, “All you describe is one and the same, ego.”

“Mankind is nothing more then swelled up ego. You’re just tiny speaks of light, in an infinite cosmos of blazing star. Man, Mer, and beastfolk alike.” She growled, her wolf like smile twisting...and her face contorted for a split second, turning monstrous for a single instance, like a flash of darkness. She gazed at the dying lake, “Long ago, i’m sure this one would think the Altmer’s desire to raze this prison in an inferno just; right even. But perhaps ego deserves to lament in torment here for all eternity….oh my.” She stopped, her horrifying visage fading away, like the dying moonlight. “The moon has risen quite high. A proper lady needs her sleep. Heed my words at your own discretion, Dales. Trust in yourself, and those around you, and that’s all you need. Fair dreams, my knight.”

Without warning, the Elven maiden grabbed the Empress by the hair, and slammed her face into the moon illuminated water, with the force of a giant.
 

[Centurion]

Ubbe
Just outside Kynes watch

Ubbe closed the book and set it back inside his pack. He crossed his legs and closed his eyes taking a deep breath while the frigid wind whipped around his body. He sank deeper into his own mind, reflecting on the books Baldur had given him. Why had he told him read of Nord defeats? Why Nord failures? Why ABC’s for Barbarians?

His heart rate dropped and his breathing slowed as he relaxed more and more. The whipping of the wind formed the base note of his thoughts. His mind began thumping with the sounds of drums and ringing with the call of horns.  Scores of strong, confident Nords flowing onto an ashy battlefield. Elves being slain by the dozens. Victory within grasp. Then just as sudden, hundreds of elves armored in bronze and chitin attack from the sides. Over confident leaders continue to press the attack. Nordic tongues prepare to blast the surging foe. Arrows whistling through the air followed by nothing but gurgling as blood flows to the ground. Nordic lines falter. Then shatter all together

Ubbe opened his eyes. Hours had passed while he was meditating and Magnus was rising over the vast frozen wastes of the Sea of Ghosts. The forest under his rocky ledge was beginning to stir, the birds began to sing their songs as the nocturnal creatures returned to their layers and the beasts of the day rose. The lone Nord’s fire was nothing but a smoldering pile ash desperately clinging to its final embers. The burning heart was snuffed out when Ubbe kicked some snow over the pit before grabbing his belongings and setting off down the path from his ledge to venture back into the forest.

The fresh snow, the trees swaying in the wind, the eerie silence being broken by the calls of the wild soothed his mind like it hadn't before. Ubbe’s meditation’s had only begun days ago, but the lessons within them were already taking root. If he continued to allow himself to feel invincible, it would be his downfall. Confidence is key, but to much and you lose sight of what is real. B comes after A and before C.

He walked in a trance like state. He could feel the air growing colder and still. After what seemed like an age we was pulled out of his own mind by the shrieking of a hawk. Ubbe jerked his head around and followed the hawk as it flew towards a dead tree and perched on one of its branches. There were six strong, healthy looking branches extending from the top of the trunk. Sticking out of the ground was four shriveled, dark roots wrapping around the base of the stump forming a sort of barrier from the rest of the world.

Each extremity was decorated with something different. The tallest branch, the one the hawk had perched on stretched up into the sky, kissing the wind. The second branch he looked at was covered in moths. They laid perfectly still with their wings creating a beautiful mosaic of grey. On the other side of the tree was a broad branch extending near the ground with a large wolf laying on the flat top, It’s beautiful purple eyes staring at Ubbe. Above that an Owl stood tall on a branch covered in ancient nordic runes like the ones Ubbe wore on his own head. Whale bone chimes dangled from another beckoning the Nord to come closer to the tree. On a short branch was hundreds of bear claws all placed together making swirl patterns. 

The first and most prevalent of the roots was burned and still had embers living within the Dragon runes carved into it. The second root had a large snake wrapped around it. Moving slowly as it slithered along. One root had been carved to what looked like an eye with tentacles extending out and every direction. The final root had a simple drawing of scorned spirit wrestling away from a creature with the chest and head of a woman, but the body of a snake.

The trunk of the tree had strange runes carved into it. Ubbe had never seen anything like it before. In the center at eye level was the body of a fox. The fox was alive, but its legs were nailed to the tree, exposing its stomach and the strangest part. The foxes chest was open, revealing an empty heart chamber. Ubbe walked slowly towards the tree. Chanting began getting louder and louder the closer he got. He felt a strange pull that made him extend out his arm as to touch the tree. He ran his hand down the runes of the trunk until his hand rested on the head of the fox. The fox turned to face Ubbe and looked into his eyes. Ubbe froze then, his body no longer taking commands from him as a vision entered his mind. 

Ubbe was alone is a dense jungle. Dark creatures were running all around, puncturing his skin with weapons made of bone, flashes of lightning spasming his muscles. He tried to scream, but nothing came out. A shadow approached and kicked him too his knees. Raising an axe, the shadow began to laugh. Ubbe opened his mouth to scream once more, but this time an explosion of flame shot from his throat and engulfing the jungle in front of him. The shadow screeched and dissipated before a horde of twisted creatures vaulted forth tore him to pieces.

Ubbe shot up suddenly covered in a cold sweat. The last thing he remembered, he was walking in the woods and now he was laying in the snow on top of a mountain. He felt strange. He was lost. There was a small pond near him so he walked over to it to get a drink for parched throat, it felt as though he had swallowed an ember. He stared at his reflection in the water for a second before dunking his head, which had grown a surprising amount of hair while he was knocked out. Something else though. It was strange. He took another look into the water and realized what it was. 

He was covered in Nordic tattoos depicting different things. Things he recognized like the animal totems and things he didn’t perhaps references to events in history. There was no way for him to be sure. He didn’t know what to make of his new body art. The only person he could think of that might be able to make sense of it was Baldur, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to approach the King with such an odd question. How was that supposed to go? “Hello king, I was wondering if you could tell me what these tattoo’s mean that are covering my body that i randomly woke up with after losing a whole of time!” No, he wouldn’t approach him. Not yet. First though, he would return to Kyne’s Watch. 

It took him a few hours to scale down the mountain he had awoke on, but after that the trip went relatively quick with no incidents. He walked into town after Magnus had tucked himself away for night. The town was quiet. There was no one around as he walked through the streets towards the Fort. He passed the time tree and saw to young girls, one was crying, the other was giving off an aura of fortitude. He faintly heard one say to the other that she would have to figure it out on her own before leaving her at the tree. Ubbe didn’t think about it the rest of his walk back to the Fort and upon arrival, found his way to his room. He took a deep breath, dropped his backpack on the floor and laid down on his bed, letting sleep take him.
 

[ColonelKillaBee]

Kyne's Watch

Hrondar could feel the eyes on his back as he hobbled out of the tavern and started through town. Even with a walking stick, his shattered leg screamed in protest of every step, but that pain was nothing compared to his wounded pride. Look at me from the front, you cowards.

Most people never could. Those who did usually revealed in their eyes the same curiosity a Nord might feel upon seeing his first Khajiit. Ruined Grim Ones were a rare sight to behold. And while it wasn't unheard of for those who oversaw the trials to take their share of hits, there was usually a healer nearby to patch them up when it was over. They had earned that right... Except for him, apparently. Even after the dead were removed, Hrondar had been left to lie in the mud. Ivold's doing, probably. If not Baldur himself.

His daughter, Kyne bless her, was much less helpful than she wanted to be. Heidrun knew not to try and help him walk or stand when in public, but that didn't stop her from following her crippled goat of a father everywhere he went. He was grateful for her company, what with everyone else avoiding him, but the girl had a stubborn temper that rivaled his own. And sometimes that led to her voicing thoughts that would've been better left in her head. They were all nonsense, of course. Hollow words and prayers from the mouth of an angry youth, but if the wrong person heard the things she said about their king, it could go badly for her very quickly.

It was evening when they made it home. Late enough for the room to be dark. "Get a fire going," Hrondar grumbled.

Just as Heidrun made a move towards the fireplace, the wood erupted in flame before her, followed by the sound of thunder ringing in their ears.

“Took you long enough.”

Hrondar might've fallen if his daughter had not been there to catch his arm. Baldur waited in the corner, his face only just visible by the orange glow of the fire. He was holding something, an urn made of bronze.
The Goat collected himself. "Heidrun, go wait outside."

"But Papa-"

"Do as I say!"

His daughter's face was a confused mix of fear and anger, but she obeyed without another word. Once the door was shut, Hrondar limped before his king and did his best to stand at attention. "What'll it be, then? Beheading? Or will you just make me run the trials again?" He sighed. "No, I think not. That only works for your favorites, doesn't it?"

“Sit down, Hrondar," said Baldur, his eyes on the urn.

Hrondar pulled up a chair, hoping that it didn't show how much he struggled now with such a mundane task. He lowered into it slowly, then waited for his king to speak.

“I really should kill you. That was my original purpose in coming here. What you did was cowardly, and low. And yet, I let it happen regardless. Boldir’s trials are his own. Regardless of the reason, our actions have consequences. What you did to Boldir, that was his consequence. What he did to you... well.”

Baldur raised the urn in his hand as he looked him in the eye. “Our actions affect others as well, as you’ll learn. I’m not going to kill you. I’m going to let you live.”

Baldur stood, opening the top of the urn before dumping its contents over Hrondar.

“These are the shield brothers you got killed. Their deaths are on your head. So as you sit there, broken and disgraced, remember that I could’ve added you to the pile, and chose not to. What the gods saw fit to let Boldir do to you, that’s punishment enough already.”

The Goat clenched his teeth almost as tightly as he did his fist. He almost attacked his king then and there. He'd have died for it, but what was death to this level of dishonor? He could tell that Red-Snow thought the same. The High King's eyes pierced his own with a sense of knowing. This was no mercy.

In the end it was the thought of Heidrun that stayed his hand. The lass was strong. She could survive without him. But Hrondar knew that if Baldur struck him down, she would die seeking vengeance. It would spell the end of his clan. So he sat there, covered in the ashes of his people, and didn't say a word as Baldur left his home.

***

By the time he'd left Hrondar and made it to the beach, the Grim Ones in training were winding down, about to eat whatever slop they were being given. Lucky for them, the commanders already got word that Baldur was going to be there so instead of slop, they were treated to giant bowls of rice, krill, crab meat and wasabi, with slabs of horker steak as well. 

Baldur followed his nose, mouth salivating and ready to put what he'd just done behind him with a good long warm cup of spiced wine and a belly full of hot food.

Bully was already letting the men know that they'd be going without food the next day to make up for it, but no one seemed to pay him any mind. Some of the smarter ones there were already planning to hide some of the food for the next day.

It was just as Boldir was about to get his share from the pot above their campfire that Baldur's hand landed heavy upon his shoulder from behind. Iron-Brow turned quickly, shoving away as he did to reach for his axe. Then their eyes met and Boldir let out a laugh. "I thought you were somebody else."

“You magnificent bastard.” Baldur was all smiles. He pulled him into a hug and slapped his bald head as they parted. “I knew you’d pull through.”

"Don't get too proud yet." Boldir went back to the cooking pot and fixed himself a bowel. "Tsunwihk starts tomorrow. We'll see how my sore ass handles it without any healers."

“You’ll do just fine brother, don’t worry. Lesser men have made it through. So you should fit right in.”

"The only thing I'm worried about is some coward trying me while I sleep." Boldir shrugged, and went to sit on a log. "But gods are good, and most who want to be Grim Ones ain't the cowardly types. They challenge me to my face, and that I can handle.

"Baldur’s eyebrow sank. “You need me to have guards posted? Or perhaps have Gray-Mane and Bully keep an eye open. That girl that came to you that night, ma’s priestess friend, I could send her to your bunk in the barracks. They’ll be less likely to try something with a witness around. And she makes good pie.”

His brother shook his head. "How do you think it would look if I got to go through the trials with a woman in my bed?"

Baldur snickered. "Like you needed healing? Though I suppose that's not allowed during Tsunwihk. Sorry brother, I don't make the rules. Oh wait..."

"You planning to change them for me?"

Baldur shrugged his shoulders as he moved to make a bowl of his own. "I guess not, no. It's just hard seeing what you have to go through. I know you're strong enough for it, but that doesn't make it any easier. Even so, I know when you come out of it, you'll be different. Same as I was. Things may never be the same for you in Skyrim, I know. But we're gonna show these hard headed Nords exactly what kind of man you really are. There's no better way to show a man's true colors."

"I'm already different. Hrondar and those bastards I killed saw to that more than anyone." There was a gleam in Boldir's eyes as he stared into the fire, as though he was deep in thought. "I needed to prove them wrong. I still need to."

Baldur wanted to tell him he didn’t have to prove anything to anyone... but that was idealistic. 

“You will, Boldir. Show the whole damned kingdom what you’re made of.” Baldur’s hand fell heavy on his shoulder and for a while the two just sat and ate. Eventually Baldur perked up with a sudden notion. “Are you gonna try to kill death?”

"You mean the bear? Aye, I am. I know I said I wouldn't before, but-" Boldir hesitated, then nodded. "Aye, I am."

"It's not just a bear," said Baldur with an air of offense. "I'll share a secret with you. The gods themselves walk among these lands. I knew that even before I heard Arle teach it the islander way. The trees, the ground, they're the earth bones of those that once were. The wind is their breath. And we walk in their honored halls just as sure as snooping adventurers disturb our honored dead. Except the gods, they welcome it. They prepared this house for us with their very essence. And so when you step into those woods, alone in deathly silence, you can hear them speak. You wait long enough, those whispers will bring you Death. That old knocker himself will greet you and test your might, if you're worth his time. We offer them the blood of the best that Skyrim has to offer. Much blood, much death, much sacrifice. That great sacrifice entices them. These trials are no longer my own, brother. These trials are sacred."

Boldir looked at him curiously. "Did something happen during yours?"

Baldur gave him a look which soon faded into a smile. “Oh, don’t mind me brother. You know how I am with my bardic wiles and all. Every now and then, words just fall out of my mouth. Eat, eat.”

"Gladly." They dug in, though Baldur's brother did so more hungrily than he. "You know," Boldir said as he wiped his mouth with his arm. "They don't feed us this good when you ain't here."

“I know,” said Baldur as he gathered the shrimp from his bowl. He had his bear claws on from his officer days and began skewing the shrimp and Horker chunks as he spoke. “Consider it compensation for your special treatment here while I’m away.”

"So what was that business with a necromancer a while back? Folks were saying there were undead in the mountains south of here."

“Think nothing of it,” said Baldur between bites and playing with his food. “Just a bunch of superstitious Nords. A priest drew the marks they saw for me so I could see for myself, and some local Clever Men and one of Veleda’s battlemages confirmed they’re nothing but regular summoning marks. Someone’s casting spells but there’s no reason to believe it’s some necromancer.”

"Good. A bear I can deal with, but I could gladly go the rest of my life without seeing another damned bonewalker."

“Steel yourself, there’ll likely be a few of em in the war,” said Baldur. “If not from the Thalmor, then from our own dead lost in battle.”

"What do you mean?" Boldir looked startled. "Two wars I've been in, three if you count Riften, and the only undead I saw in that time were the draugr in some accursed crypt Galmar led us through. Why would that change now?"

"Because now the fight will be on their land, and they'll get desperate," said Baldur. He looked him in the eye. "You remember what happens when people get desperate. The measures they take. The measures I took. The elves, they have more colorful options in their repertoire. Most moderately skilled mages have at least the capability to use necromancy, if they chose to."

"Then we'd best bring plenty of our own. I knew a priestess in Cyrodiil who could keep such monsters at bay better than an axe ever could."

"Oh we will, brother. We will. The Clever Craft will be with us in this fight. Veleda already put that in motion. I also might have an idea that could help possibly. Well, not so much an idea as it was a dream really. It's an odd thing, see I've always been plagued with dreams. Constant dreaming ever since I was a boy. Haven't had as many since Rebec, only every once in a while. And these dreams, they'd take me places. Some here in Skyrim, some in Morrowind or High Rock. By Oblivion, I even saw Alinor. This one though, this one was different. I was in Windhelm, Boldir. With Brund. Only it wasn't Windhelm. It was colder. Colder than cold. But I burned hot. Not literally, but in my head. It was unbridled anger like I'd never felt before. More anger than even I think I'm capable of having... maybe..."

