“If the inscriptions I discovered are to be believed, the results were nothing short of spectacular: the items produced by the Forge were artifacts of immense power, imbued from the moment of their creation with powerful enchantments. The Dwarven alliance shattered almost immediately, as the four city-states and their rivals attempted to claim the Forge.”
1st of Morning Star 4E, 203
There are certain things that are just impossible to forget. Either because they are really unpleasant, pleasant, or just terrifying. In this case, it was the unpleasant that Grulmar couldn't get out of his head. Mostly because it was happening all over again.
He was sitting on a ground of cold stone, his back leaning upon more of the same. Just as cold, just as hard. Grulmar struggled to control his shivering. The guards decided to search him, confiscating his leather jacket, bandolier, and even his boots, leaving him barefoot. He shifted his foot so it wouldn’t fall asleep and frowned when it passed over something really sticky. Ya don’t want to guess what that is, ya nose is already guessing for ya. There was the stench of piss and shit, and it was mostly that stench he couldn't get out of his head. He had already been in a few prisons, so he remembered the stench well. I don't need a tuskin' reminder. He looked through the bars at the guard sitting at the table, playing with a dagger.
The cell wasn't wider than a step and half and about three steps long. The bars were made out of a rusty iron with a lock that would yield to a lockpick in seconds. But what's the point? Dreth will catch up very soon and then everythin' will be fine, right? No better place to wait for him than in prison…
“Hey, Grulmar,” shouted Decimus from the cell to the right to his. “Could you please remind me what the fuck were you thinking? Looting houses while a dragon was attacking the city?”
Grulmar sighed and shifted his weigh because his arse was already starting to hurt from sitting on that cold hard floor. “Ya seemed to have it all covered.”
“The last time I saw you, you were running to hide in the Palace and if you ask me, you should have gone there, because if it were not for you, we wouldn't be in this shithole,” continued Decimus, raising his voice. I can feel your face going red, Uncle. “I mean, normally when you get an audience with a Jarl, you fucking hide your loot, for fuck's sake! Family heirloom sticking out of your pocket...idiot!”
“So it’s all my fault?” Grulmar snapped. “I wasn't the one who threatened the Jarl's guards with death by yer sword if they didn’t let the stupid lizards into the city. And when the almighty Jarl, Ulfric Farts-under-cloak, leader of the Everyone-farts-under-their-cloaks Rebellion, brought that up, what did ya do? Oh, I remember now. Yer precise words were: Go fuck yerself!”
There was a thunderous roar of a laugh and the sound like somebody was slapping his thigh with his hand several times from the cell left of Grulmar's. To the Orc, it felt as If the wall he was leaning against trembled from the laughter. Maybe because Äelberon was leaning against it the same way he did. More laughter.
“FARTS-under-cloak!” The Elf repeated, erupting in laughter again.
“Will you stop laughing, you moron!” barked Decimus and Grulmar shook his head. The laughter toned down to rumbling giggles, ending with a gust of air. “The lord of Nordic superiority would have let us go, if you hadn’t broken his fucking nose!”
“He had it coming,” replied Äelberon, the tone changing faster than an arrow flies. “He does not care for the people of his city. Barring the gates of the Palace to people seeking refuge. Saying it is full when it isn't is—“
“No, no, no, no,” Grulmar shook his head. “This is not how it works, Shiny.”
“Not how what works?” The Altmer asked, his voice muffled a bit by the cell. Damn, do you even fit in there, Sir Shiny?
“Ya ever been to prison?”
“Yes.” The voice sounded suddenly tired.
Grulmar blinked. That wasn’t the answer ya were expectin’. He heard Decimus make a funny-sounding moan, like something wrong had been brought up, and Grulmar furrowed his brow. “Ah fuck, well then ya should know better! There's a strict rule that ya have to put blame on the guy next to ya, say somethin' funny, and then the guy has to put blame on ya, or on the other guy, sayin' somethin' funny too. So, ya can't go all serious on our arses, we're just common criminals ya know.”
Grulmar could hear the Altmer shift his position with a groan. Bet yer arse hurts now too.
“Except he's a fucking criminal now too, you idiot,” Decimus growled and Grulmar heard him spit. “Äelberon, the criminal Dragonborn. That has a nice ring to it.”
“You should stop spitting, Decimus,” chuckled Äelberon, the humor returning to his voice. “The floor isn't exactly level. You might be swimming in your own spittle very soon.”
