• ‘Huh, isn’t it supposed to be raining?’


    Cyre was perched atop the Solitude gates, his legs swinging back and forth as he dangled them over the edge. Below, a large crowd watched on as a funeral procession passed through.


    An elderly female Orc stood beside him. Clad in the thickest of steel armour – as befitted her name. She watched disapprovingly as Cyre took another mouthful of Nord mead. Then deposited the empty bottle beside the others he had emptied since taking his seat atop the gate. Realising he wasn’t going to explain, she spoke up.




    Turning to look at her, Cyre paused as if to think. ‘Well, it’s a funeral; doesn’t it usually rain during funerals?’


    She punched him.


    ‘Ow!’ Cyre swayed precariously before managing to stabilise himself. ‘Do you want me to be joining him? I’d really rather not.’


    She paused, fist raised as though to strike him again. ‘Hmm, it’s tempting… but I think I won’t. I can’t be bothered going to another funeral any time soon. They’re always too stuffy.’ Lowering her fist, she instead grabbed the bottle Cyre was currently grasping for and took a swig of it herself. Only to end up hacking it back up again.


    ‘This stuff is horrible. For tusk’s sake, how can you drink this shit?’


    Once again, Cyre seemed to stop and think before answering. This time the pause was longer, and she started to think he’d forgotten what she’d said. ‘I said, how…’


    ‘Well it’s a horrible day init it? Plus he liked it.’


    As he spoke, Cyre looked towards the body which was the reason they were there. It was being carried by a group of young soldiers led by three grouchy-looking old Nords. Lydia and Jordis had stood by him when he faced down Alduin and countless Daedra Lords, so no-one had questioned their rite to carry his body. What was most surprising was the presence of the positively ancient Balgruuf. There had been protests at the start, with some saying he was too old to manage it. The first person to suggest that had been sent to the healers with a bloody nose and two black eyes.


    ‘He would have hated all this.’ Cyre gestured at what was happening below and then continued to talk. ‘When I first met him, he was nothing more than a pup fresh off the teat. Darling and I had ourselves a good laugh when he challenged us with only a wooden sword…’


    The Orc stood listening to him rant. She’d heard all this before, back when they first learned of the Dragonborn’s death. Cyre had disappeared for days afterwards. Each night she’d been kept awake by the cries of elf and beast alike. At the time she’d decided it was best to let Cyre and the Beast grieve, even if it meant she and anyone within several miles went without sleep. Speaking of which:


    ‘What does the Beast think of you drinking this much mead?’


    Cyre didn’t even look away from the procession when he answered, ‘It was Darling’s idea… Well, I think he just wanted the smell of it around. Something to help us remember. But why waste terrible mead?’ He started to laugh at his own little joke, but it was cut off by a sob.


    The Orc stepped forward to embrace him, but he was up on his feet – a couple of bottles in hand – before she could. She watched as he stumbled towards the stairs which lead down to the street. He stopped when he reached them and turned to her, ‘Well Borgakh, you coming?’


    Before she could respond he had already started down the stairs.


    Looking over the edge, Borgakh could see that the procession had finally reached its destination. The newly-built monument in the centre of the city.


    By the time she caught up to him, Cyre had forced his way through the crowd to be standing next to the Dragonborn’s body. He was pouring the contents of each bottle onto the Dragonborn’s face. Other than herself, there were only four others who were not shocked at this apparent show of disrespect.


    Lydia, Jordis and Balgruuf stood watching in silence, tears streaming down their faces. Apparently someone had told the guards to stop him, because they’d started to move towards Cyre – some with weapons readied.


    Borgakh was starting to move to Cyre’s defence, when her attention was caught by an elderly woman dressed all in black.


    ‘Guards, stand down. Leave him be.’


    Jarl Elisif the Fair – even after all these years, she still lived up to her name. It had been years since Borgakh had first met her. At the time she’d only just left her Stronghold with Cyre. She was still slightly surprised by how powerful some of Cyre’s friends were.


    The guards, while confused, acknowledge her orders and stepped back, leaving Cyre to continue what he was doing.


    Borgakh made her way over to Elisif’s side and offered her thanks for intervening.


    Before Elisif could respond, Cyre turned towards them, tears streaming down his face, and spoke.


    ‘Oh, there it is.’


    A Table of Cyre


5 Comments   |   Paws and 3 others like this.
  • Paws
    Paws   ·  August 5, 2016
    (nah) << This is the official Golden Fool Smiley.
    • Golden Fool
      Golden Fool
      (nah) << This is the official Golden Fool Smiley.
        ·  August 5, 2016
      At first I thought that was a skull of some sort. But now I think it would be better suited to Cyre or Wondergoat :P
      • Paws
        Golden Fool
        Golden Fool
        Golden Fool
        At first I thought that was a skull of some sort. But now I think it would be better suited to Cyre or Wondergoat :P
          ·  August 5, 2016
        It' a shit picture of a goat but a goat is a goat and forever associated with Cyre (nah)
  • Jeffrey
    Jeffrey   ·  June 28, 2016
    Look forward to hearing more of his tales.
  • The Long-Chapper
    The Long-Chapper   ·  June 28, 2016
    That was weird and cool at the same time.