Baldur looked up after a long pause and smirked, shrugging off the memory. "Anyway, the dream gave me an idea. A mage's connection to their summons is mental. My shout also has a mental connection. I was able to disturb Brund's control of his own thu'um during our duel this way, but thus far it's only worked on Nords. Hell, non Nords can't even understand my words. However, the undead are empty vessels most of the time. It might work on them."

"You'd know better than I," Boldir said. "Clever craft, undead, dreams that ain't just dreams, I will gladly leave it all to people like you. Had a bellyful of all those things back in Cyrodiil."

"Fair enough," said Baldur with a smirk. "You and Rebec have that in common. I've always been obsessed with the mystical. Perhaps now it'll come in handy. Which reminds me... With so much to catch up on, I forgot to ask. There was mention of a 'floating voice' on the Imperial ship... needless to say my men were rather... discombobulated. And now there's runes popping up outside my city. Any thoughts on that? Also, where on earth did Mila learn to cast such a powerful spell?"

"Mila couldn't use spells to light a campfire, let alone destroy a ship. She used a scroll for that. The voice belonged to Roseloe Valga." The contempt in Boldir's voice when he said her name was as sharp as a stalhrim dagger. "She's the witch whose house we robbed for Vile. He turned her into a torchbug."

Baldur’s eyebrow arched but he didn’t say anything immediately. After a moment, he said, “And I assume that you made sure to squish this witch as soon as you got the chance... right brother?”

"No," Boldir answered. "But not for lack of trying. She's followed us for weeks and has tried to convince us that she's a friend. And as much as I hate to admit it, she's had her uses." He hesitated, then let out a sigh. "Mila asked me not to tell you about this, but I always planned to. Told her that we don't lie to family."

Baldur gave his own sigh. “I appreciate that, Boldir. But I don’t like it. A witch, that traffics with Daedra, here in my town... And I know damn well that niece of mine has not been pursuing squire training like I asked. I think I’ll have another talk with her, see what she’s been up to lately.”

"Talk with her if you wish, but I can already tell you that she's probably been learning magic from the bug. She never hid her intentions from me."

“Then I need to speak with the bug as well, see exactly what she’s learning. What they’ve been up to. In fact I think I’ll go to Vigge's cabin tomorrow, see how she's faring."

"That would be best. Just understand that Mila ain't a fool. She knows what she's dealing with and you don't need to worry about her making trouble." Boldir rubbed his prickly scalp. "Though, I wouldn't lose any sleep over the witch if you decided to kill her."

Baldur’s eyebrows buckled with the thought of what he read from Grey-Mane about those kids. It was tragic what his brother saw sure, but Ragna gave Baldur all sorts of context he never had before.

”Good. Especially since sleep will be in short supply for you in the coming days. Eat well, and do us proud, Boldir.”

***

Baldur no longer had the luxury of committing time to the task of tracking Mila down. It wasn't like the girl was hiding or anything, at least he didn't think she was. Avoiding, maybe. It was easy enough to know when Baldur was in the vicinity thanks to who he was, reputation preceding him as it were. That and Ragna was at his side, constantly talking, yelling, and proclaiming his status as her papa to anyone that made eye contact. Regardless, Baldur did not find the girl in her cabin the next day, either in the afternoon or the evening, and by the time evening gave into night, Bralla and Bully had already found him before he found her. The tavern was bustling, the mead was calling, and so that was that.

"So, the Empress gave us a go on this?"

"Gave us a go? We don't need to be 'given a go', we..."

"Before you start with your barbaric yawping, Bully, think..."

Baldur watched as the two continued arguing. Meanwhile he was cracking crab shells with his sailor's knife he kept in his boot, dipping the claw meat in the bowl of butter at their table and plopping some in Ragna's mouth on occasion, especially when she proclaimed 'Papapapapapapa!' Just to let him know he was taking too long stuffing his own face.

He didn't know what the yellow stuff inside the crab was, but he sure loved the taste. It was tangy, and chuck full of the seasoning the crab was cooked in. Baldur called it ‘Crab Cheese’. A loud slurp was audible even over their raising voices.

"We may not like them, but like them or not we still gotta maintain our relations with them long enough to fight this war," said Bralla. Her hair was a mess, dark and sprawled across her shoulders and her cheek which only barely hid a deep gash upon it beneath her eye and across her nose. Yet it was the only mark on her. Not even her exposed arms were marked, unlike her weathered leathers and tattered fur collar. 

"Maintaining relations doesn't mean suckling at the Empress's teet," said Bully. "And why don't you let the king worry about our relations. You're not paid to worry about such things."

"I'm not paid much at all, these days," Bralla added, snatching a crab and biting through the shell. Bits of shell fell over Bully's face from it, which only made him frown more. But she continued. "And since we're talking about it, Baldur, that Imperial delegate's still here you know. He's not just gonna go away."

Baldur's eyes stayed on his daughter, cleaning her mouth with a kerchief as he spoke. "That's fine by me. He can stay until he freezes to death for all I care. Dales and I already came upon an agreement. That will be enough for the Empire. And if not, well..." Baldur stuck his tongue out at Ragna until she did as well, until...

"Thbpttttt!" Ragna giggled happily, blowing raspberries and a bit of crab meat at her father.

"Exactly," he said, cleaning her face again.

"It would be a lot easier if we just stormed the forts, took the ore. Damn the orcs," said Bralla, biting into her crab again and wiping her mouth in dramatic fashion.

"For once, I agree with the bitch," said Bully. "But don't let Mazoga catch you sayin that."

Bralla scoffed. "Like I care what your wife thinks."

"You should," said Bully, rubbing his gut. "In any case, I like that idea, Baldur. Would make things simpler, and faster. Or, we could just give them Bralla for a concubine. Though if it were me, I'd want a wench with a little meat on the bones..."

"Then perhaps we should send you, pork chop."

"At least my pork wasn't chopped by an orc," said Bully. "Or, Orcs..."

That was a mistake. As soon as the words left his mouth, Bralla drew a dagger from her belt. It was in Bully's hand and digging into the table before he knew what happened. Baldur grabbed Ragna, backing away as Bully stood, pulled on the dagger and flipped the table aside before smacking Bralla to the ground with the back of his injured hand. Bralla rolled back up, her spear in hand and pointing at his gut in the direction of his old wound. He didn't need a weapon. The old Nord was right at home with his hands before him, even bleeding as one was.

"Give me a reason," said Bully.

Baldur quieted down Ragna, or tried to, then said, "Enough!" before the two could clash again. "Can't you two go two minutes without being such... Stormcloaks? You knocked over all the crab!"

The tavern doors opened suddenly, causing the onlookers to turn their heads. Bully smiled. "Speaking of a woman with some meat on the bone.”

Bralla's brow scrunched up but said nothing as Rebec made her way in, to Bully's pleasure. Baldur did however.

"Bralla. I don't know what Bully was talking about, but if you think you can't handle this job..." 

"I can handle it," she said. "You'll see, I'll keep my calm. Especially since this one won't be accompanying us."

Rebec stood, hands on hips, and surveyed the scene. Shaking her head, she stepped over to Baldur. "Didn't like your crab?"

“Don’t look at me, it was these two knuckleheads,” said Baldur. “Ragna and I were very much enjoying our crab.”

”WHAT IN OBLIVION IS ALL THIS?!” Toralf came running past the gawkers, shooing them away until the area was cleared. “What in the blazes Baldur I made that crab special! You know how hard it is to st, er- ‘acquire’ spices from Roscrea?”

”I didn’t do it! It was them!”

”And she fucking stabbed me!” said Bully. 

Bralla grabbed his hand and began to magically reseal the wound. “Ahoy, Red-Eye. We were just discussing our trip to the Orc Strongholds. Things got a little out of hand, is all. Toralf, more crab.”

Toralf was about to have a fit, eyes pleading to Rebec and Baldur. “At least make them clean up their mess!” He grabbed Rebec’s hand, bowing much lower than ever necessary... 

“My Queen. Please. Send these... ruffians, to the brig! Make them scrape the floors with their tongue until they’re as fair as you!”

Baldur rolled his eyes.

Rebec jerked her hand back. "Quit pissing yourself, Toralf. Just rinse the dirt off and serve it up to the drunks in some stew, they won't know the difference. Just mind you don't serve it to us." She did help right the overturned table, kicking bits of crab and broken dishes into the corner where they could be swept up. Meanwhile to Bralla and Bully she said, "I see you're starting early on a diplomatic career. The orcs ought to feel right at home with you two."

"This isn't their home, that's the point. Priestess," said Bralla.

"Bully will be staying here," said Baldur. Now it was Bully's turn to yank his hand away, whilst Bralla was still healing. 

"What? Baldur, I mean King..."

Baldur raised his hands. "It's nothing personal, really, I just need you here. The word's out, you're the best at handling the recruits in the Trials. You even got recommended by your favorite green woman, believe it or not."

Bralla was trying hard contain herself, but ultimately failed. "Guess it's you and me then, Baldur. It'll be like old times. We could even bring Toralf! Surely you're tired of cleaning after us drunks and serving up slop?"

Baldur put his hand over Toralf’s mouth. "Toralf will be with us when the war starts. He'll join the scouts. Can't think of anyone better suited for that. And as for the trip, Mazoga will be replacing Bully once the two are done with this month's recruits. You will answer to her."

"Ha!"

"Baldur!"

"I don't want to hear it, Mazoga is a Grim One commander. She's the ranking officer, and she's an orc. Obviously she's the one you need to defer to, especially in light of what I just heard earlier. I'm tempted to have you stay here in fact, if this is too personal for you..."

"No. No, you're right. I'll answer to Mazoga, no big deal. It won't matter anyway. The King will be running things, after all. Good day to you, Toralf. Red-Eye. Little one." Bralla tapped Ragna on the nose, smiling at her before making her way out.

"What about my gods damned hand!" said Bully, as the doors were slammed shut on her way out. "Pfft. Cunt."

"You kinda deserved that," said Baldur.

"Whatever. So. If Mazoga's coming then I assume we really are going to negotiate? With our own land? With all due respect, Baldur, what is the point? They're not our friends, they're not our allies, they don't serve like Mazoga. What's preventing us from just... taking it?"

Rebec righted a chair and straddled it, gesturing to the barmaid to bring mead. Glancing at the others, she said, "Some of those stronghold orcs saved our lives, remember that, Baldur? I wouldn't be too quick to throw away good miners and smiths. If you wanted the land so bad, Bully, should've humped it out there and took it from the sabrecats and trolls yourself."

Baldur stayed quiet, leaning back with Ragna as he dusted off a crab that didn't look too bad. It was still full of juice too, he realized, cracking it open enough to drink the contents. Ragna was watching impatiently, reaching for his arm.

Bully stood where he was with his bleeding hand. "We didn't have time to go after the land, between the Great War, and then the Imperials. They didn't ask for permission to squat in our borders, they just did. And we have our own miners, and smiths. We don't need theirs. Our history is long, and bloody. I don't buy they just want to be left alone now. It's only a matter of time..."

"Ask permission from who, the imps?" Rebec snorted and took a swig of mead. "Ulfric and Veleda were giving Reach land to the Dunmer, for Kyne's sake. You going to kick them out, too? And who put you in charge anyway, fat man?"

"I'm big boned!" said Bully, pounding his chest. "As every Nord should be! Better to resist cold! Baldur? Say something, for Shor's sake, I know you know what I'm talking about!"

"About being big boned or the Orc stuff?"

"The Stronghold negotiations, of course!"

Baldur sighed and said, "Right, we're not going to negotiate with our own land. This is Skyrim, and Skyrim is Nord land. However, it would also save me a lot of time if we can get the orcs to work with us instead of having to start from scratch and convince people to go out of their way. So, I will attempt to strike a deal. If that deal however doesn't suit them, we'll do what we have to do. Simple as that. They've already been left alone and allowed to stay here so any deal I make doesn't have to be very substantial, the way I see it."

Rebec shrugged and reached over to shove Toralf. "Don't just stand there, I'm starving. Ribs and chicken pieces with some of that lemon pepper and Hammerfell sauce on 'em." To Bully she said, "Don't you be going off about Nord land to Mazoga, you hear me? She's had to listen to shit like that her whole life, even though she was born here."

Toralf looked to Baldur again with protesting eyes but he just signaled for him to bring some for everyone, and grinned. "Bring some for yourself too. Take a break with us."

Bully replied. "The Snow Elves were born here too. Perhaps we should rethink having kicked out their yellow bellied kin? Bah. I'm not saying we kick out every elf obviously, and not even every orc. I like Maz, you lot know that. But these Orcs aren't like Mazoga, and they have something of ours that we need. Bottom line. They've been allowed to stay, even Ulfric allowed them to stay and paid them no mind. But now we need rent and it's time to collect. Those were your husband's words, in fact."

"More or less," said Baldur, hands raised. "We do need the ore, and gold doesn't exactly grow on trees."

"Snow elves, like the ones that attacked Saarthal? Listen, Bully, use that fat head for stopping blows and not thinking. It's not your strong suit." Rebec glanced at Baldur and went on, "The stronghold orcs are there, they've shown they can survive and we know they're damn good smiths. Haven't our forces got enough to do without starting another war in Skyrim? Give the green bastards a chance to sell ores to us for a fair price and everybody wins. You're already going to spend coin and forces trying to get the ores out. Trying to send new miners in and support them and work the ore, it's a bad investment."

"That's where Scathe's clan comes in. Aside from being no strangers to mining and prospecting land, they're best suited to the dangers of the land the Stronghold Orcs are occupying. And Skyrim's not exactly lacking skilled miners. However-"

"Baldur..."

"However," said Baldur, raising his voice to Bully, "The wife has a point. It will be a much greater and longer endeavor to send men and women to occupy land in the entire south/southeast region of Skyrim just to obtain ore. At that point I'd be better off just leaving the land be. And, I wouldn't mind having some of those orc weapons for myself. I can't outfit the entire army in Skyforge steel, Grey-Mane's already shaking his fist at me for working him into an early grave. And I still have to meet with Scathe's clan leaders to see if they'll even be up to the task."

Rebec answered, "You ask me, better keep your friends close and your Scathes closer. If you're not going to just kill 'em, that is." Her hand flexed as if she'd like to do the job herself. "Send them back out in the wilds and gods know what they'll get up to. Anyway I admire those orcs. They didn't lick the empire's boots like other Orsimer, didn't raid Breton villages, didn't raid anybody. Just took land that no one else wanted and made something of it. Wouldn't sit right with me, just taking it from them without giving them a chance to parley. If they won't talk or start drawing their orcish axes, that's a different story."

"Scathe's clan are a big lot... they'll do as they please in the wilds regardless, may as well give them a task to keep them occupied and from being bored. If it's profitable for them, all the better. Especially if they'll turn their brood's attention to the elves and fight for me. As for admiration, I don't have that luxury right now. If they stand in our way, then they're enemies. But, I will give them the chance to prove themselves enemies before I go around torching their homes."

By now, Toralf had returned with the food and a number of barmaids to help lay it out. His helpers also apparently took the king's invitation for a break as their own and began to dine as well as they listened in.

"Ah, the Clan that Wants to Burn Everything and Ruin Everyone's Fun, or whatever the flying fack. Funny you should mention them... we had a run in or two with them, remember? 'Wulf Maiden-Hunter'?" That got a few giggles from the younger lasses.

"As long as someone with a fat mouth doesn't spill that information in front of them, we should be okay, don't you think, Tormund?"

"Don't know what Scathe did to get in so good with you," Rebec complained. "I'd just like to remind you that when our backs were against the wall in the Reach, stronghold orcs fought with us. Meanwhile the Clan That Fucks Their Own Sisters tried to kill you and our baby, after we'd already spared their sorry hides once. Now speaking of The Adventures of Baldur and of coin, when you going to write up more of your stories? I like getting those sacks of imp gold."

"Hold on now, I remember what they did for us. I do. Which is why, I will give them a chance. As for Scathe, I killed three more of his sons, in kind. And the other two have sworn loyalty to me. Scathe had no part in it and agreed to let the Islanders have his youngest. It's not the way I'd typically settle things, but I'm typically not a King with a war to win. They also have a lot of men to spare in this clan of theirs. As for my adventures..."