Decimus made a loud noise, as if he was drawing every last nasty fucker from his nose into his mouth and then he spat, making the Altmer laugh again. This time Grulmar saw the spit flying out of the Old Blade’s cell, hitting the ground with a slimy thwack about half-way towards the guard.
“Hey, what a good idea,” laughed Grulmar, eyeing the guard. “Let's make a competition out of it. Whoever manages to spit on Tin Head over there wins. Because we may be stuck here for some time, ya know.”
The guard turned his attention towards Grulmar and rose from his chair, heading towards the cells. “Look!” laughed Grulmar, pointing his finger. “He's even coming closer to make it easier for us.”
“Why don't you shut your mouth, Orc, or I'll shut it for you!” the guard threatened, striking the bars of his cell with his dagger a few times.
“With what? Yer little truncheon, there?” laughed Grulmar again. He pointed at his tusks. “Ya see these? They leave nasty bite-marks.”
Grulmar heard the guard grit his teeth and he was expecting the guard to open the door to his cell to kick the attitude out of one smart-ass Orc who doesn't know when to shut up. Grulmar glared at him. Come on then, give me yer best shot, tusker. Ya won't be worse than anyone else—.
“Friend,” interrupted Äelberon calmly from his cell. “Would you bring me some water, please? Something to wash away the blood?” He chuckled shyly and Grulmar was curious as to what expression that tuskin’ Elf was wearing. Saint Shiny the Pious. “The Jarl summoned me so quickly that I had not time to wash after the dragon,” Shiny’s voice then grew weary, “after seeing to my fallen Shield-Brother... Dragon blood is quite sticky when it dries.”
The guard's mood suddenly changed and he bowed his head. “Of course, Dragonborn.”
“I am just an Old Mer from Dusk, friend, nothing more, nothing less.” Grulmar listened to Aelberon’s voice, the tone of it. It was almost like a whisper, gentle, but not weak. A whisper that garnered respect, but at the same time didn’t demand it.
Grulmar saw the guard walk away from his line of sight, towards the entrance, but then the footsteps paused and the guard spoke again. “I...,” the guard murmured hesitantly, as if he didn't know what he wanted to say. “I wanted to thank you, Dragonborn.”
“Others sacrificed to bring down the beast and lives were lost.” The Altmer sighed, the tone becoming slightly heavier. “I do not deserve your thanks. I did not do right by the people of Windhelm.” Grulmar heard Decimus shift uncomfortably in his cell and sigh.
“Not do right?” The Guard questioned. “Ysmir’s Beard! If it weren’t for you, Dragonborn, Windhelm would have been nothing but a smoking pile of rubble. It ain't right that the Jarl put you in here. I wish there was something I could do…”
“You had your orders, friend. I understand,” continued Äelberon. The guard murmured something inaudible and then Grulmar heard the sounds of footsteps moving away again. Maybe ya should learn this shit from him, thought Grulmar. Would save ya some trouble. Maybe preventing from getting yer arse kicked all the time—
“But I have forgotten myself. What is your name, friend?” Äelberon suddenly asked, interrupting Grulmar’s thoughts. The guard's steps halted and Grulmar heard something like scratching. Nervous scratching.
“Skjoggi. Skjoggi Red-Plank.”
“Thank you, Skjoggi Red-Plank,” Äelberon said and Grulmar could almost hear the respect in that voice. Damn, he even managed to say Red-Plank with respect.
Skjoggi grunted something and then his steps became distant as he disappeared down the hall.
“Seems like ya have found yerself a new friend, Shiny,” Grulmar snickered while he changed position, trying to find something more comfortable. Nothing worked, but eventually he settled for leaning his back against the wall and closing his eyes. “Ya are probably goin' to need friends. I mean, ya are Dragonborn and all that shit, yet killin' one dragon nearly got Erik killed.”
He heard a heavy sigh from Äelberon’s cell. Oh yeah, ya regret that, eh? He's not a tuskin' dragonslayer. Ya are, so why don't ya do yer job properly?
“Shut up, Grulmar,” growled Decimus from the next cell. “Or—“
“Or what?” interrupted the Orc with a sneer. “Ya gonna break my jaw or somethin'? Trust me, ya will have yer chance. Farts-under-cloak is goin' to throw us into the Pit come mornin' and if I know him like I know him, he'll pit us against each other. So save yer breath, Uncle.”
