Dragon of the East - Arc 1, Chapter 10

• Posted by Okan-Zeeus March 9, 2014 - 914 views

  Chases-The-Wind

  ~ ~ ~

  I hate sleep. Essential as it may be, I never look forward to it. Sleeping leaves you vulnerable, susceptible to harm in so many ways. Poison. Suffocation. Strangulation. A simple knife. The body lies unwary of the world, unconscious, but not unthinking. Sometimes a mind at rest will meander to places unseen by one awake. Yet it can just as well wander to those dark recesses, to places long forgotten. Or places you want to forget…

  Pardon me. I mean to say simply that I had not slept well.

  In the mountain hills near Whiterun, looking out onto the far stretched plains, I camped. To dare stay at the city’s inn would usher innumerable risks. Owners often kept records of their tenants, while inns themselves were too open to the passage of people. I cared not for how painstaking my efforts had been to travel north unfollowed. No chances would be taken. I would leave behind only the faintest of traces to my whereabouts.

  Anything contrary would lead to my death, like the slow festering of an unsewn wound.

  With morning on the horizon, I gathered my meager belongings and trekked the final paces to my destination. Beyond the ranges of the alps, Skyrim’s scenery changed drastically. The verdant hills and forests of the southwest sloped into a valley with scattered trees and dry grass. All but the sky was tanned in warm colors. Distant mountain ranges, jutting creases in the land, could be seen clearly without obstruction. The view was truly vast. In the middle of the plains sat the city of Whiterun enclosed within grey brick walls. The palace of the Jarl, Dragonsreach, towered over feeble buildings and windmills, its Nordic architecture beautifully rendered in woodwork and stone.

  Against a backdrop of the rising sun, the city was a foreign but beautiful sight. Ralof had described it to me, but my eyes bore witness to the shortcoming of his account.

  I had left Riverwood and Ralof’s company quietly, with brief goodbyes and a small clutch of provisions to send me off. No intentions were held to return. The less I involved myself in his family’s life, the better.

  Whiterun’s walls were aged and weathered. There wasn’t a single smooth edge along the top lining. One could only guess how long they had stood for. I made my way up a bending slope toward the city gates, admiring aqueducts that filtered out toward the plains from inside the walls. Some integrated water system was in place, collected at higher elevations from rain.

  Guardsmen eyed me from parapets. Their shields displayed Whiterun’s crest, the image of a stallion’s head. I wore a simple set of garbs with a cloak drawn over, given to me by Hod. The man’s clothes were large for my frame, but I could no longer wear my fur coat. Helgen had left it torn, scorched, and stained with blood. The thought of trying to clean and mend the suit was disagreeable.

  Cutting a proper tail hole in Hod’s pants had been cumbersome enough. After the embarrassing failure of my crossbow, I had little faith in my handicraft.

  I was allowed entry into the city without naysay, given stern warning not to cause trouble. The guards had no cause for concern. Placidity is my preferred state. The sun-kissed and stone paved streets of Whiterun were bustling with people going about their lives. Buildings shared a common timber design with king post roofs and scale-like shingling. Sounds of civilization filled the windless air.

  If I had to describe the locale with one word, I would settle for ‘fair’ – fair in color, climate, and temperament.

  Before seeing the Jarl, I thought it best to complete some commerce. Six hundred odd Septims were in my possession. I could afford to pay for proper crossbow repairs. I also requested a set of armor to be fitted by a smith. It would be a simple ensemble of leather, minus a helmet, for no one ever tailored them properly to shape, and I refused to saw off my horns. These two expenses alone almost depleted my fund. I have never claimed to be a good haggler.

  Whiterun is divided into three districts, distinguished by elevation: the Plains District, Wind District, and Cloud District. Dragonsreach comprised Cloud. I walked past the merchant stands and shops in Plains, up to a city plaza in Wind. The centerpiece was a large dead tree called the Gildergreen. It stood as a symbol for Kynareth, the Cyrodiilic pantheon’s goddess of wind, air and sky – called Kyne by some Nords. Though truthfully told, it seemed a rather unfitting symbol. Perhaps it was once, when it was alive.