Scooting closer so the help couldn't hear, Tormund said, "Some of the things your man and I got up to, wouldn't exactly be the sort of thing the Imps would take kindly to. All of our adventures weren't in Skyrim after all. Why, there was this one time we got a contract from this Imperial noblewoman and her husband..."

"Aaand that's enough of that," said Baldur, yanking Tormund away in his chair with a loud screech. "Point is, it probably wouldn't sell too well. Then again, maybe it would judging from what I've read myself from this Magdela Bathory. You should really give it a go, Rebec. A lot of it, well... a lot of it reminds me of how you and I met... It's called 'Sons of Skyrim'."

"Hehehe, how did you two meet exactly?" Bully grinned from ear to chubby ear, biting greedily into some of the lemon peppered wings Tormund also brought.

"Not like some imp tart wrote it up, I can assure you," Rebec said, wiping sauce from her mouth with the back of her hand. "I beat Baldur and..." She stopped, thinking better of bringing up Boldir's name. "And one of his men at a drinking contest. This one couldn't take his eyes off me the whole time. It kind of just happened from there."

"I'd never laid eyes on a Nord woman blessed with such a fine rump. And she just 'happened' to find her way to my bed and passed out. When I woke up, she was there. I tried to play it well, play the officer card, you know. Say we shouldn't do this... that backfired of course. So, I improvised and eventually she jumped my bones like a khajiiti graverobber. We never did use that rope, now that I think about it..."

That definitely caught the attention of the barmaids.

"Hey," Rebec spoke up sharply. "They're eating. Anyway, just had a treason charge, a Thalmor army and a dead husband to take care of, and that was that. Romantic, eh? Anyway, why you ask, Bully? You on the prowl yourself, you and Tormund? Oarsinger's got some pretty daughters. They might even let you take two or three per man."

"Believe it or not, I have a wife already. No room for another in my house," said Bully. 

"I've got a gal, but hey, I've got a big heart..." said Tormund with a weasely yellow smile.

"Quit while you're ahead," said Baldur. "Or else it'll be your ribs we're dining on with lemon pepper. I've met your gal. She's fiery. And crazy. You on the other hand, Bully, that's news to me. I had no idea you were married. In fact I always thought you and Mazoga..."

Bully's face went blank. "There's no way in Quagmire you thought that." 

Baldur gave Ragna some rib meat he chewed for her and bit into his own, looking at Bully as he chewed with raised eyebrows.

"He gets strange notions like that," Rebec nodded. "So who've you got for the Trials? Any of the islanders going to stand them?"

Bully spoke between bites of rib. "Right now aside from that man, there's the fucking Jarl of Falkreath... and yea there's been a few Islanders that volunteered. Even one of Scathe's boys. Seems like he's serious about redeeming himself. That boy's a bruiser to be sure. Named Gol. Didn't bother asking his full name. Better not tell your friend what Scathe's lad got up to or he's likely a goner for sure. Maybe. I saw the boy kill two grown men this morning back to back, ripped one of their throats out with his teeth."

Baldur's eyebrow wrinkled at the name. He'd heard it before..

"Fus Gol Strunmah. Brund's shout. Must be a coincidence. Perhaps their clan remembers some of the dragon language. That'll come in handy. I need to gather Skyrim's bards and scribes, scholars. Men that still remember the language. Teach our men. We can use it to pass messages to one another, ones the Thalmor cannot read if intercepted."

"I'm sure the Thalmor could figure that out easy enough," Rebec said. "They obviously were spying on us for years and then with the imperials' help. Might still be, since they knew about Kyne's Watch. I hate to say it, but we're going to need magic help. How are we going to fight those sunbirds if they show up here again? I worry about this place after the army has gone south."

"That's what the dragon's for, love," said Baldur with a smile. "As for the Thalmor, you give them too much credit. I highly doubt the Thalmor have figured out the dragon language when our people barely remember it, most of the world thought they were a myth, same for the Thu'um. And in any case, it'll be safer than using Tamrielic. And, even if they could eventually figure out the language, I don't think they will whilst fending off our invasion forces."

"No way in Kyne's cooter you're leaving a dragon to defend our town," Rebec said, gesturing at him with a half-eaten rib. "More than likely he'd be using our civilians for snack food. At least our daughter and I will be coming with the rest of you south."

"I meant the Sunbirds, woman, the Sunbirds." Baldur shook his head. "I'll have to leave a sizable force at home to protect Skyrim. And not just from the Thalmor... That's why I need as many men and women as I can get, and why I can't simply wipe out an entire clan of able bodied Nords for the sins of one family. No matter how much they fuck their sisters..."

"Mmh, Papapa..." Ragna was full it seemed, her face covered in the Hammerfell sauce and lemon pepper flakes. Baldur cleaned it yet again while she reached up for his neck with weighted eyelids.

As he finished and let her rest her head on his shoulders he said, "Listen Bully, Tormund, it's been fun but we should be off soon, got something I want to show the wife."

Tormund lifted his mug. "You know where I'll be, buddy."

"Same here, my King," said Bully.

Tormund said, "If you're staying here, you're helping me clean this place, then you're going back to whatever hulking creature actually lets you bed her. Besides, don't you have to be with those goons at the Trials?"

"Oh shit, actually I gotta be there now, I'm late. See you lot later!"

"Hey I said you're supposed to help clean! And where's my money for the food?!"

Rebec stood and turned her chair around. "Put ours and yours on our tab, Tor. Bully's on his own. Can't afford to feed that lout." She kissed Ragna's temple, then led the way out of the tavern into the biting sea air. "What's this you've got to show me?"

“You’ll see,” he said with an air of intrigue. “Just as soon as we put the little one to sleep. Mama and Waverunner promised to watch her for us.”

"We should think about getting another babysitter. Your mother's got a lot of responsibilities. I'd say Mila, but..."

Baldur's stomach sank at the name. “Still don’t trust her, do you. I get it. But I tell you, whatever she's like now, whatever she thinks of me, she still wouldn’t hurt a child. Certainly not our child.”

"Not intentionally, maybe. We really don't know her anymore, Baldur. Or Boldir, for that matter."

“Boldir is Boldir, Rebec. You think that if someone stood between me and my daughter and you that I’d do any less? I’d tear down this whole Kingdom just to reach you two. This whole world. Boldir didn’t do anything that anyone that can call themselves a Nord man wouldn’t.”

Ragna started to stir, whimpering and stretching her arms toward her mother.

Rebec took Ragna and settled her against her shoulder. "And this is our daughter we're talking about. I don't trust Mila to be alone with her yet. What with all this talk about daedra and whatnot. Who's to say when Vile might come looking for some other form of payment?"

Baldur didn’t have an answer for that. Clavicus usually honored his contracts and granted wishes sure but you had to be careful how you phrased it, and as a Daedra Lord, nothing was really forcing him to honor his contracts... they were at his mercy.

”I suppose.”

"This is what comes of going to Cyrodiil." They had reached Ysana's house, and she handed a now sleeping Ragna over to her grandmother.

The thought wasn't exactly comforting, especially since Rebec and Ragna both were to stay in Cyrodiil while he was waging war. But there was nothing for it, he knew. Rebec had made up her mind. They both had. And really, nowhere was truly safe so long as the Thalmor were around. So he stayed off the subject and instead chose to relax.

The night was young, auroras just appearing, and the moons were both high above the town, alive with the bustle of men and women all about. Things were much more active now with the war so close. People were enjoying the company of family while they still could, celebrating the men and even some women that survived the trials, and those that did not as they passed to Sovngarde. 

Never did Baldur see such a diverse bunch amongst Nords, and when the Clan that Wants to See the World Burn arrived, it would only be moreso. Nearly every night was dedicated to a god or some ancestor. Tonight, Clan Hex-Blade celebrated the Jarl Jsashe, Priestess of Lorkhan from Whiterun, a woman some thought more a witch than a priestess. She was even called "Witch-Queen". The moons were both out, and it was the perfect night for such an occasion, something no one disputed despite the use of the elven devil's name instead of Shor.

Music was a common thing in the night air. It was what he wanted to see for all of Skyrim. Baldur only wondered if they could keep it up even after the war was done.

Baldur wore a loose ocean blue tunic with dark leather trousers and boots. Something like the clothes he wore in Solitude, except with more gold threading this time around. His mother's idea. For Rebec, she'd found another red dress, this time with a white fur coat with a thick collar. It took some convincing from both of them to get it on her, but the thick skulled Nord women eventually relented when Ysana told her how she sewed all day to get it right for her. In reality Baldur gave her some gold and she simply bought it from some merchants at the docks, resizing it quickly for her. 

It was worth it though, seeing her in it now beneath the moonlight as he led her to their soon to be permanent home, already on its way to becoming reality. Grim Ones guarded the perimeter but were far enough away that it was just them up on that hill. The workers cleared away their marking posts temporarily so that all they could see was the foundation of their home and the wooden beams and frames, the floor lined with countless furs for them to lay upon, a stockpile of wood ready to be lit, candles, a table with baskets containing food, and of course wine and mead. 

"They've been waiting for us. I had them lay this all out just as we left the tavern. Been planning this all day. Been a while since we had some time to ourselves, with Ragna and training. May be the last time we do for some time."

Rebec had been tugging and fussing at the dress all the way up the mountain, wishing she could be back in her armor. But she knew what Baldur was trying to do, and figured out soon where he was going. The builders had kicked her out of her new Whirlwind Sprint practice grounds but wouldn't tell her why. Baldur was pretty obvious when he was up to something, but it was cute so she let it go.

"Oh, you started building already." She did her best to look surprised.

He was too excited to guess she already knew, though her reaction was happier than he expected. He shrugged it off, just thankful she was okay with it.

”I did,” he said smiling proudly. “Turns out there’s still some Colovians that remember their northern cousins. They actually like the sappy drivel I wrote about you. You should’ve seen the Breton contractor’s face when he saw the plans I made. Thought I was preparing an orphanage.”

Rebec's face went a little pale. "Bad comparison, Baldur. Now, remember these slackjaws in the village expect me to have a Kyne shrine in here somewhere. Let's make it so they can come to the shrine without bothering us."

Baldur gently grabbed her hands until she faced him. “I’m sorry, Rebby. That's not what I meant. Anyway, of course I haven’t forgotten about the shrine... Look over there...”

"I know you didn't mean it, but it's just bad luck to say something like that, especially with what we're facing." She squeezed his hands, then released them and walked around to the shrine on the table, looking at it thoughtfully. "Seems like they're about to kill each other. Let's make an alcove outside for it. I don't want strangers in our house, any more than we already get."

“As you wish, Priestess.” He smirked but his smile soon sunk, as he gauged her reaction. “You already knew about all this, didn’t you.”

Rebec came back and took his hand again. "Of course I did. You're pretty obvious when you try to sneak around." With her other hand she scritched his beard, laughing. "All the stuff, bringing me up here, it's very sweet, Baldur. I just wish this was our home, just ours. It doesn't feel that way right now. It's like there are all those things..." She gestured back at the shrine. "Looming over us."

I get it,” he said, his hand on her hips, pulling her close. “Like there’s strings attached.” He looked to the wood and candles, whispering his word of power, causing them to erupt with life. “You ever heard the story of how dragons came to be, love? Would you like me to tell it to you?” A smirk went over his face as his hands started to rock her body with his as they stood in place. 

"You obviously want to," she said with a smirk.

His excited expression gave the truth of that away, pulling her closer until her head was at his chest. 

"Space and time, time and space, concepts born without face, unseen things blowing in wind, things like love, things like sin, 

These concepts they intertwine, like trees choking from the vines, changing, shifting without spine, they are Divine, they are Divine.

First was Space, then was Place, one after another Space gave chase, Lorkhan! Shifting without spine! The first wyrm, seeking Kyne.

Kyne is Place, Kyne is Context, Kyne is creation made complex, she's the reason for the gills, and so she saw that Space was filled.

The concepts existed within another, and after their marriage came his brother, Aka spirit, so sublime, the god of Beginning and End, Time.

He brought ruin to their creation, end upon end to endless nations. This fate fell upon them as well, forms made fragile, born of shell,

Space clung to creation, tightened its coils, slithered around in the soil, Kyne embraced things that soon died. Ruled Earth and Sea, watched from the Sky.

Kyne became Hawk, Lorkhan a Snake, he consumed, ate, hid what they'd make, even her children for goodness sake! He would not stop til Time did break!

The snake consumed one child whole, still in the egg that the Snake stole, the shell did shatter as the child broke free, pecking scratching within he...

Its wings sprouted straight through its skin, and the Snake failed to hide his sin, talons scraping, sprouting out, calling for Mother with a Shout!

It was Dragon. It was Drake. For it, Time bent though did not break, and though he succeeded that day, the Snake had died there anyway,

Time looked at this thing that he'd born, and from it did his shape take form, and though this thing was claimed by Time, it was born of the goddess Kyne. 

Some men thank Aka as they die. Nords watch this and wonder why. It's with her Voice that these beasts cry... remember all, Kyne rules the Sky.

And though a man may build a house, his home is then filled by the spouse... decoration, children too, she makes it theirs, Home through and through."

Rebec listened intently, sometimes with furrowed brow, but mostly enjoying the sound of her husband's voice. As he finished, she touched his cheek. "You're quite the wordsmith, my bard. I'm still not going to like your dragon, though."

“I don’t much care for Nahfahlaan either. He’s a giant asshole. Anyway, I’m glad you think so, woman, because I’m just getting started tonight. Here, sit by the fire. Relax.”

Baldur picked her up, then sat her down by the table to eat and drink while he produced cloth and a bucket. He removed her boots and washed her feet and legs for no other reason than the sensation of it. He couldn’t help but kiss them from time to time, and he loved teasing her and tickling them with his beard. For a while he just laid his head in her lap, enjoying her warmth, her smell for as long as she’d humor him.

Rebec stroked his hair as they sat, recalling the nights she had waited uncertain for him to come home, while Brund hunted him. Now the fate of the whole country rested on this man's shoulders. She thought with some regret about her sharp words and criticism. All he had done had been for her and their baby, and so far it had worked out well enough, though she still had a troubled conscience about Ulfric and Veleda. It made it difficult to enjoy the prospect of their home and future, knowing so many wouldn't get one. Carlotta and Boldir had dreamed, too.

"You think maybe Carlotta will get to go to Sovngarde?"

Baldur looked up sharply, hesitating a moment. The question had obviously caught him off guard. It was one he considered mostly when his thoughts and worries fell upon Daric. “I honestly don’t know, Rebec. Our gods... they can be real assholes themselves. I guess some of us are no different.” He sat up, looking into her eyes. “Rebec. I’m sorry, love. For the things I’ve done. The things I’ll do. I know when you married me you thought you’d be wedding a good man. I thought the same thing at the time.”

"You are a good man, Baldur. Pretty good for a Nord, anyway." She grinned. "It's war, it's not a party. I hope all we're doing means Ragna will have a better chance."

“It will. Mila too. And... and Daric. I won’t stop until I’m sure of it,” he said. He smiled as genuinely as he could, for his sake as much as hers. He got off his knees and sat beside her, hand under her chin as his thumb traced her cheek and lips.

“Whatever happens, it happens for all of us. We face it as a family. Now enough of that, okay? We’ve got so much time to worry about what could be or what will happen. We’re still here, and we have a beautiful fat healthy child between us that looks just like her mother. That’s a miracle already. Let’s remember that tonight. Or at least have a roll in the furs with me later. This shit’s expensive you know.”

He was grinning but his kiss and his hands at her leg said something different.

"Don't remind me," she said, laughing, and returning his kiss. After letting it linger a bit, she stood and got some tankards of mead for both of them. "This is going to cost more than two ships. Maybe three by the time we're done. Arle said I was to remember to re-plant the trees we take for this house. I think we should consider an outer fence, too, so long as we can still see the sea from our room upstairs. We have to think about defense."

Baldur quickly downed his tankard and went to refilling another. He learned that he had to drink fast around Rebec or there wouldn’t be any mead left to drink. “Oh yea, this sounds expensive alright... I’m not sure my commission from the books will cover all of this, especially after the war starts. Guess I’ll have to do some plundering of my own.”

"You're not alone in it, Baldur. The shipping business has been making good coin. I've been putting a lot of it back into the business and the Black Wisp, but I can afford to start taking some for myself."

"Heh, of course love."