“Let him finish, Decimus,” countered Äelberon. In that voice he tuskin’ uses all the time when, when, Grulmar couldn’t think of when. “If he wants words with me, let him have them.”
Grulmar bared his tusks in suppressed anger. I'm not a child, Shiny. I have no interest in your elevated behavior. “Ya want to hear what I have to say? Fine,” he growled. “Ya are the tuskin' Dragonborn! So why are there dragons everywhere, killin' people still? After a year? All those deaths fall on yer head, because ya aren't stoppin' anythin'. Alduin flies wherever he wants and ya do nothin'. Other people have to bleed instead of ya, but ya are the tuskin' destined hero who has to stop all this shit! I do understand ya can't be everywhere, but ya aren't doing enough!”
“You are right. I am not,” admitted Äelberon with a slow exhale and Grulmar's eyes narrowed.
“And ya are even admitting that,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief. “So why in the Oblivion aren't ya doing more?!”
“Because Alduin will be my death, Grulmar… my death.” the Altmer whispered so quietly Grulmar almost didn't hear him. He noticed great pain in those words, he noticed...fear? “And while I am not afraid of Alduin or even of dying,” no, not fear, “I want to live. I now have… reasons to live. It is so selfish of me, I know, shameful…” He let his voice trail off.
“Äelberon, don’t think that way. Gru, stop it.” Warned Decimus.
Sharp claws rose in front of his eyes. His limbs were frozen, unable to move, held down. Claws slowly lowered towards his chest. Cold, alien eyes all around him; eyes within eyes. Staring. Sharp pain! Agony! Screams! Ribs cracking! Screams! A still pumping heart rising in front of his eyes. Pounding metal, and a grey, sad rain. His heart! Darkness…
Grulmar groaned, shaking his head in an attempt to get the image out. The blood… so much blood. He swallowed hard, fighting the bile that rose to the back of his throat.
“You saw?” whispered Äelberon out of the blue and Grulmar's eyes sharply rose, finding the wall, gazing through the wall, where Äelberon was probably sitting, leaning against it. He could almost picture the Elf in his mind, the broad shoulders stooped, the head bent. Blood upon sad lily flowers, infinite drops...
“I have no idea what ya are talking about,” he snapped, shaking his head as more images flooded his mind. Images that he would never be able to get out of his head ever. Why did ya have to show me this, you tuskin' bastard? Yes, ya, inside my head! I didn't want this!
“I do not know how, but you know,” continued Äelberon, his voice becoming strange; distant yet more powerful.
“What the fuck are you two are talking about now?” Grulmar heard Decimus from a distance, the images and sounds in his mind forming a strong barrier that wasn't willing to let anything else through. Eyes within eyes…
“I don't know what I saw!” he screamed at Äelberon.
After his outburst, there was a silence, the images ceased drilling a burning hole in his head and he found himself lying on the ground, curled up in a ball, shaking uncontrollably.
The Altmer broke that silence, the tone soft-spoken and caring, but mixed with bitterness. “Perhaps you are right, Decimus, that the Gods and Daedra are cruel.”
“Ah, Dammit. See, what you did Gru, got him in one of his moods again. Dammit.” Cursed the Imperial. “Fuck!”
“No, do not blame him. I accept what they have done to me, but to put this upon another. Grulmar, I do not know how, but you saw what I saw and for that I am sorry. What I see when I absorb a dragon’s soul is not something I would wish upon anyone. The day I face Alduin is the day he will do that to me, tear my heart from my chest and then where would the world be? Now you know why I delay. Different dragons show me different things, but the dragon today? He was very close to Alduin, a devoted servant, and his kind always show me that. An image I have been seeing since I was a little boy. Nightmares, visions… The future… my future.”
Grulmar felt something coiling around his gut, something cold and hot at the same time. It was like that old bitch Tilma was making a mixing bowl out of his stomach, stirring and stirring fast with her wooden spoon, and in that bowl…was everything. Good, bad...empathy, rage, sadness, fear, love, hate...Everything. “You tuskin' idiot,” he muttered through his lips that were so cold now he almost didn't feel them.
“What?” asked Äelberon. Not because he didn't hear him, but because he didn't understand. Stupid Altmer! Overthinking everything! Not understanding shit!