  I followed a steady stream of aqueducts and waterfalls up rock-laden stairways, eyes narrowed in the sunlight’s glare. Upon the city’s highest terrace, a bridge crossed over a man-made basin. It was my final passing point to Dragonsreach. I stepped into the Nordic palace.

  The antechamber was immense, constructed almost solely out of timber with abstract relief work. The wood gave off an unfamiliar smell. Latticed windows lined the walls leading to the grand hall, where dining tables stretched the length of a great fire pit. Exquisite rugs and hanging banners were awash in soft firelight. Maids worked busily, their brooms brushing like unsynchronized metronomes. The Jarl, Balgruuf the Greater, sat slouched in his throne at the back of the room, his Steward in attendance.

  Balgruuf seemed a stalwart Nord, his middle aged features set with a crop of blonde hair and a well-trimmed goatee hanging long from his chin. He wore regal attire, colorful embroidered cloth, and golden circlet inlaid with jewels. These were my first impressions of Skyrim nobility. As I walked toward the throne, I froze. A skull that once belonged to a creature of notable size hung from the wall behind the Jarl.

  Its angular shape struck me at once – it was the skull of a dragon.

  Though unpleasantly reminding of Helgen, the sight was a revelation.

  The monsters could die.

  “…cannot afford to act rashly in times like these. If the news from Helgen is true, well, there’s no telling what it means!”

  A conversation between the Jarl and his steward slowly came into earshot.

  “What would you have me do then? Nothing?” Balgruuf retorted.

  I strained to listen further, only to be stopped by the Jarl’s housecarl, a Dunmer woman clad in leather armor. Her steel sword was drawn in my presence.

  “What’s the meaning of this interruption? Jarl Balgruuf is not receiving visitors,” she chided.

  “I bring a message from Gerdur in Riverwood,” I said. “The village is in danger.”

  The Dunmer drew an inquisitive look.

  “As housecarl, my job is to deal with all dangers that threaten the Jarl or his people. You have my attention. Now explain yourself.”

  The Jarl and his steward had stopped conversing, their interest on me. My eyes flicked briefly in their direction.

  “Forgive me, but I was told to bring this message directly to the Jarl.”

  “Whatever you have to say to the Jarl, you can say to me,” the housecarl replied, eyes narrowing. “I’m starting to think–”

  “It’s alright, Irileth,” the Jarl spoke up. “I want to hear what he has to say.”

  The woman let out a huff. Sheathing her weapon, she withdrew to Balgruuf’s side as I stepped toward the throne. Large fire pits cast in bronze stood on each side, throwing misshapen shadows of the dragon’s skull back against the cobble wall. The sight was unsettling, out of place amidst the palace’s warm ambience.

  “What’s this about Riverwood being in danger?” the Jarl inquired. “Who are you?”

  “Merely a wanderer, brought here by happenstance,” I said. “A dragon has destroyed Helgen. Gerdur fears that her village may be next. I share this fear as well.”

  “Gerdur? Owns the lumber mill, if I’m not mistaken. Pillar of the community. Not prone to flights of fancy.” Balgruuf stroked his beard with an air of hesitation. “And you’re sure Helgen was destroyed… by a dragon? This wasn’t some Stormcloak raid gone wrong?”

  My replying gaze was firm.

  “I was there when it happened. I saw everything.”

  The Jarl sat up. Guards standing nearby risked glances at me.

  “You were at Helgen?” the Jarl exclaimed softly. “You saw this dragon with your own eyes?”

  “Yes. It razed the entire village, cut down a garrison of Imperial legionaries,” I said. “They were preparing to execute Ulfric Stormcloak when it happened.”