Baldur smiled to himself, taking another big swig of his juniper berry mead. The stuff wasn't easy to make... turns out Juniper could be rather tart and bitter, like ale. Three, maybe four berries per bottle, that's all you needed. The sweet taste of fermented honey with a handsome splash of Juniper. Still one of his favorites to this day, especially since it was his.

He wondered why he'd thought of that now all of a sudden, and realized it was because these were one of the small details that would make their home theirs. The Juniper, he brought thanks to his wife asking on his way back from Ivarstead. But the honey, she brought in from her trading company. She was the sweet, he was the bitter. 

The statue too. A hawk locked in eternal battle with a snake. The kind of romantic gesture only Nords could understand, even if Rebec hadn't at the time. The very day they were married, the two had sparred. Sometimes their lovemaking felt the same, especially the first night.

He was a king now, but he wouldn't always be. Kyne had a husband, and a Priestess of Kyne would need her priest of Shor by her side. That was the point of the altar he'd had made for her. The whole deal with the story telling and rites, it was more in his repertoire anyway, and he knew his wife wouldn't grow into any skin other than the one she was born with. She was the Hawk after all. 

He left her then as his eyes began to water, thinking that none of it would matter in the end, if they didn't all return from this war, together. He would make sure they did, somehow. Ragna needed her father, and especially her mother. The pain he saw in Boldir's eyes... raising Mila alone... there was no fate he feared more than that of his brother. 

As he came back, he said, "My father used to play the lute alone, when he didn't think I was around to hear. Mama told me my grandfather used to play too. Her papa, Olwep the Unkempt, a yellow haired Nord like me. This was his lute. He used to be a handsome devil until his wife passed. The name before then was ironic. Olwep's clan was an old clan, old enough to have grudges unremembered with the Reds and any other clan with Red in it, for they were surely descended from Rebec and her many husbands and her husband's Red kin. He was so happy that Ysana wedded a single man instead of all of Markarth in the Dibellan way that he ignored my father's clan name and taught him to play. I didn't learn from Ulrin, learned some on my own. Some islanders gave me a refresher for this very night. I want to play for you here, so that when I'm away from your embrace in this war knee deep in blood, I can play a tune and summon your memory to it at my lonely campfire."

Rebec lifted a brow in surprise at his lute playing. That hadn't been in the bard repertoire yet. Taking a seat across from him as delicately as she could manage in the dress, she gestured with her tankard. "Go on then. Let's hear Olwep's lute play a tune."

"Now, don't expect anything too grand, I can't work this thing like Eilif's boys. It's been years since my merc and soldier kit allowed enough for one of these." With that said, Baldur went to work. He played some practice tunes first, simple melodies really meant only to open him for singing, or in between his song's pauses. Singing and playing at the same time was always a challenge for him, especially without mead in him. Luckily tonight there was.

He warmed up first with a song the islanders taught him, a Ballad of Ice and Fire they called it. He messed up a few times at first until he got his bearings, closing his eyes, occasionally looking to Rebec for emotion in the notes as he improvised and made the song his own. He smirked in embarrassment and closed his eyes as he continued to play.

Once the song was over, he downed the rest of his tankard to clear his throat, wiping the hair from his face as he cracked his fingers and played another, much simpler tune with only three or four notes at a time. 

"They say Sheogorath was the first to invent music, which is why a man can seemingly invent a song out of thin air. Such creativity manipulated by the mad daedroth's hand himself, and a man's soul as the pipes and string. Sometimes I think they're right, love, because I made this song thinking about you. And love is truly a madness."

With that, he began to sing, slowly. Every pause was greeted with added complexity to the notes of the lute before they fell back to the simple four note melody, occasionally adding two or three more before a transition.

"I saw you walking... right past my way... on such a rainy... gray dreary day... Walkin to that empty abode, I saw you walkin alone...

(pause) 

I started waggin, right at your heel, followin behind the captain right at the wheel... I got nothin to lose... I'm like a dog without a bone.... alone....

(speeding up)

I know you think I'm a fool, a right buffoon... I'll have you know that when it's over you'll be clear of the moons, I'll have ya head in the clouds... but for now why don't you just let me stay?

Let me in and you'll see, I'll have you rollin at sea, and every day I'll have us playin with the birds and the bees, ahhhhh, there's no other way, you gotta let me stay, today....okay?

I'll leave my mark like a rune, and then I'll sing you a tune, I'll cause such a buzz like dry winds on them Hammerfell dunes, ooooh, you know it's true, because I already do, and I do it every night and I do it just for you! 

Let me stay for a while, we'll fly to Shivering Isles, then I'll make you wear a smile and we'll arrive there in style! I'll have you mad, but don't be mad, it's just the language of entanglement see? Stay with me.... 

I'll leave you feelin so smug, with mornin mead in ya mug, let you sleep through the noon, girl I'll give you every boon, I'll have you feelin like a rich girl with her favorite silver spoon... Girl just let me in and let me play, I need to be with you real soon...

I'll eat you up so viciously, or even surreptitiously, you got me makin existential proclamations whimsically... Girl can't you see by my pretentious nonsensical preposterous word play, I need you todaaaaaay...

Let me in your canopy, we'll have it rockin like the sea and then you'll see I cannot be without your sweet sweet love, today....

(pause) (slow down)

I'll have you over the moons... your head in the clouds... but first I'll make sure the baby's safe, slumberin, sound... you're safe for now, but I'll be at your tumblers promptly.... yea you'll see... now it's just you and me, rollin slow over the sea... today..."

Rebec had been wearing a silly proud grin throughout most of his performance, but she had to make a few quick brushes across her eyes as he sung about her, embarrassed at her show of emotion. Finally she clapped with delight. "Doesn't that beat all. Sure better than the swill they're listening to in the tavern tonight."

Standing up, she put her mead aside and approached, leaning over him and the lute. "Thank you for all that, my bard. I don't deserve it." Then she kissed him, one hand going to the back of his head and the other balanced on his chest.

He was expecting some reaction but he'd be lying if he said he thought he'd see tears fall from her eyes. Rebec was not the emotional type. He silently thank Sheogorath for his gift. It was the only way he could truly convey the emotions this woman invoked in him.

Though with her tongue prodding his mouth with such purpose and her legs slowly climbing over him as well, she was beginning to invoke something else in him entirely. In between kisses as he helped hoist her up over him, he said, "I... was going to talk to you about... this orc business... The men will expect me to leave with them but... I don't... think I'll... Oooh..."

The dress had to go all the way up or else rip, so it went all the way up, over her head and to the floor. Underneath were some black lace frills Ysana had pushed on her. Rebec smiled and shook her hair which had fallen in the way. "You're the king. They'll manage." Then she went back to kissing, not wanting to talk about orcs or kingly business any longer.

"By the gods," he said, trembling as he felt the full weight of this soft half naked Nord all over him. They fought to remove his trousers and for a moment he thought they'd be doing it right there on the table, but thought better of it, half running, half shuffling towards the furs upon their home's foundations with his good pants at his ankles. He practically tripped and fell inside her, but they managed to make it to their destination safely. 

Rebec then lost herself in him for how long she couldn't say, aware only dimly of the distant sounds of the town and beyond that the constant roll of the sea.

After, as she lay entwined with Baldur's limbs and aching in her own, she became aware of sounds a little closer. Rebec lifted her head and reached silently for her axe, listening. Then she heard a twig break and a whispered voice saying "Quiet, fool." Another voice whispered, "I can't see anything."

Rebec relaxed back and hollered, "You lot go back to your posts or I'll have your balls for our breakfast!" There was scuffling and muffled swearing as the Stormcloaks who had been creeping up for a peek at the action fell over themselves to obey.

“That’s some phrasing,” said Baldur, who was too relaxed to care if some of the men were acting like children. He untangled himself and laid beside her, enjoying the cool night air against his skin and the thin layer of sweat over it. 

"Thank you for all this. It's been a long time since we laid out under the stars, with no baby to mind."

He almost started to say it would likely be the last time in a long time that they'd get the chance but luckily stopped himself. Instead, he smiled and let himself commit the moment to memory. In case the day did come that he'd have to be content with memory alone.

"Thank you for not laughing those early days we spent together when I first started singing for you. It's not easy, putting such weakness into song."

"It's not weakness, it's your talent. And I've gotten used to it being about me, strange as it still is."

Baldur didn't combat her this time, only grinned to himself. She didn't need to understand everything about him. He certainly didn't understand everything about her even though he often liked to pretend he did. He saw now that it was perfectly fine that they didn't. Maybe if he'd been as close to another woman, like Brunhilde, had they had the time, certain things would've come along quicker. But, it had been fun discovering these things with her the hard way anyway.

As his eyes started to grow heavy, he said, "I ever showed you the collection of flags the Bretons gave us? From the pirates that plagued their seas? I think those would look mighty fine around the house, maybe atop the fence around the perimeter."

In the midst of a yawn, Rebec said, "We can build a trophy room."

"Aye," he said, simply, with sleep catching up to him. "I think I'm starting to like these Bretons. Pass the furs. And don't let me sleep too late, I'm supposed to meet with Arle early tomorrow."

"Meet with her why?" Rebec asked, suddenly awake and suspicious.

Baldur cracked an eye open and said, "There's no way you're jealous of Arle. She's fun to talk to, sure. Not as meatheaded as your typical Nord, but she's too tall for me. And not enough rump." Baldur highlighted the point by sitting up and spinning her to her stomach for a feel. He ran his fingers over her, parting her a bit whilst smiling before pulling the furs over them both with Baldur at her back. "It's just thu'um practice."

"Humph." Rebec didn't sound convinced, and wanted to address the fact that he'd been comparing rumps, but was too sleepy and happy for it. She curled up, pulling the furs in, and didn't fight sleep.

As it turned out, Baldur didn't need Rebec to wake him. Ysana did that herself once the next day had encroached upon noon, with both Red-Snows still lounging around in the furs like bears in hibernation. She smacked both of them in the head until they were awake, placed the baby in Rebec's hands, and that was that.

Baldur wandered his way over to Eilif's camp with Baldurbrau in hand so he wouldn't get an earful from his wife about his tardiness. He'd promised he would be on time and wouldn't be messing with Grim Trial foolishness, and he was about five hours late for their 'training'.

***

Arle Eivarsdottir was in the common area in Eilif's circle of tents, bent over a table full of pots, ingredients and an old alembic. Eilif's second wife, a younger dark-haired woman, stirred a foul-smelling kettle and occasionally dropped more herbs into it. Both women looked up as Baldur approached.

Arle pointed up at the sun. "This is what you call early?"

The dark haired woman said, "And drunk, too. Can a person shout when slurring his words?" She had no sooner gotten the last bit out when she was silenced by a hard smack across the ear. Arle appeared ready to deliver another, but the woman scrambled out of the way.

"This is the king, you idiot! Get to your washing before I give you something to shout about."

With a mumbled apology and holding her rapidly reddening ear, the woman scurried off towards her tent.

Arle watched her go, then turned back to Baldur and wiped her hands on a towel. "Now then. What is it you needed from me?"

The King in question was taken aback, almost not hearing her at all. “Uh, right, why I’m here. Training, remember? I need a test subject for my second shout and you still need help drawing out your first word.”

"We should go away from the village." Arle craned her neck around, then called a slave over to mind her alchemy pot as she led the way out of town. "You wished me to practice with you, not Eilif?" she said as they walked.

“Of course, you are a fellow tongue after all,” he said. Stuhnir happened along their path as well, kicking up snow in little puffs behind the two, rubbing at Baldur’s leg until he noticed and picked him up.

”Besides, you’re rather insightful. Open minded. You should be more susceptible to my thu’um.”

"Explain."

"Right."

Baldur found a spot in the snow out of the way of passers by, though those that recognized who he was made a point to gawk at the king, playing in snow with a fox at his side.

In reality he was demonstrating to Arle just how his thu'um worked. And he did this by drawing two sets of circles. The first set had two circles side by side but not touching, with enough space between them that Baldur could've drawn another.

The second set were overlapping.

"Look at these overlapping circles here. Lets say the left one is me, and the right one is you. These different circles are called paradigms. My paradigm is different from yours. It includes my culture, how I was raised, my biases, etc. In a debate, normally one has to rely on the other's willingness to step over into their paradigm for the other to be convinced of their point. Kinda like how I'm relying on your willingness to bear with me right now in this demonstration. You and I are naturally open minded, and so when we communicate, there's always an overlapping space, like so."

Baldur then pointed upwards to the second set of circles. "This is what most people's paradigms look like. Most people, especially Nords, are not willing to step into another's paradigm, to see things from their point of view. But the creator of this thu'um did not have this issue." Baldur drew a line between the two circles, connecting them like a bridge. 

"When I use this shout, it connects my paradigm to that of another. Suddenly, you can understand what I am saying, even though it is not in our tongue, while under the effects of the shout. By linking my understanding to yours via this shout, it forces you to relate things to my words in the dragon tongue. A side effect of this though is that the person on the other end is susceptible to suggestion. Something like a hypnosis. Actually, it may not have even been a side effect, it very well could've been the original purpose..."

Arle stood with arms crossed across her chest. She looked from one set of circles to the other. "It allows one to understand the dragon tongue?'

"Pretty much, yes," said Baldur as he kicked snow over his simple drawings. "And if I can master the thu'um, one day I can use it to even teach the thu'um much quicker than it would normally take. For instance, I was able to learn this particular thu'um in almost a month's time, more or less, thanks to the Greybeard that used it on me. He was also able to keep me from speaking in Tamrielic completely with this shout, for a time."

"But in order to do this, the person hearing it is under your power. Mind control?"

"More like powerful suggestion. And only if you're a Nord or Dragon and open minded, or weak willed... For now," said Baldur with a wink. 

"It's funny, I never would've associated being open minded with being 'weak willed' but when you compare myself to someone like Rebec, or say, Eilif, you probably couldn't convince either of them that rocks were hard unless they came upon that conclusion on their own. In any case, it's only more likely to let me convince you to do something if you happen to have a certain personality or disposition. Highly situational. So, I have to ask you for your consent to be my test subject. I have another student, a Jarl in fact, but he's busy with the Trials, so he will be my control group."

"Open minded I may be, but I will not consent. Not without getting something in return." Arle paused, then went on, "My kin may be here for gold or fame, but I encouraged this mission for one reason. There is a change in the world. Dragons have returned and with them will come the dragon cult, in one form or another. So we must have Kyne's weapon to fight them. After the war I would you would teach my children the thu'um, both girls and boys. I won't demand it be only them, if there's another who shows promise, but start with them. Agreed?"

“Heh, everyone always wants something,” said Baldur, biting his lip. “Assuming I live, I was planning a Skyrim-wide effort to recovering and securing the dragon walls for study. If I’m to teach your clan first, then I’ll need your people’s help to get this endeavor started. If I die in this war, I’ll have a copy of Ulfric’s teachings and mine given to your clan. The others stay with my wife and child.”

"It's not a small thing you ask, after all. You lived up to your promise regarding the sacrifice you promised us, so I take your word. We are agreed. If there is battle glory in the learning, all the better. Now, what must I do?"

“Great!” said Baldur as he rubbed his hands together. “Let’s say we meet for an hour each day. I’ll say something with my thu’um and utter your word of power in a sentence until it’s meaning resonates with you. You must not say anything else but your word, and only with meaning. Then you'll go with Rebec and continue your normal training under her. I’ll compare your progress to Fenrald’s and see if I’m getting anywhere. And... I’d also like to practice commanding with my Voice. See if I can make its effects stronger... on you."

"Commanding what?"

“Commanding you.”

"To do what?"

Baldur scratched his head. “I dunno, whatever comes to mind. Imagine for instance if I could shout a command to the front lines across a large swathe of the battlefield. Hold the line, feint a rout, or command a group of routers not to retreat? I can’t make a man kill themselves but I can convince the willing to do what they already want... which doesn’t sound useful now until you think about how men hesitate on the battlefield. Or, how men under torture wish so desperately to give in.”

"So you either think I'm weak willed, or you intend to torture me." Arle's eyes twinkled. "I think we had better get on with it. If it truly does not compel the unwilling, I'm not worried about it. I am not of weak mind or will."

Baldur laughed nervously. “Hah, well the idea is to bypass that. Find ways to trick the mind so that I can command you. For instance, if I wanted you to scratch your nose.”