He crawled to the wall neighboring Äelberon’s cell and rose to his knees. “You heard me, you big dumb Altmer! Just because you see some weird shit every time you kill some flying lizard, ya are giving up!”
“I never said I was giving up!” It was the Altmer’s turn to snap.
“Gru! Stop! Äelberon, remember what I told you. He does this. Gru, you chicken shit.”
“What if that's precisely what Alduin wants?” Grulmar hit the wall with his fist, hearing something crack, pain shooting up his arm, but he hit the wall again. In anger, in frustration. In fear. “With every image, something in you breaks, sapping your strength. And you let him. You are slowly giving up!”
“No!”
“Yes!” Everything was now drowned out by the pounding of a heart, Tilma mixing and mixing, a terrible smile on her face, dark eyes covered in ash. Not the old woman’s eyes. “That's why he's sending you those images! He wants you scared. Weak! Sahlo!”
An odd silence and Grulmar felt the atmosphere change.
“Sahlo? Wo los hi wah faan zey sahlo?. Voth wo los tinvaak? Fahraal!” The Altmer quickly asked, the tone now demanding, even though he was still whispering. Grulmar heard something in him release a dark chuckle, saw that Old Woman stir faster, and he felt like he was going to explode. “Lif mok nu, hi wuth draafraan mahkur!” snarled Äelberon, pounding on the wall. “Rok los ahk goraan fah daar ahrk dreh ni mindoraan!”
“What the fuck is going on?! Äelberon?! What's happening to him?!” shouted Decimus, shaking the bars of his cell, trying to break them down.
“Nii los hi wo dreh ni mindoraan, Wuth Rovaniik.” Grulmar mumbled before dropping to the floor, breathing heavily. The little Tilma in his stomach slowed down her manic stirring and her lined, sneering face began to fade away enough that he was finally able to think straight.
“Wuth Rovaniik? Druv dreh hi faan zey tol?” There was an exhale from Äelberon’s cell. “Why?” He whispered, only to pause. “Never mind. It is finished.” Grulmar heard what sounded like a hand sliding down the wall. “It is finished.” The Dragonborn repeated.
“What is finished? What the fuck? Äelberon—“Decimus started.
“Grulmar? Are you alright?” asked Äelberon and Grulmar chuckled his own chuckle again. Oh, tusk me. He really cares.
He groaned and rolled on his back. “I think I have a broken arm,” he murmured and looked at the ceiling. “I hate this shit,” he gritted through his teeth.
“So do I.” The Altmer groaned wearily and Grulmar could hear him adjusting his position yet again, releasing an agitated growl.
“WHAT SHIT?” Bellowed Decimus, only to slam his back against the wall of his cell in frustration when Shiny didn’t answer. Grulmar bet he had his hands crossed over his chest and everything. “Ah, fuck, fine, don’t explain shit, you old fart asshole.”
It was a strange sensation he was experiencing. There was a light and he felt like he was swimming in it. Through it. Bathed by it. The light was warm, soothing, yet numbing at the same time, washing everything away. Washing away the pain. While he was in the light, he thought he heard praying, the murmuring of words, the quiet rumble of his Harbinger’s voice in another language. It was so easy to give himself to it. To let everything go. Then he remembered.
Fire. Roar. Claws.
Erik let his eyes open, only to see an arching ceiling of deep grey stone, blurry at first, but then becoming clearer with each successive blink. Where am I? He tried to get up but the sudden pain in his side stopped him, making him groan. Ha raised his head enough to see bandages across his chest and most of his arm, the blood remnants on the bandages dried a dark brown-red. The arm that was lying on his chest. He tried to move it, but… it just wouldn’t.
For a moment he panicked. He wasn't sure if he was hallucinating. What if I lost my arm? He was drowning in that panic, even while he was seeing his arm with his very own eyes, even while he felt the pain in the muscles and sinews. He felt fear and his mind was projecting that fear, his heart pounding in his head.
But why I can't move my bloody arm? His groans became frantic and higher-pitched as he tried again and again to get up, only for gentle hands to appear and push him back into...bed? Golden hands. His were not golden, his Harbinger’s. They were pale, almost white, and strong. These were delicate hands, with long fingers...
“You should rest,” whispered Lareyne and he looked at her, confused. What is she doing here? Where is here? He looked around and saw the same cold stone from the ceiling all around him. Everything lit by dozens of candles that cast ominous shadows all over the walls. Flickering.