  “Ulfric,” Balgruuf muttered. “I should have guessed he would be mixed up in all of this…”

  He turned to his Steward, a bald and feeble looking Imperial, wearing a fine blue coat of gambeson.

  “What do you say now, Proventus? Shall we continue to trust in the strength of our walls? Against a dragon?”

  He was about to speak when Irileth stepped forward.

  “My Jarl, we should send troops to Riverwood at once,” she advised. “It’s in the most immediate danger. If that dragon is lurking in the mountains–”

  “The Jarl of Falkreath will view that as a provocation!” Proventus interrupted, flustered. “He’ll assume we’re preparing to join Ulfric’s side and attack him! We should not–”

  “Enough!” Balgruuf barked. “I’ll not stand by while a dragon burns my hold and slaughters my people!” He regarded his housecarl. “Irileth, send a detachment to Riverwood at once.”

  “Yes my Jarl,” the woman replied, heading off on her way. I was happy. Balgruuf seemed to sense the urgency of the matter. He placed the safety of his subjects over political concerns. The Jarl’s eyes met mine.

  “This is vital information you’ve brought to me. You’ve done Whiterun a service, and I won’t forget it.” Balgruuf turned to one of his guardsmen. “You there. Fetch me one of Eorlund’s blades from the armory. This Argonian deserves a reward.”

  “Yes my lord,” the man saluted.

  Proventus looked defeated, but otherwise equable.

  “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll return to my duties,” he said, walking away.

  Within moments the guard returned, possessing a scabbarded sword. He handed the weapon to me. It was heavy, but not unwieldily so.

  “Take this as a small token of my esteem,” the Jarl insisted.

  I admired the look of the sheath’s deep brown leather, accented with steelwork. Clasping the hilt of the sword, I felt a slight eagerness to examine the blade.

  “May I?” I asked, seeking the Jarl’s permission. He nodded. I drew the sword half-way. Gleaming light from the room’s fires played along its flawless surface of steel. Unabashed admiration crossed my face. Sharp, sturdy, flexible – this weapon was masterfully made. The blades of my spawning ground seemed like kitchen knives by comparison.

  Was it normal for Jarls to present gifts such as this?

  “Incredible,” I spoke softly. “This is far more than I deserve.”           

  “Keep it well,” the Jarl said with a smirk. “That sword is made of skyforge steel. You won’t find better craftsmanship in all of Skyrim.”

  I shut the blade in its holder, resting it at my side.     

  “You have my sincerest thanks,” I said, smiling slightly. “If there is nothing further, I had best be off. Please excuse me.”

  Turning, I began to walk away, clearing three paces before the Jarl spoke once more.

  “Wait. There is something more you could do for me.”

  I paused.

  “I’m certain there is,” I replied, facing Balgruuf again, “but I must decline. This one is no sword for hire.”

  “You went out of your way to help deliver this message,” the Jarl said. “Riverwood will have its aid. But the dragons are a threat we still don’t understand.” I listened intently, though some deep root of me felt apprehensive. “You survived Helgen. You’ve seen what they can do. And while you’re certainly no Nord, you look capable.”

  “What do you want from me?” I asked warily. Balgruuf stood from his throne.

  “Come. Let’s go find Farengar, my court wizard. He’s been looking into a matter related to these dragons and… rumors of dragons.”

  Balgruuf began making his way toward the east wing of the palace. Reluctantly I followed. Refusal was within my right, to escape the whirlwind of events that had swept me, there and then.

  But if there was anything I could do to help confront the dragon’s threat…

  I knew none of these people, the Nords of Skyrim, and I understood them even less. Yet this did not matter. Their lives were at risk so long as that monster still flew. As with Ralof before, I would not sit by and watch. I would act.

  Resting a hand on the pommel of my newly gifted weapon, I felt an old icy comfort in possessing a blade once more. Much like the people of this land, it was a stranger to me, as I was a stranger to it.

  Acquaintance would come in time. The most I could do was think of a proper name for the sword.

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