Baldur spoke the words, then gave the command to scratch her nose. Nothing happened of course. “But if there was already an itch, something I could exploit... bear with me.”

He then produced a feather he’d been keeping in his hair from Holgeir, tickling her nostril and backing away before she tried to swing or something. “Now let’s try again. Tinvaak, Onikaan....Uth!” Once under his influence he waited to see that she was resisting him, then gave the command, to scratch. 

Arle felt a powerful urge to scratch her nose, but her hands remained on her hips. She wriggled her nose instead, then grinned at him. "Are you sure this shout is best used on Nords? It might be useful for controlling slaves, though." Pausing, she went on thoughtfully, "I think you should try it on me when I'm not aware of what it is you want me to do."

Baldur looked like he was about to pout. Thinking back on it, every time he was successful, the person he was using it on was completely unaware of what was even going on. That would mean two things. 

One, using it on Arle now would be especially difficult, and two, it likely would not work twice on the same person, if it worked at all...

If Paarthurnax did intend to use this shout specifically for persuasion, it was definitely meant to be a more insidious affair. Either that or Baldur simply hadn’t mastered it yet.

Shrugging, he said, “I guess you’re right. It’s not really a brute force shout. I gotta be more subtle. See? I’m learning already.”

"You have dwelt on fire. It may take some practice to do something more subtle. Now, let's see if you can assist me with Fus."

Arle turned her back towards the sea to begin her practice. As she did so, she reached up to brush back her hair- but first scratched her nose surreptitiously.

[The Good Doctor]

Endar and Theudofrid
Skyrim

Skyrim Dawn Expedition Travel Log 1 - Old Hroldan
 

Rarely in my centuries of maturity have I desired sleep. When one is so preoccupied with their work as I, they tend to find methods of ridding themselves of that useless mortal burden so as to prevent a single moment from being wasted on such vulnerable idleness. I have many pages of documentation on my own successful endeavor to shed myself of the need, and have long maintained that the quasi-dormancy of slumber is without a doubt the state of being that I detest most.

And yet, even as I write, I find myself drawn to it. That very old, yet surprisingly familiar feeling of 'weariness' encroaches on my mind despite my best efforts. It is the Lexicon. It speaks to me constantly, feeding me visions and knowledge even when sealed and cut off from this realm. Curiously, this penetration of my mind has -for the most part- been subtle and easily ignored. Whilst traveling, I daresay that there are times I scarcely even notice, and others when it is forgotten entirely. But during moments such as this, when I sit idle and am surrounded by the quiet I once found blissful, the voice of the Dwarves grows louder. It sounds very much like my own.
 

Word generally traveled more slowly in Skyrim than Cyrodiil. It was the one unfortunate downside of not having to put up with annoying criers from the Black Horse Courier on every street corner. So it came as little surprise to Endar when he found out that Skyrim's new High King had been in power since before he had even learned a moot was being called.

What did come as a surprise was the revelation that the alleged Tongue, Brund Hammer-Fang, did not only lose the vote, but fell in single combat to the ultimate victor, Baldur Red-Snow. The same man who'd been proclaimed "Ash King" after supposedly driving back a Dominion sunbird. The tales he heard varied from tavern to tavern, with some stating that Red-Snow cut out Hammer-Fang's heart with an axe, and others that he ripped it out with his bare hands. The wilder ones declared that he used his thu'um to bring an avalanche down on the Markarth Jarl's head, and the grandest of all swore by all the gods that he summoned a great red dragon to do it for him.

Whatever the truth, it was clear that Endar would not find a High King in the Reach. In Rorikstead, he learned that Jarl Baldur was to be the leader of the human alliance against the Dominion. In Whiterun, he learned that the king's brother was a traitorous whoreson. Some ruffians at Fellglow Keep told him that they were actually friends with said brother and that the accusations about his mother were slanderous lies. And at the Valtheim Towers, Endar was informed by a Boethian devotee that Baldur did not even reside in Windhelm, but instead remained with his wife in the fledgling city of Kyne's Watch. Naturally, Endar disregarded the bandit rumor as quickly as he had all the rest. He would verify it for himself.

Sure enough, Windhelm proved devoid of kings. A Stormcloak commander named Ysarald Thrice-Pierced kept things in order, while a fellow named Torsten Cruel-Sea called the shots. From them, Endar gleaned that Baldur Red-Snow was indeed in Kyne's Watch and probably would be for some time. Upon being briefed on the importance of his mission, they granted Endar space aboard one of their transport ships that was bound for the same destination.

Throughout all of Endar's travels, Illorwe followed him like a shadow. The Psijic Monk had attempted more than once to inquire on that nature of his findings, which he had deflected as always. If she followed him long enough, she would learn the part that his human contractors were interested in. After that, Endar hoped she would leave him be. In the meantime, he would continue to hide the full effects of his interaction with the Dwarven cube.

Naturally, it was on their first morning at sea, when Endar had little to do but wait, that the monk decided to make her latest probe. He was sitting on someone's cot belowdeck, turning the lexicon in his hand, studying its contents and drawing some of them out in his journal when Illorwe approached and took a seat across from him. He would have been content to ignore her presence, but that became considerably more difficult when she spoke. "I have watched you stare into that thing every night since you found it, and I still don’t have the slightest inkling what it contains."

Endar closed the cube. "Perhaps because this is not your task. Follow me long enough, and you’ll find your answers. But I will not give them to you."

"I'm more worried about you," said the monk. "Whatever is in there has you so absorbed that you haven’t even gone above deck."

"Should I?" He looked up. The Altmer had clad herself in the warmer fur-lined garb of the Nords. "If there is some secret knowledge you wish for me to obtain by staring at waves and icebergs, just say so."

"I know of no such knowledge, but perhaps the Roscrean Archdruid who stands at the bow does."

"Roscrean?" Endar snorted. "Whatever business some backwater holy man has in Skyrim is no concern of mine. No more than his knowledge of tree-growing and horker-gutting. Why even bring this up?"

"Because I have watched him, and listened to the words he preaches. There is more wisdom and power in the druid than you might believe. And he is court wizard to the High King."

Endar raised a brow at that, more because he was surprised than impressed. After all, there had been times in Skyrim's long history when the title had been held by men who could hardly use magic to light a campfire. But if this Red-Snow person was half as clever as his fawning countryside made him out to be, then he would not surround himself with incompetent advisors. Apparently even if that meant recruiting from foreign lands.
"I am sure the man has an astoundingly interesting story to tell," said Endar before directing his attention back to the lexicon and his sketches. "But I have more important things to do than listen to it."

***
 

Theudofrid
 

There was no shortage of regret with the Archdruid when he once held High King Baldur's response, suddenly he reflected, would have been wiser to word his message differently. That was neither here nor there at this point, of the predictions spoken in the Tablet Steps, Theudofrid had chosen wisely by aiding the Red-Snows. An uncertainty had passed, he walked the correct path of the countless spoken of.

Others had remained however, from the moment of Jarl Baldur's crowning, Theudofrid experienced personal ill omens. His request for the long since finished fleet, that was omitted from his message to Baldur, to make landfall in Skyrim was given authority to land. So too was he, in his courtly duties to the High King, summoned to Kyne's Watch.

Theudofrid's original intention was to take towards the wilderness, to enjoy the strange rural beauty of Skyrim in his journey to the city. It wasn't to be as just a day prior, he took off from Windhelm and walked adjacent to it's frigid river. Only in good spirits to momentarily glance at his reflection in the water, inexplicably the layer of ice had cracked and distorted his reflection somewhat. Like a paralyzing spell it halted him, perhaps to an average passerby they'd mark it down as circumstantial and think nothing of it.

To Theudofrid, who was all too familiar with recognizing and even bringing about the ill omens, seeing a shattered reflection is a warning of impending death. It was by the grace of the gods themselves that he was warned, to what awaited him in some dark place were there was no help to be had, he didn't know. Only that the path he walked, led to his end, somehow, some way. Yet as the future could never be fully predicted, Theudofrid took not one step on his given path, turning heel and setting back towards Windhelm.

Once again he felt it nigh confirmed when another path showed itself, much more mundane was gaining passage by means of vessel. There still remained signs here and there of ill events in his future but nothing so terrible as before.

Throughout the first day at sea he spent the time acquainting himself with most of the passengers, there were some most particular folks sharing the trip with. It was here for the second time he witnessed Elves, first being that ornery Bosmer with the younger Red-Snow. The gray-skinned one in the ragged robes acted as a recluse, while the other spent its, her?, time using magic among the crewmen to deal with a minor outbreak of rockjoint. He'd have to help as well, can't have an Elf aiding man more then he.

Theudofrid's spirits were considerably raised when some of the Nordic passengers took a liking when he relieved himself a religious wise man, they wished to hear him preach of the gods and their teachings. Unfortunately while he began speaking of his patron god Jhunal, the Nords quickly wished to hear about Shor and Kyne above all. This was all too familiar with the Druids around Skyrim, it was always about Shor or Kyne, sometimes Shor's Shield-Thanes, but only a few odd ones ever took any interest in the Hermetic God whatsoever. He had to find excuse to end his preaching when they asked Theudofrid to speak of mighty Talos.

He felt it all too futile at times and wasn't in any shape of right mind to communicate with his colleagues, it took the better part of the day for Theudofrid to relax himself from his frustration with the Nords, not just these with him now but all of them. When he had finally finished fuming about it all the sun and long since set, it would have been rather rude to awaken a fellow Archdruid at this time. Of the seven alive the youngest was nearly fifty eight, he'd put it off until morning, retiring himself below deck for the night.

It was then prior to breaking his nightly fast Theudofrid set about to communicate through the clever craft with the most senior Archdruid, Galchobhar fab Myrthway Of-The-Two-Hills. Who himself was very closely observing the passing events in the east, whom Theudofrid hadn't spoken to for some months now. He was relieved to hear the echoing words of Galchobhar in his mind.

"Hallowed Ingolfsson, bring good words for I have little well to say here." Said Galchobhar.

"Hail Archdruid Myrthway Of-The-Two-Hills, by all the gods I bear good news then. Our gambit's born fruit, Jarl Red-Snow is hailed as Skyrim's High King. The ten thousand promised have been granted, by Red-Snow's authority permission to land. At the northwestern coast of Skyrim, landfall has only been granted at Kyne's Watch. I myself have been summoned by Red-Snow, it is rather likely he will order me to accompany him should he march south." Galchobhar was silent throughout it, if Theudofrid was there he'd have seen Galchobhar hesitate, in his mind however the pause was less noticeable.

"Theudofrid, we've entered a possibility the Tablet Steps has no future for." That shocked Theudofrid into a silence of his own, trying his upmost to hear Galchobhar as clearly as possible. The fickleness of predicting the future sometimes, rarely brought about situations where Jhunal made no such predictions.

"Berahthram will be, when he makes his intentions clear to the High Chieftains, betrayed be a vassal. Nowhere in the Tablet Steps has this been laid out, I've ascribed all that I could. We've only learned it from the messenger who attempted to leave Roscrea, it was a message to the Cyrodiilic Emperor. They had taken their own life and caught the writ aflame, we restored what we could, of his vassals one intended to seek alliance with the Imperials." Galchobhar spoke it slowly and clearly.

"Is there no way to bring this subtly to Berahthram, we've done so before?" Said Theudofrid.

"We cannot take such a risk, it's plunging a dagger in pitch black. We're as likely to stab a friend. Something influenced this vassal in a subtle way we would have to Berahthram, it was never meant to happen in any future foreseen by Jhunal."

"So we're to watch and see how it all ends? Unless events bring themselves back under what Jhunal predicts this will end poorly... eh, Magalos, I believe it's time he and his Neitos joins the war-to-come." 

"The war to come... that Imperial Prelate has fulfilled his purpose, Berahthram began raising his army under the context of deterring this Prelate from invading, the Chieftains ignored him and the Neitos didn't bat an eye. I'll have to kill him now."

"Are we utterly certain it can be done?" Asked Theudofrid, it wasn't that he doubted his friend, more that the Imperials without proof would have to blame someone.

"I need only do it, everything's been prepared. I'll come to him when he awakes and snuff the life from him, they'll find him in a state of terrible seizures. The fool could have lived, I truly wished he would have listened, it would have saved us the uncertainty."

Galchobhar and Theudofrid went on to discuss the doings of Roscrea, for a while. Galchobhar would send writ to Magalos and give him his blessings prior to departing as was Theudofrid told, bidding each other farewell Theudofrid felt unwell. Deciding he'd much rather ponder with the smell of the sea in his nose, leaving for the bow, the dead hand of Jhunal has always protected the Druids, he would find his faith in the dead hand soon enough.

***

Skyrim Dawn Expedition Travel Log 22 - The Sea of Ghosts

It appears that my time at sea, surrounded by fog and with no company but that of Nords and an overly-curious elf, may have caused a resurfacing of my previous symptoms. I am brewing an elixir to relieve the weariness, but nothing I have done thus far has had an effect on the Lexicon's impact on my psyche. I am not so weak of will that I cannot hide the effects from those around me, but even now the cube raises its voice. There is so much to do. More than could be accomplished in even the oldest mer's lifetime. The Dwemer understood this better than anybody.

Why do I care about these sunbirds? They and their masters are nothing. And yet both must fall. I will not abide competition from the likes of them.

"Who is Elara?"

Endar's eyes snapped open at the sound of Illorwe's voice. Was I dosing? He internally scolded himself while meeting the Altmer's eyes. "An unimportant acquaintance, recently dead. Why do you ask?"

"You said her name, just now." Her look dared Endar to deny it. "Strange that you mumble the names of unimportant acquaintances in your sleep."

"Such meaningless and involuntary happenings are precisely why I choose not to sleep." With that, Endar went to his makeshift lab and downed his finished elixir straight from the retort. Immediately, his wits returned to him in full. "Why are you watching me?"

"I wasn't watching you. I came to let you know that the crew heard the roar of a dragon to the west."

"This is Skyrim. They have dragons. What of it?"

"Those bandits we met claimed that Red-Snow has a dragon. We cannot see far in this fog, but if it is his beast that we hear, it could mean we are getting close."

"It could mean a great many things. It could be that the High King's beast has traveled far from its master, or that this is another dragon entirely, or no dragon at all. Have you ever heard the mating call of a snow whale, monk?"

"No."

"Nor have I. In fact, I am quite unsure if anyone has, but if such a call even exists it could very well sound similar to what you think a dragon could sound like."

Illorwe started to answer, but before she could get a word out, one of the sailers shouted from above, "Signal fire ahead, lads! We're getting close!"

Endar waved away the Psijic's smug expression and started gathering his belongings into his pack. "Have you enjoyed your time with your druid friend?"

"We haven't spoken. I get the impression he is not fond of elves."

"In that case, he's sure to be perfectly suited for his role." Endar squeezed past her and headed topside. Sure enough, there was a very distant orange glow that pierced the fog up ahead.

Illorwe appeared beside him. "Will this be your first time speaking to a king of Skyrim?"

"Yes," Endar said, then he remembered the Winterhold incident back in the early 100s. And of course, there was that Nordic wizard who married the Empress. "Wait, no. Why?"

"If you want something from him, you're probably going to need to work on what you plan to say."

"Of all the things that require planning, 'what I say' seems like one of the greater wastes of time. If this king has any sense at all, he will recognize the importance of my work and the benefits it will bring him. No intelligent man in his position would deny me the help I need."
Endar looked at the far away light again, and thought of the late necromancer, Rythe. "And if he does, I'll just take it."

[TheCzarsHussar]

Isle of Brthynocia, Roscrean Coast.
Prelate's quarters.

It was quickly heating up in the Roscrean sphere for Augustus, he had been here for a year having a standoff with that monster Farrukhzad, for the past couple of months the reclusive natives in the wetlands sharing the isle had started raiding and to make matters worse armies were being raised on the island proper. The Eastern Empire Company had dug it's heels in and ignored the Roscreans demands to depart the waters, they had made a much needed garrison but had also angered the islanders.

For everything he had done in Dales benevolence to the ruddy skinned inhabitants, to break their oppression from the Roscreans, things diverged outside his favor. The monstrous Eastern Roscrean made his blood boil yet as an Imperial bearing the word of Dales he withheld his hands, the wetlander folk was being a serious nuisance pilfering and retreating back into their territory, they apparently aren't tied to the Roscreans politically and in theory could be invaded had Clodovicus advised otherwise. Augustus despite being struck at hadn't provoked Roscrea at large, he avoided war when another was so close to coming in full.