“Where am I? What happened?” He squeezed her hand while his eyes scanned his surroundings.
“You're in the Temple of Talos. In Windhelm,” she replied, gently stroking his damp hair. Erik relaxed after that touch. It was so tender, so caring. Something that Tilma did at Jorrvaskr. Erik swallowed hard; something his mother would have been doing if she hadn’t died when he was very little. Maybe she was doing it just now and I don't remember it. “There was a dragon, remember?” she continued and he fixed his eyes on her face. She looked tired and smelled of smoke, but still beautiful.
A dragon. Yes, Erik remembered, slowly nodding, finally acknowledging the images that crept back into his mind. He had plunged his sword into that beast and then there was darkness. He looked at his left arm again, with four blood-stained bandages around it. Two above his elbow and two above his wrist. I tried to block the dragon's claws with my arm. He looked at his hand and he gasped. His fingers were fixed in their position, looking something like an eagle’s claws, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't move them. “What happened to my arm?” he rasped, trying to suppress another wave of panic.
“Shh-shh,” she tried to calm him. “Your arm was literally torn to pieces, bones broken.” She bent her head, going a little pale it seemed to Erik in the candlelight. “I had never seen an injury like it. We thought that you would die, Erik.” Lareyne shook her head in disbelief. “He, the Priest of Auri-El, brought you back, healing the bones and most of the muscles and sinews. He put your arm back together, glowing with the light of Magnus.” She looked up to the ceiling before facing him again. “You do not see such magicks much anymore. He seemed reluctant to leave, the damage too severe in his eyes when the Jarl summoned him, but then they took Decimus and he had to leave. The healers here continued for a bit, only to stop, saying it would take time to properly heal.”
They took Decimus? Why?
He looked at that crooked talon that was now his hand and laid his head heavily on the bed, closing his eyes. This was a hard pill to swallow. Every fight, every battle was always about trying not to get killed. It was either life or death. He never admitted to himself that there could be something in-between, or something even worse than death in the life of a mercenary, of a fighter. He never allowed himself to think about what could happen if he survived, but was left maimed. Crippled. And here he was.
Broken.
He forced himself to smile at Lareyne. “I'll survive, that's all that matters. I still have my hand, which means I can probably use it to some degree.”
“Of course you will,” she smiled, caressing him, though he could see something in the way her eyebrows furrowed. It was so small the motion, but he still saw it.
“Some aren't that lucky,” he murmured.
He heard a powerful knocking coming from the front of the Temple, so powerful that Erik could feel the walls of the temple quake. Then a gust of wind as the door to the Temple opened. Äelberon? There was an argument outside the bedroom, hurried words of apology from the priests and then a low voice commanding them into silence. A figure stepped inside the room.
Erik's eyes widened and he propped himself up to a sitting position, ignoring the agonizing pain burning in his side. “Jarl Ulfric,” he bowed his head at least, because that was all he could do. Shor’s Bones! He was sitting half naked in front of Jarl Ulfric!
The Jarl was dressed in his famous armor consisting of heavy plates and massive pauldrons forged into the shapes of roaring bears, with old Nordic ornaments all over them. The rest of his body was covered in chain mail, with steel gauntlets, a steel cuirass, and over all that was a bright blue belted cloak. Stormcloak. There was a noble smile on Ulfric's face, though it was ruined by the fresh bruises around his nose—a broken nose?—but the smile morphed into a scowl when the Jarl noticed Lareyne sitting at his bedside.
“What is that Elf doing here? You came to mock our god, bitch?” he growled. Erik could feel Lareyne tense against him. “Galmar, throw her out!”
“Jarl Ulfric—“Erik tried to protest only for Galmar Stone-Fist to appear, cutting him off. The bear of a Nord grabbed Lareyne by the arm and yanked her away.
“Don't worry, lad.” Galmar murmured with a blaze in his eye that Erik found unsettling. “I'll get this poisonous influence as far from you as possible,” He turned his attention to Lareyne. “What were you thinking? Walking in here?! Profaning our temple!”
“I have no quarrel with your god,” she cried, struggling against Galmar’s rough grasp and Erik wanted to say something—anything—in her defense. She had been kind to him and only now did he realize how much Lareyne truly cared about him. She walked into a temple consecrated to a god her whole race hated. He was about to open his mouth, but then he saw Ulfric's cold, calculating stare in the faint candlelight and Erik had the sudden heavy feeling that if he opened his mouth, Lareyne would die. So he was silent. The door shut with a heavy bang. Only then did Ulfric relax his features, letting a smile appear again, though his Skyrim blue eyes did snap. The Jarl removed his gauntlets and took a seat at a chair by Erik’s bedside.
The young Nord had problems even sitting up, but he couldn’t just lay in bed while Ulfric Stormcloak himself came to see him—for whatever reasons. Here was the man who alone had enough strength and willpower to defy the Empire with his very existence. A man who had rallied people to take up arms against the Empire that betrayed them, to die for him. Talos bless him!
“You did well, lad,” said Ulfric suddenly, startling Erik. “With the dragon. Everyone in the city knows that it was you who landed the blow. One of the guards on the walls saw how you plunged your sword deep into that beast's side. Everyone knows it was dying from that moment on.”
“I—“ Erik started. A raised hand from the Jarl silenced him.
“No need for words. You are a hero of Windhelm, lad. You do honor to the Companions and all Nords.” All the time Jarl Ulfric was speaking, Erik was wondering where he got that broken nose. It made the Jarl’s voice lose some of its resonance, a little wheeze sounding between breaths, the voice now congested. “I know the Companions tend to stay neutral in times of war, but I would like to have you by my side. You are a true Nord, lad, just as many of your Shield-Siblings are. Maybe if you saw the truth—that no one can stand idle while the fight for our freedom rages on—others would follow you.”
Erik coughed and immediately regretted that, as the pain became like a burning liquid in his chest. “My Jarl, I would like to join you. But my Harbinger, the Dragonborn. We are helping though, the meadery, the families—“
Ulfric angrily rose from his chair and walked towards a wall lined with candles. He waved his hand over the little flames, faced Erk again and growled, his face flushing with growing anger. “That Altmer isn't a true Nord. There is no honor in peddling mead like an old woman. Blankets and food for children and families will not win wars. Letters telling me how—“the Jarl took a deep breath and composed himself, reaching for his gauntlets. His next words were spoken while he slipped them on. “My time here grows short and I must leave, but, lad, why would an Altmer—or Redguards, or Bretons—fight for Nords? We are alone, with only our courage and the strength of our arms.”
Erik nodded, but felt his brow furrow. Wasn’t killing dragons fighting for Nords? Sure, he wasn’t fighting the Empire, but weren’t dragons worse than the Empire? Erik wasn’t sure what to say. It seemed like Skyrim was in two wars now. His Harbinger was fighting one and Jarl Ulfric was fighting another. “I agree with you, my Jarl, but I can't join you, not until I have words with my Harbinger. Seek his council. I am sorry.”
The Jarl sighed, adjusted a fastening on one of his gauntlets, and turned back to him, looking him straight in the eye. “A Nord seeking council of an Altmer? That is a strange thing.”
“He’s my Harbinger. All us Companions go to him for advice.”
“Yes, he certainly has risen among your ranks very quickly.” Ulfric smirked. “What? He was among you barely three months and named Harbinger? It makes sense, though, Altmer are an ambitious, achieving people. But what is that thing you Companions say? Every man—“
“Every man his own, every woman her own.” Erik nodded.
“Yes, a worthy creed. Yet you still seek your Harbinger’s permission? Does he not abide by it?” Ulfric coldly replied.
“No, it’s not like that at all.” Erik shook his head, quickly, at first, and then slowing down, when he realized how much it hurt. “He would let me go, he encourages us to carve our own paths. I don’t need his permission, but we are like a family, my Jarl.” Erik bent his head. “I don’t have much family. Da’s in Rorikstead and wanted me to be a farmer, Ma’s long dead. Wouldn’t you want words with your family if you were going to go off to war?”
“I understand, lad. A man has to stand up for his honor. Just make sure his council is true. Elves are inherently dishonest. Experience has told me this.” Ulfric released a bitter chuckle and his eyes grew faraway, as if he was remembering something troubling from his past. “Knightly trappings mean nothing. That Old Mer is a sly one, like a fox, best watch yourself. And always honor your people, lad.”
“I will, my Jarl. He says to do that as well.”
The Jarl went to the door leading out of the bedroom, but paused to look over his shoulder, the jaw clenching. “Saying isn’t doing. You killed a dragon, lad, never forget that. He didn’t kill it, you did. You struck the death blow. You saved this city, he didn’t. You should have been Dragonborn, a Nord, not him. A Nord.” A hard pound on the frame of the door with that bear of a palm. The Jarl then released a gust of air and with that, he left, leaving Erik to stare at the door. Confused.