Recently the forces that be decided to ruin the peace he wished to keep, emissaries from the eastern stretch of Roscrea had demanded himself to stand trial in their capital for crimes against their ruling dynasty, somehow threatening Farrukhzad with a sword to his neck came back to bite him in the ass. Augustus of course denied their demands, they hadn't the authority being mere warlords for he to stand any form of trial, not without the royal decree, Imperial royal decree. He hadn't any other choice, his being taken prisoner would have created a tense situation yet now that he refused armies were being raised under the context of deterrence. 

Augustus and his Scholae Palatinae that accompanied him came to agree it was a bluff, to scare him off the isle to avoid war, they believed the natives had no intention of storming the isle.

Among the dwindling marks of good news was that the last of the Roscrean mercenaries Dales wished to hire had gathered in the town and were sent south in a few strange looking longships, the Empress didn't send Augustus fully out of her kindness. Nothing is given without return, theirs was compiling a list of the greatest mercenaries from this backwater without political ties to Tamriel and to send them in her service. They had delivered at least, avoiding any awkwardness by breaking a promise to Dales, something the ruddy natives should be more thankful then he.

It had been weeks since the last contact with Cyrodiil, the Nords had finished their assembly and Jarl Red-Snow was ruling Skyrim, whatever hostilities these Roscreans harbored to the Empire at least Skyrim was ruled by a friend of his Empress. That should conflict arise Baldur would without doubt support Cyrodiil against this backwater, the Nordic fleet just began mobilizing to boot.

Augustus had retired himself to his quarters, the governing wasn't all too different from what he was used to. These ruddy natives had the decency to be Imperialized, never the less the Prelate was strangely really feeling his age lately, he was in his fifties sure but healthy and fit as well, yet he felt increasingly tired long before he really should have of late. It was much worse that day, the moment dusk set in so to did he feel inexplicably exhausted. The healers looked over him and couldn't figure out what the matter was, placing it up to his age. Even though he insisted prior to this streak his age never was any issue, in all honestly it worried him.

Like every night in the Roscrean sphere he slept without nightmares, he didn't want to think about what Vaermina would give his sleeping mind in punishment for the year of pleasant sleep. He wouldn't ever have to worry about that again, about anything again.

Augustus stirred from his sleep a little earlier then usual, his quarters had Heartland styled mosaic glass windows that of course depicted Uriel V, the sky outside was ever so gradually becoming brighter shades of blue. He tried to swing himself out of bed, finding his limbs didn't obey him, in fact he couldn't feel them at all. The damnedest thing, Augustus felt half asleep, that instant moment of disorientation from waking up stayed with him.

The dust hugging the room's stone wall to his right was disturbed slightly, in what was once a little confusion turned to terror. Two hands began emerging from the wall, then the arms behind them, following a bearded hateful face and the body attached. It emerged from the cracks in the stone, burning the mortar away. Right when the man fully emerged Augustus recognized him as that Archdruid who entrapped him in a dream the year prior.

Augustus yet again tried forcing himself upon the old fool, only to once again find himself unable to move of feel his limbs. When the furious Archdruid began stepping towards him Augustus screamed for his guards, who instantly burst through the room. They didn't charge the Archdruid though, instead rushing to his side in confusion. The old man was left unmolested and hung over the Prelate's bed staring at him, with a Palatinae just next to him, oblivious to his presence.

Augustus was to order something, what it was, he didn't know it, when the Archdruid holding only a lengthy pine needle pricked the Prelate on both his throat and forehead.

Instantly it felt like dozens of wasps began stinging the inside of his throat, it quickly began swelling, ceasing his breathing. In perfect sync the Archdruid and one of the Palatinae guards tore at the blanket, unable to breath Augustus looked in terror as his limbs were nothing more than numbs, ended by the tell-tell signs of leprosy. His Palatinae guards looked greatly worried though not even glancing at his lack of limbs, one rushed out the room roaring for healers. In Augustus' final moments, he saw the Archdruid fade back into the wall.

*****

The Prelate's quarters were filled with his guards and the ruddy king Clodovicus, Augustus' body was tightly gripping the bed with his hands, dying with one leg over the edge.

"What.. what the fuck h-happened?" Asked the Clodovicus, he didn't know how in all the hells the Prelate could have died, he who was protected by the Empire, he who was the Empire. The Palatinae guard who remained in the room answered.

"We were stationed at his door for our shift, early in the morning when he started screaming bloody murder. Rushing inside immediately there was nothing inside but Augustus, he was breathing sporadically and kicking. I ripped off the covers, thinking perhaps a snake, nothing. He shortly died after some heavy breaths and gripping his head..."

"What now?"

"The Empress, she'll need to give new orders, he had to have been assassinated. From here on out the isle is under martial law."

[BigBossBalrog]

Avitus Agrippa 

Outskirts of Dödsherald

Hopefully I fucking freeze to death before something eats me. At least that death is rather painless...

Avitus could barely feel his body, the chilling, endless night was making his entire being ache from the exposure. He could imagine how so many of his brothers died, frozen in terror, when the civil war went down. The Emperor's light failing to reach their frozen bodies, while Barbarians scourged and murdered them. The Dragon, no longer sprouting flame, but the cold stone, like defeat of the frost, being devoured by a bear. In fact the faint outline of her face was sticking from the stone, visible, and in agony as she was defiled and the frost-

Avitus, closed his eyes, as he gripped his chest, the pounding of his heart, echoing past the howling snow fall. Images came soaring into his mind, as the white snowfall went down like an endless blanket. The pain erupted across his body, as he felt the world crashing down on him. This was it, this was his despair. And now he would join the rest of his brothers in the snow.

Thump thump thump. 

He gripped his armor. Yes...he could feel it. His heart's song. It was like the calming waves of the ocean...Avitus opened his soft blue eyes. And saw only the snowy wasteland he was stuck in. None of his dead brothers. This was not Skyrim, this was Imperial Territory. And he had a job to do. Standing up, and walking tall, Avitus resumed his journey, his eyes trailed on the faint crimson glow in the distance. 

"Never give up. Do the mission, no matter the cost. As long as I can feel the beat of my heart, I can still do my duty." And I will still have my vengeance....

To his immense surprise (and joy), after about fifteen more minutes wandering in the dead forest, he finally stumbled on something that wasn't another fucking tree! A stone bridge! So these primitive fucking natives actually have stone bridges i'm fucking shocked. 

It wasn't impressive really. Just a small brick bridge, that extended across, giving who ever made these god forsaken woods a place to cross. Before his mind could process what to do next...his vision had already caught something else...

A little figure on the bridge. As if providence, the howling storm had subsided to simply a moderate snowfall. 

Avitus's eyes narrowed, the outline...was that of a child.

A young girl, going by the blonde locks that peaked from her underneath her hood. She wore a brown robe, that hid her entire body. She sat on the bridge, gazing into the cold depths below. 

A human being for once!  Avitus frowned, But a little shit that will ruin this fucking operation!  It seems the endless snow made Avitus a little loopy. Shouting at the top of his lungs the officer yelled angrily, "Scram you brat! Imperial Legion business! Citizens are a burden-

Without delay, and an almost silent splash, the girl leaned over, and let herself fall into the frozen water. 

The Imperial Soldier had already thrown off his iron cuirass wordlessly, letting the armor fall into the snow with a thud. The Imperial solder sprinted, with all the power he could put into his legs, letting his bracers, and throwing down his helmet. He undid his belt, leaving his weapons just by the edge of the river. Without a single word, or any kind of visible protest, Avitus lept into the freezing river, head first.

The feeling of water on his skin was so refreshing...for a single fucking second, before the cold began to set in, almost instantly. This was bad. And really stupid. But the child certainly felt worse, and that erased any regret from the soldier's mind. As he swam to the bottom of the freezing river, his vision blurred underneath the waves of the river. He caught glimpse of the little girl, becoming consumed by the river's grasp. The Imperial solder swam down trying to get that little idiot out, as hopeless as he seemed. 

He saw her floating figure, with her pale white face, and hollow eyes staring back at him. The little girl wordlessly continued to sink...her small eyes closing as the cold began to take her. Avitus swam faster, as if he digging a massive hole.

The Imperial soldier finally reached the girl, hugging her, and trying to share what little warmth he had. As he prepared to swim to the surface, he looked back to check her...only to see the shining of razor sharp teeth.

Pain assailed the Imperial soldier, as dark, horrible laughing echoed around in the dark water. The girl had latched onto his neck and bite the side of his neck, with razor sharp fangs. Simply shocked, Avitus tried to wrestle with the girl, who, to his horror, had undergone a starling transformation. Her pale white skin had become almost green, and covered in algae. Her tiny arms and legs had contorted to sickeningly long lengths, her nails becoming dagger like, and massive. Her blonde locks had been replaced by dirty black hair, and her face was the thing of nightmares. Dirty skin, Golden eyes, and horrible fangs sprouted from her mouth. The thing wrapped it’s legs and arms around the Imperial soldier trying to sink him, and bring him down to the black depths of the river’s bed. It howled, laughing madly, as it tore a chunk out of him with her fangs. The Imperial gurgled with pain, as the surprise had finally worn off. It was an ambush! Avitus struggled with his captor to no avail, there was strength in her limbs, not of the mortal realm. It just smiled, it’s blood soaked teeth, getting cleaned by the ice cold water, enjoying the Imperial soldier struggle for his life. 

Bubbles rose to the surface, as Avitus slowly lost his breath. Eventually his limbs began to softly stop resisting, and his eyes closed....his face losing any sign of struggle Smiling, the lake demon was content to know the Imperial had taken his final breath. Her hold on his floating corpse, loosened…

And Avitus’s eyes shot open in response, as he pushed himself forward. 

Two can play at this game, you little cunt!

Avitus sank his teeth into the monstrous little girls neck, and bit down. 

The siren shrieked, loudly. For a second, her grip on the Imperial fully loosened, which was all that Avitus needed to push himself away from the monster, ripping a chunk of her dead flesh as he did, his mouth tasting rot, a mist of blackness forming around. If it bleeds I can kill it! He said resolutely, swimming as fast as he could back to the surface of the freezing river. If he stayed for a few seconds more, he really was going to drown. He didn’t even bother to look back to see if the thing was following him or not. With a great struggle (as he felt like his lungs we’re going to fucking explode” he broke through the water’s surface, taking a massive gulp of air as he did, his lungs practically on fire. Drenched, and freezing he rushed to land, practically hugging the snow. 

And now I get to freeze to fucking death....

He began to shiver...at least he had tried...at least he had tried....

"Jag kommer att konsumera din själ ... mata på dina ben ... och drick ditt blod! Thinking it was impossible considering how cold he was, those words chilled him to the bone. The Imperial soldier turned around, slowly rising from the snow. It was that thing. 

It's voice...oh gods it's voice. A hint of nordic accent, but amplified, and consorted to sound utterly inhuman. The creature eyed Avitus with it's golden eyes, the wound he had inflicted oozing black bile. It...looked wrong. It's black, oily hair flew in the wind, propelled more then it should, as the Imperial only felt a small breeze. It's limbs we're practically skeletal, ending in a set of large, jagged, blackened claws. It's eyes...gazed into Avitus, the golden light propelling the soldier to lie down and die. It's unnaturally wide mouth had an expression of rage, which made the hundreds of long, jagged teeth grow. It howled, as it began to move with supernatural, speed forward, it's arms and legs bending at unnatural angles

"Oh yeah? Does that mean "fuck you" in Nordic! Well fuck you too bitch!" Aviitus's body heat miraculous rose, as his body trembled with pure rage. The soldier jammed his hand into his open wound, and covered his face in his own blood, the crimson liquid feeling warm on his skin.  The Imperial soldier grabbed his discarded weapons, and screamed, "For the Second!" 

The two figures charged each other. As they closed in, Avitus dove to the right, dodging the monsters claw, just as he brought up his glowing blade, and slashed the beast's leg, causing it to cry out in pain. Avitus backed away slowly, avoiding another attack from the screaming siren, who was spewing saliva. The monster raked her claws, getting Avitus on the arm, causing the Imperial soldier to scream out.. Avitus face contorted, his blood paint making his face even more angry looking. He dodged another attack, attacking with both of his weapons, in a kind of power stance, slashing at the monster's centre. He backed away once more, flourishing his blades, dodging to the left. This dance continued for a little while long, before Avitus choose the perfect time to strike. 

The Imperial Officer rammed his sword into it’s gut, causing the beast to scream out in agony, smirking Avitus jammed it further, before ripping the sword out, and bringing down his axe on its neck. Pushing back, the monster got away as she slyly avoided the Imperials axe.

Avitus propelled the blade forward with a burst of monument closing the distance, before throwing another attack downward, holding his blade tightly underneath his gauntlets. The monster screamed out in pain, as Avitus followed up by plunging the dead Stormcloaks axe into it’s shoulder, "I'LL FUCKING KILL YOU WHORE!"  Avitus let the rage inside him boil. As he slammed the monster into the snow...it was...screaming in terror. Avitus launched another punch with the butt of his axe into it's face, using the impaling sword to keep it in place. He slammed the axe into it's shoulder leaving it there, as he began to rain blow after blow at it's face with his naked fists,  “I’LL TEAR YOU FUCKING APART!” The beast threw the Imperial off her, with a burst of strength, as it began to jerk. Dazed, and being thrown a good distance, Avitus landed with a hard thud in the snow, having the wind knocked out of him. The beast had resumed the attack almost immediately, already upon the Imperial officer, his weapons still stuck in them. She pinned Avitus in place, and was ready to tear out his throat, but the Imperial was too fast. For his teeth already found it's mark. Avitus bit first, tearing it's throat open with his own mouth.  Roaring, the monster screamed in agony, as it gripped it's throat, backing away slowly in pure shock.. Wasting not another instant, Avitus gripped his impaled blade’s handle, and pushed it as hard as he could. With a satisfying thunk, the glowing sword rammed deeper, cutting into the nightmares body, spitting the monster's fleshy throat out as he did. The monster roared a final time, before at long last, it fell limp. As if consumed, the twisted nightmares body contorted for a single, before it disappeared, shadows consuming it, leaving not a single blip in the snow.

"I-I hate children..." Out of breath the Imperial stood up with a heavy grunt...before Avitus collapsed from exhaustion, falling backwards into the snow. He closed his eyes, this was it.  He couldn't stand the cold a minute longer. Grunting, he muttered, almost delirious "Maybe if it left a corpse, I could have warmed myself with it's cut open guts..."

"That wont be necessary sir!" The Imperial eyes jolted open at the sound of another person's voice, and the feeling of...warmth. His vision returned, to see a familiar, closed face helmet, and a flaming sword. 

***
Huddling as close as humanly possible to the bonfire, not caring if it singed him, Avitus tried to warm himself. Tried was the keyword here. 

"Am I going to catch hypothermia and fucking die?!" Asked the Imperial, he was graciously sipping from the cup his fellow legion soldier had offered him, which held warmed mead.  He hated the Nordic sewage drink, but beggars couldn't be choosers. Wulf, who was still full armoured, and wearing his face concealing mask muttered, "I presume you mean frost pain. Considering you haven't died from shock yet..."

Avitus gulped nervously, 

"You'll have a bad cold in the morning." He presumably smiled underneath his helmet, "Don't worry. You handle the cold better then most Imperials, you'll be fine Legatus. I would worry more about those. But considering you didn't even pass out from the pain, I think it'll just be a nasty sting."

Avitus had the urge to scratch the bandaged, hideous burns on his body. Wulf had cauterised them with his blade almost immediately when they made camp.  And they hurt like hell. Though he wouldn't bleed to death anymore, and hopefully the flame had purged those wounds from infection.

Seeing his struggle, Wulf went over to the Imperial and gave him a blanket made from wolf fur, "Here, sir."

The Imperial nodded his head, snuggling close to the warm cloak. Pausing for a moment, he finally said, "Thank you Wulf. For...saving my life."

"Thou were the who felled the water spirit, not this Nord." He chuckled, "But I know that must have been hard for you to say, you're very welcome Legatus."  