What was all that about?
He looked at his arm again and had to force himself not to cry. Now that he was alone, only himself and his injury, he felt like a broken toy. He understood now. The Jarl was here out of pity. He didn't really mean it when he said he wanted you by his side, because who would want a broken man who can't use his hand? No one, especially Ulfric Stormcloak. He needs strong Nords, strong of both arms and spirit. And right now...I'm neither.
I'm broken.
“Are you finished yet?” Galar asked impatiently. “This animal…reeks.”
Serana heard Allie snort and stomp and she smiled when she heard Galar take a step away from the charger with a grunt of disdain. That horse knows you don’t like her. I’d love for her to bite your withered ass, but I also like her and don’t want her to have to taste something so disgusting.
“Then don’t stand next to her.” Serana replied, her lips twisting to form a smirk while she overturned another splintering beam of wood, exposing more of the same, crushed horseflesh. This might have been Erik’s horse, she wasn’t sure.
Yells from where the dragon lay made both Dunmer and vampire freeze and Allie stomped again, growing agitated, the steam blowing from her trembling nostrils in a flustered gust. They were being ignored—for now—and Serana used the cover of the cold darkness to her advantage, searching through the wreckage of the stables for what remained of their supplies. Many citizens of Windhelm had gathered at the dragon’s bones, bundled in heavy furs, bearing torches. They attempted to slice through them with woodcutter’s axes and swords. For souvenirs, to sell off bits of the beast to the highest bidder, a great beast reduced to a mantle display above a hearth. Their laughter and frustrated cries echoed in her ears when their cuts into the beast’s skeleton yielded nothing, save the dull clangs of metal striking bone. Even in death, the dovah do not yield so easily and secretly Serana hoped the dragon would never yield. It was undignified. Beron would have been terribly disappointed. She glanced at the shimmering torches and shuddered. It sometimes made you wonder who the real monsters were.
She coughed, her normally cast-iron stomach turning a little, when she tossed a large portion of a horse’s hind leg away from the pile of rock rubble, snapped wood beams, and horse carcasses that was once the Windhelm stables. It landed with a thud upon the snow, the meat frozen to the bone. The stench of horseflesh and blood tickled her nostrils, reminding her that she had not fed since before the New Year. She would need to hunt soon, tonight, but not before she gave the bastard a piece of her mind. Love him or not, stupid Mer.
“My options for standing are limited. Where you are reeks all the more.” The Dunmer replied coldly.
“Thanks for helping.” Serana grunted, straining to reach under a pile of wood for that little bit of silver she saw sticking out.
“It is beneath me to sift through such rubble.” The Dunmer answered.
That’s right, as soon as the dragon died, you left, you Telvanni arse. Didn’t even bother to check if Erik was alive or dead. Just watched Beron absorb that soul with a strange look on your face, like you were studying one of your experiments, and then left. Yes! It was an extra bandolier! It looked like Decimus’ and it was confirmed when she had to move her hand quickly to avoid the sting of silver from one of the bolts. Bastard had silver bolts too. Her eyes narrowed, studying them. Beron had made these and she suddenly felt her anger renew when her thoughts dwelt on the Mer.
She wouldn’t be doing this if Beron hadn’t done what he did. They would have had this gruesome job finished by now, probably even been on their way to Raldbthar, but no, they were in that jail, while she was stuck with Galar. Really? You thought that breaking the Jarl’s nose was a good idea? He was going to let Decimus go. But no, you had to mention the little girl, Beron, you had to mention her. You had to think about her, you had to put her above you. A little girl who sold flowers that no one else cared about, dead. Serana released a frustrated growl, understanding him and yet not understanding him, extending her arm deeper into the twisted heap of stone, mangled horse parts, and wood. Think about that later, think about smacking that son of a bitch later.
Serana grabbed the leather and pulled, moving deftly out of the way before the rubble shifted, settling. She tossed the bandolier onto a growing pile of salvaged equipment and scanned the rubble for anything else. She wiped the excess snow and blood from her hands. Dammit, that seemed to be the last of it. This wasn’t good. She glanced at Allie and the horse tilted her head to the side, curious. Alright, give the bastard credit. He did have the sense to keep Allie away from the stables, getting the idea to just leave her by the shrine of Talos while they went to meet with Decimus. She was healthy and fully equipped, packed by Beron himself.