Avitus eased his hand close to the fire pit, letting the flames cleanse him from the cold. He muttered, his voice betraying terror, "The thing...it...I thought it was a child. It lured me into the river, what was it?"

“Tis demon was a Disir. A foul abomination of the cold water.” Wulf’s nordic accent emphasised the strange pronunciation, “She wears the flesh of children to lure innocent folk to their deaths. Undead. They once prowled in the frozen Marshes of Morthal in great number, but no longer. Like so much in the world, they exist now only in fables, just shadowy wraiths existing in the minds of frightened children.” 

“Seemed pretty real to me.” The shadows from the fire cast themselves upon Wulf’s helmet, “Indeed.” He muttered, “Indeed…” 

“Why do children of Hircine haunt these twilight woods?” Asked Avitus, changing the question

“Most forests have at least one Werebeast stalking, under the dark leaves. Hircine’s children still lurk in great numbers, or so I hear, am I wrong?” He was straight to the point and punctual. The Imperial Soldier shook his head,  “Sightings and attacks are somewhat rare, but they aren’t nearly unheard of. I fought a Werelion that was attacking caravans by Anvil in the hills a decade ago. I still have nightmares to this day.  The Legion kills many; every decade, but their numbers replenish. But things aren’t as bad as other provinces; they exist in much larger numbers in wilder places like Skyrim and Solsthiem. But let me rephrase my question, what the fuck was that thing before?” 

“The fiendish deer beast? Oh it would be such a good night for a hunt…” Wulf voice twisted, controtred to something sinister, before it returned, “Tis a Grundheil. A daemon of the ancient woods. I think anyway...” 

“A daedra?” 

“Kin to them, yes. Or in some stories” Wulf pushed a log forward with his sword, causing the flames to go out of control, “The lore is inconclusive. Long forgotten legends speak of Hircine mating with a mortal deer, which spawned the Grundheil, bastard sons of the Father of Manbeasts. Others i’ve heard claim their the tormented vestiges of Nords who feasted upon human flesh in hours of great desperation amongst the frozen peaks." He was like an encyclopedia, "The former says, they live in black grottos underneath prisons of black ice, while the later claim they haunt the dead places in the world. It is said, only the greatest abominations birthed by the Wild Hunt can match their ferocity and cunning, for they are even more favoured to the Prince then his wolves. Your survival was a miracle” 

Avitus shrugged, "I...I thought we were going to die. I've fought nothing like it before. But...it was scarred of something. It wouldn't approach us.""

“That Lorica you wore was silver, yes?” 

Avitus nodded,  saying, "Yes, and my second summarised that's what it's weakness was." Wulf nodded his head, “The only reason you and your cohors live. Silver is the bane of the unclean. Whether they be Daemons of the Princes, or tortured souls stuck in the material realm, silver is their bane. Silver and flame."  He smirked, "Darkness is but a servant of flame. The stronger the darkness is, the more intense the fire glows it's radiance." Avitus ignored him, closing his eyes. For the last few hours he had been running solely on adrenaline. Now that it had vanished, he had never felt more tired in his life. Snapping him out of his dreary haze, it was Wulf's turn to ask a question.

“Even in the Empire’s abominable state, the Legion is still strong, yes? Your Empress, is she a capable leader? And what of these snakes?” 

“Yes. Even a dying drake, still has her fangs and flame. Empress Dales is..."He paused for a second, "Much of the Legion respects her, but she rubs me the wrong way. I got a good look of her on parade...you can call me crazy but those eyes of her...almost seemed broken. Better then her father at least.” The Imperial Legate, huddled closer to the fire, gripping the wolf cloak tight with such strength, the shivering abided for a moment, “By snakes I presume you mean the Stormcloaks. The Nords are quickly building up a powerful army. Traitorous bastards they are, they know how to fight, i’ll give them that.” He shivered, his frosty breath haggard. He was feeling better, but he knew he would have one hell of cold tomorrow. If he survived that long, “ Pfffft, your Talos was surely with them during the Civil War.” 

“Tis Soldiers who win battles, not gods. With respect, sir” Wulf laughed boisterously, “It was not Talos the Wargod that conquered, it was General Hjalti. A man.” The Nord continued to sharpen his longsword, "Man is more powerful then any god. Belief keeps them alive. And so for all there power, they need...us mortals."

Avitus rolled his eyes, "Not in the mood for a debate on theology, Captain."

Wulf laughed, “Sugandi, you found the moth?” 

“Yes-wait a second….what do you mean moth?” Avitus eyes narrowed as the cold left him. “You said it was butterfly!”

Wulf barely managed to hold back a laugh, “Tis was a jest. This one was just messing with you.” Underneath his helmet, Avitus knew he was smirking. The Imperial Officer spat, getting up, and shouting, whilst pointing his finger “You insolent welp! I should have you censured and-”

Laughing, Wulf muttered, “Skilled as you are, Legatus, this one doubts you could face me in your state. Tis, not even in a swordfight, let alone I deliver unto you flame. Besides, it’s been so long, I doubt my commission as an officer still stands.” Avitus sat back down, sulking as he crossed his arms, clearly not having liked being tricked, as petty as that trick was. Wulf whetstone grinded across the ornate blades length, as he spoke up, amidst the backdrop of snow, “I remember fleets of butterfly, skimming across the golden fields of Whiterun. It is lesser of me, for nothing is less masculine, but I always loved the unending colors, blue like sapphires, red like flame, and yellow like honey, dancing above the golden wheat! They travel yearly, endlessly pursuing their destination without pause, they are noble creatures. Surely that demands a certain respect?” 

“That just means your a faggot, and would get along with that Empress your so interested in” Muttered the Imperial grimly as he let the fire warm his hands. 

Wulf laughed, “Tis was a jest, or maybe not?” He smirked underneath his helm. This one is slippery. The Imperial thought. “It doesn't matter anymore, I have no interest to return to a Skyrim filled with traitorous snakes. Perhaps if the Empire reconquers it in the next five hundred years or so.”  Avitus wasn’t paying attention, so he didn’t catch what Wulf just said, just focusing on the fire, his eyes failing him. 

Wulf spoke up, "Let Vaermina take you to the land of twilight, Legatus. This one will watch you while you slumber."

"Telling me i'm about to be tortured by the Daedric Prince of Nightmares isn't a good bed time prospect captain." He yawned, his consciousness already beginning to fade. He began to lie down, wrapping himself fully in his cloak, right beside the roaring campfire. "But...i'll take you up on your offer..." 

[The Good Doctor]

Mila
Kyne's Watch

The snow hare munched on a blade of wispy northern grass, his cheeks moving in that funny way that hare cheeks do when they chew. The animal looked content, blissfully unaware of the fact that he was being hunted. Then a wind came through, carrying the scent of human to his nostrils. 

The white hare's ears perked. He stood on his hind legs and stuck his nose into the air for a sniff. He twitched at the sound of something whistling, and then a smooth black pebble struck him behind the head and paralyzed him on the spot. Mila smiled, pocketed her sling, and went to collect her kill. 

Later that evening, she returned to her little spot in the mountains, where firewood and a sleeping bag awaited her. "Hey Nahfahlaan," she shouted lazily. "I've got something for you!"
Mila tossed the dead hare and two squirrels onto the pile of 'offerings' that had accumulated over the last several days. "Get them while they're fresh."

She lit a fire with magic and warmed her hands over it. This was the sixth day since her initial journey to meet the fabled red dragon. In that time, the only wings Mila had seen belonged to warblers and hawks. At first she just figured the dragon was out hunting, but surely it would not take very long for one of the greatest hunters in the world to get some food. Her second guess was that she was timing her visits badly, so after two days, Mila decided to make camp and stay in the area for a while. She left a note in the longhouse to let Roseloe or any visitors know she'd be back soon, but otherwise gave no details of her whereabouts.

It was on the second day that Mila had the idea to try bringing the dragon some offerings. The Nords of old used to sacrifice actual people to appease their dragon gods, but times had changed and the dragons weren't gods anymore, so she figured that dead animals would do the trick. It was more than anyone else was bringing him.

"Nahfahlaan!" Mila bellowed again. It had once been thrilling, scary even, every time she spoke the word out loud. Baldur said that the dragon responded to his name being called, so the very sound of it on her lips brought a tightness to her chest. Like she wasn't just babbling the name of some creature, but instead summoning him with words of power. The word 'Nahfahlaan' had weight, and she didn't shout it lightly. Of course, that was then...

"Oh Nahfahlaan!" Mila whistled as if she were calling a dog. "Come here, boy!" She sat back, took out her spellbook for some practice, and flipped to the section on soul trapping. Then she stopped. Something felt strange. Like a tiny shake inside her belly. What in Shor's name?
It was only a matter of seconds before the shake became a rumble, and then it engulfed her entire camp as something nearby let out a terrible ear-splitting roar.

The mountains echoed with more power than the loudest thunder, shattering the air like glass and making Mila's heart stop in her chest. She screamed, but it was lost amidst the monstrous noise.

A shadow passed over her, and Mila looked up just in time to see the dragon himself soaring overhead. The beast circled his mountain, red scales shimmering like blood against the snow. And then he began his descent. Mila had never seen anything move half so fast in her life, and it was blazing right toward her. Nahfahlaan's maw opened, and Mila screamed again. 

The dragon was seconds away when she remembered her magic. Mila didn't even think about it. She recalled back to Kyne's Watch.

"Oh my!" shrieked Roseloe Valga. "And just where have you been?" 

Mila blinked. She was on the floor in Daric's house. It was warm and safe inside, but the cold and the fear were still with her.

"Girl?" The torchbug lit up beside the door. "Why are you shaking?"

"I'm what?" She felt dizzy. Her heart was racing and the horrible sound still rang in her ears. Was that his breath she smelled? Did he get that close?

"Shaking, girl. You look like you've seen a-"

"Dragon," Mila cut her off. "I look like I've seen a dragon." She laid back her head and chuckled, which then devolved into full-blown laughter. The witch must have thought she'd gone mad, lying there like she was, clutching her side and laughing like a crazy person. Nothing about the situation was funny, but Mila couldn't stop herself. All the fear and guilt needed to come out, and this was the only way it would.
Maybe I am mad, she thought behind the tears. What sane person would have done that?

Mila's manic display went on for far too long, and when it was over she remained with her cheek against the floor. The sheer terror had subsided, but now an icy dread was settling in its place. "I have to go back."

"Go back where?" asked the witch. "What in the Void has gotten into you?"

"I forgot my dagger," Mila said. Not to Roseloe, but to herself. "Boldir made it for me. I have to go get it."
 

***

Mila sat atop a rock, fidgeting her hands as she watched the groups of soldiers spar on the beach. Boldir was in the midst of them, hammering away on another man's shield. It was late in the morning now, and soon the future Grim Ones would break for lunch.

What would you do? Mila asked in her head, as if Boldir would drop what he was doing to respond in kind. She still hadn't figured out how she would break the news to him that she'd lost her dagger to a dragon. Would he even have an answer for that?
He'll know what to do. He always does.
But when the time came and Boldir made for the cooking fires, Mila's legs locked up. She couldn't do it. Filled with shame and anger at herself, she turned and started back to Kyne's Watch.

Mila had already considered turning to Baldur. Nahfahlaan was one of his, after all. Or so the bard claimed. But try as she might, Mila couldn't bring herself to approach him either. What would she even say? "Remember that dragon you told me not to bother? Well I paid him a visit, made him mad, and lost my knife. Can you tell him to give it back and keep this between us? Oh and by the way, I'm sorry for comparing you to the worst man in Tamriel."
That wasn't going to happen. Maybe some day she'd find it in her to make things right with Baldur. Maybe. But it would not be when she needed something from him.

There was also Rebec, but why wouldn't she tell Baldur what was going on? It was the same with Roseloe. For all the help she had been in teaching magic, the witch wasn't trustworthy. She would do the same thing as Rebec, only she'd go to Boldir instead. From their perspective, stopping Mila would be saving her life. And maybe they'd be right.

"Damn it all!" Mila kicked a pebble down the beach and watched it plop into the waves. A couple fishermen stopped loading their jetty to give her funny looks, and then continued about their business. Why didn't you just listen? she thought to herself. The thing is thousands of years old, you stupid girl. You had no business messing with him!

At the time, she'd felt as though Kyne herself was telling her to do it. To be brave, to prove herself an equal to the Nords of old. Now Mila understood why they saw their gods as test-givers. If she was going to get the dagger back. She was gonna have to do it herself. Kyne... What a bitch.

Mila returned to the longhouse that evening and spotted Baldur leaving the place with Ragna in one arm and a number of Grim One bodyguards keeping a reasonable distance.
What does he want? Mila wondered. Baldur hadn't approached her since their encounter that first week. Trying to look as inconspicuous as possible, she quickly stepped behind a neighbor's house and eased around the corner to watch them pass. Baldur appeared distracted, and didn't look her way as he headed back into town. Weird.

Once they were good and away, Mila hurried home, where what little she owned was right where she'd left it. "Hey Valga," Mila called, but the bug didn't answer. "Valga? Roseloe!" Mila scowled. "Baldur's gone. It's just me now."

A dim yellow light flickered in the back corner, and then the witch's voice resounded, "This is twice now that the king has come today. What does he want with you?"

"You think I know?"

"Well, yes." She hovered closer. "You've been gone all day. And he is your uncle."

"He's not my-..." Mila sighed. She had so much more to worry about right now. "I don't know what he wants, and we're gonna have to wait to find out. I'm heading out again." Mila grabbed her rucksack from a hook on the wall and started packing it for another trek into the mountains. "I left a mark in Daric's house, so you can wait for me there."

"The last time you left, it was for four days and without a hint at where you were going." The witch's tone was becoming increasingly indignant. "And when you returned, I thought you'd gone mad. This behavior is unacceptable. I cannot train an apprentice who I only lay eyes on once every week! And if your little escapades are dangerous, then just you remember, there is more on the line than your soul-"

"It's not dangerous," she lied. "And I ain't your apprentice. You're teaching me some magic." Mila struggled to cram her spellbook into the now brimming pack. "Some of the islanders are heading east to fish in the bay. They said I could come."

"Fishing? I offer the knowledge and power of the universe itself, and you choose to go fishing?!" Roseloe scoffed. "It is as I've long feared. These Nords are making you backwards."

"I wouldn't say that around them." Mila scowled and considered unpacking some things to make room for the book.

"When I return to my true form, it will be they who-" The witch paused. "By the Void! If you'd take the slightest effort to actually organize your belongings, they would fit in the bag just fine! Did they not teach you how to fold and stack in Windhelm?"

Mila forced the rucksack closed. It was a tight squeeze, but it worked. "I'm from Whiterun."

"Whatever. How is it that you never learned to properly pack a bag when you lived on the road?"

"Never had much to pack. And besides, this is mostly food. You can't fold a loaf of bread."

"Well watching this is irritating. I'd suggest getting a servant for such things, but I daresay you would only waste whatever time he saves you... Fishing. Bah."
The torchbug flew upward and disappeared into the darkness of the rafters. "Please be kind and spare me the details when you return."

Mila smirked. Gladly. Though first she needed to return, and that meant surviving a gods damned dragon. She dressed warmly, and this time buckled a sword to her belt. It would be useless against Nahfalaan, but its presence somehow gave her comfort in spite of that. The last time had been a joke, a cruel trick by the gods against a girl who wanted to be a Nord. This time, it was real.

She ate bread and cold horker jerky for dinner and then quietly slipped out into the night. It would've been ideal to travel by day, but with Baldur apparently looking for her, Mila figured it would be best to leave immediately rather than take the chance of being found in the morning and distracted by whatever he wanted. Plus, she still wasn't sure what to say to him. 

As before, Mila left behind a vague note saying she was safe and would be back soon and not to bother looking for her. With that, she journeyed southward. Kyne's Watch was aglow that night with the fires of celebration. The two moons were out, and Mila remembered that Clan Hex-Blade of Whiterun were to celebrate the deeds of Witch-Queen Jsashe. Their music was loud enough to be heard even from the outskirts of town, and even well into the hills as the night went on.

Mila covered the distance more quickly than she ever had before. Whether it was familiarity or anxiousness that hastened her step, she could not say, but the night was still fairly young when she truly entered the sprawling shadows of the mountains. Nahfahlaan's roost was further still, only reachable by climbing steep hills and wading through thick blankets of snow. Mila tried not to focus on how scared she had been the last time she'd seen the dragon. He probably won't even be there. And if he is... well, she'd survived the beast before. Nothing was stopping her from warping away a second time.

Just find the camp, grab the dagger, and recall back to Kyne's Watch. Mila took a deep breath. Couldn't be easier. When she let it out, her breath turned to vapor, which only served as a reminder that dragons had the thu'um. She mentally prepared to recall, even though she still had some ways to go.

'Some ways' did not take very long to cover. It was probably a little after midnight when she reached the small clearing her camp had been in. The first thing Mila noticed was that her pile of "offerings" was gone, along with all the snow that had surrounded it. Nearby, her bedroll remained, but the bottom half was singed black. And just across the ashen fire pit... My dagger!

Mila took a step toward the weapon, then froze in place. Less than fifty feet past the dagger rocked the unmistakable silhouette of a horned and winged beast. No doubt during the day, his red scales would have made him easy to spot, but under the dark of night, Nahfahlaan's massive frame was obscured against the side of the mountain, and better still by the trees around him.

Mila swallowed, that familiar fear creeping back in her. He hasn't seen you, she told herself. He's sleeping. Right or wrong, the dragon had not moved yet, but that didn't change the fact that Mila's next step was the hardest she'd ever taken. Ten more. Then grab it and go!
She managed three, and then Nahfahlaan made a sound that might've been a snore or it might've been a hungry snort. Mila didn't wait to find out. She bounded the rest of the way, wrapped her fingers around the weapon's hilt, and readied her recall spell. And then she stopped. Two large yellow orbs were peering at her from the darkness. 

"Nid Filok. No escape."

Wuld Nah Kest echoed from Nahfahlaan’s throat with such velocity that it threw her off her feet. There were other words that followed, but her ears were so deafened that she could not make them out. She found only that the yellow orbs were suddenly much closer, right above her in fact.

 And they grew closer...

"You've wandered into the flame, little Moth. Far from your towering nest. Ahrk nu hi los daanik. Nu hi los..... dilon. Dead."

The dragon's maw smelled of flesh and fire, and sent tremors from Mila's head to her toes. She had dropped the dagger, and every shred of sense still in her screamed to recall before he swallowed her whole, but something else, something far more foolish, told her to wait.
He's speaking to me.

Mila opened her mouth to respond without even knowing what she was going to say. But her voice caught in her throat. In the end, she barely managed one word. "W- what?"

Nahfahlaan’s tongue was outstretched, salivating with the anticipation of his meal. Just before the final moment, when her blood would wash over it and his teeth would crush her bones with satisfying crunch... he stopped.

"What?" Nahfahlaan repeated the question.

"I-" Mila flexed her fingers, where the magicka was built up and ready. I can leave, right now! Go! She stared into the big creature's eyes. "I'm not dil- dead. Didn't come to- came to get my... thing."

The dragon's head reared back. Suddenly he was watching her, really watching her. Studying. A sharp exhale of air from his nostrils made a cloud in the cold night as his eyes narrowed. 

"You were the one from earlier. The one bellowing my name, absent of power."

"I-" Mila swallowed, then took a slow, shaky breath. "I was."

If dragons could frown, he would certainly do so now. "Try that again, and I’ll reduce Kyne's Watch to ash. That is where you came from, I presume."

"I'm from Whiterun," she blurted, though she wasn't sure why. "Baldur's in Kyne's Watch. You can't burn it down... you two have a deal."

"I... can't? Interesting, the Moth seems to believe that I am held down by the same rules and limitations as the joor. But I am Dovah. We are boundless. So, why are you pestering me with these... involuntary provocations? Quid pro quo, tell everyone you know to stay off my mountain and I won't eat you all. Begone."

"Okay." Mila climbed to her feet, and started to back away slowly and very carefully. The dagger was behind her somewhere, but she was afraid to take her eyes off the dragon to search for it. "I never meant to pesture you, being boundless and all."

"Your lot never does, and yet you always find a way to regardless," said Nahfahlaan. His wings, which had once blotted out every star were now pulled closer to his side as he contemplated the mettlesome nature of mortals. "Hmm, yes, even when your kind have no right to rule, you still impose. And then the people of this land, they always fall into the same trap. Always seeking those greater than themselves to follow. It is how they'd come to fall under our domain in the beginning, and later under the Dovahkiin of the south. If it is in our nature to dominate, it is a Bron's to follow. Once upon a time, anyway."

Mila continued to ease away while he spoke, occasionally nodding in agreement just so he knew she was listening. Meanwhile, she kept an eye open for the glint of her dagger. "Were you a ruler, then?"

"We all were, though not all of us could be bothered with the actual act. Some did so themselves, some acted through mortals deemed worthy, and the great majority chose not to involve themselves at all. I have always acted on my own. Dovah are not known for our willingness to work together."

Nahfahlaan looked at her suddenly, jaws snapping. "I know not why you are here. You leave these pitiful morsels and things at my mountain so I assume that you do not come here seeking treasure. Though I do very much like the dagger."

As he said the words, Mila noticed a pale white glow out the corner of her right eye. The buckle on her sheath had come undone, and the lunar magic blade was just visible where it had slid out. Two more steps, and she could grab it. But one word and Nahfahlaan could burn her to a crisp. For now, she didn't move.

"Those morsels were gifts," she said. "The, uh, Bron used to give your kind sacrifices. That's all I meant to do."

Nahfahlaan scoffed. "How many winters have you seen?"

"Fifteen." Feeling a little braver, she ventured to ask, "How many have you seen?"

Nahfalaan’s head reared back once more. "By Bormahu’s tusks, I cannot be certain. I only asked to understand why you do such silly reckless things. The Dovah are not measured by something so limited as seasons past."

"Neither am I."

"Ha!" Nahfahlaan’s wings stretched out before her with a mighty flap, sending a gust of snow and ice over her. It was Mila's chance. She quickly swiped the dagger and stuffed it behind her back before he settled down again.

"You certainly are, you all are. Limited by your individual experiences and insignificant points of view. You cannot see the spherical realms that surround us, they must be made lesser simply so you can comprehend them. It is also thus with our forms, little one. You see a giant lizard, but we are far more than that. We are the precursors of time, itself. Its escort, vanguard, foretellers. Our very existence escorted in the concept of your doom. And for you, little moth of fifteen winters, death seems far away. And so you recklessly toy with your own life, unable to truly comprehend the end of it. So far away by your own minuscule perspective."

Now that she had what she came for, Mila felt like this was a great time to take the dragon up on his offer and leave without getting killed. But so far, Nahfahlaan seemed more interested in speaking to her with normal words than with the ones of power. And there was something to be said of conversing with a 'dovah'. That was what she'd originally wanted, right? To meet one of Alduin's own face-to-face.

"That isn't always my perspective," she said back. "There have been lots of times when I believed I was going to die."

"Like today, for instance?" Nahfahlaan chuckled. "Surely one instance alone would be enough for someone so fragile. And yet, you lot keep chasing death. Perhaps because it is inevitable? Even now, your ways perplex me. Your King looks for ways to prevent your slaughter by the Fahliil of the south, and yet I could quite easily destroy everything he loves. Too trusting in his own cunning, that one. Perhaps one day I'll show him the error of his hubris. And his tongue."

"You must be one of the greatest of dragons, then." Mila said. "Even from my perspective, it's only been a few short years since weaker men than Baldur and his soldiers were hunting down your kind."

Nahfahlaan opened his mouth, but soon closed it again. Unsure of how to react, and if the girl had given him a backhanded compliment or not, he just roared in frustration and remained silent for a time as he contemplated this, as well as his own demise. 

"Trickery, sorcery. Your kind was always good at that. But those few brave fools are greatly diminished since the time of the Blades in their prime. And look how they wane while we have been restored. We will outlast your petty dragon hunters."

"I could see that. The smartest of you seem to be doing a lot better this time around. Like you. You're a lot safer from hunters here than out on your own."

"I am on my own," said Nahfahlaan. "You mortals aren't my kin. We have a deal at the moment, nothing more."

"I understand. I'm here because of a deal, too."

Nahfahlaan opened his maw, shut it, then sighed, as if settling in and accepting the prospect of Tinvaak with this girl of only fifteen winters. "I'll bite, little Moth. How did you end up here? I myself have a score... scores to settle in the desert land not too far from here."

"We were brought here. Boldir and me." Mila hesitated, wondering if she could trust the dragon with her secrets. Who could he tell?
"The deal was with a Daedric Prince. We were working for him when Baldur's men captured us."

"Daedra? You? Working with a Prince? Captured by the King? Well well, I bet you’re quite the warrior," said Nahfahlaan. "I bet you also have an elder scroll, and a thu'um to rival my own, am I right?"

"You asked how I got here. I wouldn't lie to an escort of time itself." She had no idea what the title even meant, but the dragon was clearly proud of it. "You'd probably see right through it."

"Which Prince do you claim to have meddled with?" asked Nahfahlaan, letting the girl draw him in. "You realize even to say their name is to invoke them. So if you are indeed lying, you might just get what you deserve in the end. They know not to mess with dragons however. All but the worst of them, that is..."

He's actually curious! The dragon wants to know my story. The sheer absurdity of it all was not lost on Mila, but the longer Nahfahlaan spoke, the more her curiosity outweighed her fear.
"I'll tell you," Mila started, "but then I want to know about those scores you mentioned."

"I remember when human girls used to fear dragons..." sighing Nahfahlaan flew up, landing atop his favorite rock that was just the right size to rest his haunches. "Out with it then. Which Prince? And why does your king have interest in a daedra trafficking trouble making girl?"

Mila took a moment to consider how best to answer. "Baldur is my kin... sort of. This man, Boldir, is like a father to me, and a brother to him. The two of us went to Cyrodiil after Riften burned down. You know about Riften, don't you?"

"So, Baldur is your kin? Noted..." said Nahfahlaan, evidently not intent on answering her question. "So that would make you important to him... and should make you royalty should it not? And rich?"

"I'm not rich. Or royalty." She thought back to that night on the beach, to what Baldur had told her. "He ain't even really my kin."

Nahfahlaan scoffed. "Well how useless is that? If you aren't kin, what in Bormahu’s tusk does he want with you? Why are you still even here?"

"I was in the middle of telling you," she said, forgetting herself a little. "The lords of this place, Riften, they wanted Boldir dead, so they took my- they took me captive. Boldir fought back and the city was destroyed in it all. The last of these people, Sibbi Black-Briar, he took me to Cyrodiil to get help, but I killed him and escaped. I spent a long time on my own after that. I lived with thieves and knights, traveled with a wizard."
She decided she would come back to the topic of Oblivion later. "And then Boldir found me. At the time, neither of us knew that Baldur had sent men looking for him after Riften burned down. The Empire sent people too, because of Sibbi."
A fresh surge of anger went through Mila as she remembered the Imperial Inspector. "We tried to evade them, even killed most when they wouldn't stop, but they worked together and it was more than we could manage. They brought us back to Baldur and that's why I'm here."

"Hmm..." Nahfahlaan's head settled upon the rock as he contemplated. "I too know what it is like to feel chained by kin. Your solution is clear, however. Why do you not just kill the Empress lookalike and be done with it? Then he cannot send soldiers to capture you and this Boulder."

"Empress look- you mean Baldur!?" Mila might have laughed had the question not left her so shocked. "I don't want him dead! And besides, Boldir thinks we need him now."
Mila backed up to where her campfire had been and relit it with a spell. "Why do you feel chained?"

Nahfahlaan looked away. "Why do you care, girl? And anyway, I misspoke. I am a Dovah. I am free..."

Nahfahlaan sighed, "...and yet, here I am bargaining with the likes of mortals simply to avoid the incessant nagging of my kin. To be with them and to fall in line with either Alduin or Paarthurnax’s Way of the Voice. As soon as Ald was defeated, another took his place. But I will follow no ones Way of the Voice but my own. I've gotten too used to independence in the absence of my brothers. I suppose I do have you Bron to thank for that at least partially. And perhaps Paarthurnax."

That hit home with Mila more than the dragon could've known. "Before Riften, I really was part of their family. Baldur and Rebec, I mean. I don't know, maybe I still am. But after all that's happened..."
She frowned, thinking about her own independence, and how it had changed her. "I was alone for a long time too. I fought a giant, survived battles, I killed the richest man in Skyrim on my own, turned a necromancer to dust, and sank a ship filled with the best men from Cyrodiil and Skyrim... How in Shor's bloody name am I supposed to come back here and act like things are the same as before?!"
She suddenly looked up at Nahfahlaan. "That's why I'm up here like a fool, talking to you instead of being down there with the people I'm supposed to love."

Nahfahlaan lifted his head, studying her. She was serious, he realized. 

His body rose as he shook the snow from him, walking closer to her fire, almost stomping it out in the process. His neck flexed back for her to see the scars. "These, are the only remnants of Cyrus the Restless. The man that killed me before Alduin's return. You remind me of him, in a way girl... and a bit of myself as well." Head swiveling down to her eye level, he said, "It is too late for me. Loneliness suits me just fine because my kin are bastards, all. Everyone just wants to invoke their own will... a curse of being split from the whole... but you? You are not suited for such a life. You think you are now, but the truth is, no one really is. They only accept it because they let themselves reach a point where they've cut everyone else off and can't go back. At that point they have no choice... but you do."

When Nahfahlaan finished, there was a long silence between them. Mila could hear the wind whipping about, rustling pine needles and whispering Kyne's language in her ears. Secunda was hidden behind the mountain, but the edge of Masser was starting to poke out, lending its pale glow to their little clearing. What must have been minutes passed, and Mila was grateful that the dragon allowed her so long to think on his words before she finally spoke again. "I'd like to come here again. Later on, I mean. Could I?"

One might think that Nahfahlaan's phlegmatic disposition at the sights and sounds of Keizaal from this height meant that its beauty was lost upon a dov, but in truth it was the opposite. He drank in the hues of the sky, letting his mind drift in the shifting colors as though he were aboard one of the many vessels he'd torched.

The girl had given him as much to think about as he himself had given her. "In truth, I suppose your company is a bit more pleasant than that of scheming kings and demanding Emperors and Empresses. Especially those with marital squabbles. I grow so weary of the entrapment of petty mortals and their politics. It is why I never bothered ruling directly over your lot."

"That's a 'yes', then?"

"If you wish to freeze to death and waste your time coming up here, then why should I care? Just don't steal anything. Anything else."

"I won't," Mila said immediately, shrugging off the accusation. "And I won't freeze to death either."

Nahfahlaan made an unintelligible sound and mumbled something in draconic. "I really don't know what to make of you, girl. What did you say your name was?"

"Matilda-" The word caught in her throat, and she let out a slow breath. "... is what people call me. But it's not my real name. My real name is Mila."

The dragon chuckled to himself, then mouthed the name slow and guttural. "Well then, Mila. The southern humans call me Nafaalilargus. Your King calls me Nahfahlaan. You however can call me, Nahfahlaar. It is a great honor that I tell you this. Be grateful in my presence, and I shall be grateful to know yours."

"Nah-fahl-aar," she repeated. "Thank you for telling me."

"Mhm, now be off with you. You'll have to rest if you're to handle my things tomorrow. They'll need organizing, and there's a lot to move."

Mila stared at him blankly. Half of what the dragon said didn't make much sense. "I wasn't planning on coming back tomorrow. I mean, I could, but after what you said, about cutting people off... I need to talk to them."

"...I see. Well don't tarry too long, the quicker my treasures are safe in their proper home, the better. I cannot fit through the entrance by normal means you know. Anyway, be off. Take too long and I'll simply find another worthy mortal."

What in Kyne's name am I getting into? One last time, Mila produced the spell at her fingertips, and then she waved the dragon goodbye. "I'll be back soon, Nahfahlaar."

With that, she recalled back Kyne's Watch, and retired to bed even more overwhelmed with feelings and thoughts than last time. She had faced her fears. She had gotten her dagger back. She would visit Rebec and Ragna tomorrow because they were family. She would see Baldur because she needed to, and maybe because he was family as well. She would continue her training, of all kinds... But the thoughts that stood at the forefront of her mind all revolved around the dragon. Nahfahlaar. Had she just made a friend?