“Are all the beasts dead?”
Sometimes Serana wondered if the Telvanni just liked hearing the sound of his own voice. I didn’t ask you to keep talking, I’m already pissed at one Elf, and I love that one. I don’t love you and while you’re old and probably have bitter blood with the consistency of puddle water, I’m still rather hungry.
“What do you think?” Serana snapped, letting her fangs protrude just a tad. He wasn’t fazed. Dammit.
“Well? Search!” The Telvanni gestured towards the rubble by extending his arm and flicking his wrist a few times. “You are strong, vampire, move things.”
“I’m pretty sure any horse trapped under that mess is very dead.”
“Do you not smell life, vampire? It is how you hunt, yes? Well, go, smell life.” Another flick of his wrist.
Serana sighed. “The only living things I smell right now besides that giant crowd of stinking Nords are Allie and you.” She wrinkled her nose and frowned. “You stink of ash yams and by the blood, do you oil your hair by rubbing it between a troll’s butt cheeks, because that’s what it smells like to me?”
The Telvanni cocked an eyebrow. “I will ignore your insult because I find it slightly impressive that you can pick up the scent of ash yams in all this carnage. So they are dead then?” Serana rolled her eyes and Allie suddenly blew air from her lips. Galar eyed the horse suspiciously, taking another small step away from the grouchy mare, who bared her teeth at the Telvanni in response. “At least the Altmer had a bit more sense.”
“He has a name.” She grumbled. Asshole. That was his name right now. Asshole. She was going to kill him. Kill him or bang him. You can’t quite decide which. Bang him first, then kill him.
“At least the Altmer had a bit more sense.” You had to go and repeat exactly what you just said earlier, didn’t you? “His horse is still alive.” A pause and Serana hoped for a second that he’d just shut up, only to groan when the Telvanni continued. “I am still deciding whether this is a good or bad thing. I do not like the look of this animal. It…disturbs.” Allie bared her teeth again. One more jab at her, Telvanni, and maybe I’ll get what I want and she’ll bite your arse.
“I’m sure the feeling is mutual.” Serana snorted, taking inventory of the gathered supplies. They had two extra bandoliers, two tents, some camping gear with flint, several potions that were not damaged by the rocks, blankets, furs, and one dented cooking pot. The dried food was squashed, spoiled by the blood and rockwork.
“I fail to find the humor in that statement, vampire. That animal is incapable of complex thought processes. Humph, like most of the beings I deal with on a regular basis.” Galar stroked a stone upon one of the many rings that adorned his fingers and the white glimmering light that hallmarked a candlelight spell floated above his head. “Is that all?” He scowled when his gaze found the pile, his eyes seemingly searching through it. What are you looking for, Old Telvanni?
“Why? Not happy your silk sheets are now decorated with horse guts?” Serana joked. She stopped when she saw the Telvanni tensely purse his lips, her eyes widening in disbelief. “No! You really packed silk sheets?”
“You tread dangerously, vampire.” The Dunmer fumed, grinding his teeth.
“Bal’s Balls! You did pack silk sheets!” Serana exclaimed, laughing aloud. “I bet they’re green too, embroidered with the seal of House Telvanni and everything!” His face confirmed it and she erupted in a fit of laughter that left her sides splitting, but she didn’t care. The Telvanni was practically squirming now. Well, as much squirming as an arrogant as fuck Mer in his third century was capable of. It’s enough for you, Serana thought, wiping the tears from her eyes. Beron would be laughing too. Damn you, Beron.
“What I choose to sleep on is of no concern to you, considering you’ve slept in a coffin, vampire. Besides, Nord inns are foul and I refuse to taint my skin with their flee-ridden straw and furs. Those sheets formed a much-desired barrier.”
“I don’t sleep in a coffin, Telvanni.” Serana shook her head, still chuckling while she picked up the cooking pot. Dented, but still usable. “We’ll have to get this gear to a safe location. You mind helping?” She asked, gesturing with her head towards the pile.
“I know full well where you sleep now, vampire. And with whom you sleep.” The Telvanni warned. “And why would I help you? There is nothing of mine in that pile.” Galar glanced one more time at the rubble and Serana could have sworn the Old Telvanni was missing those blankets like a baby misses his favorite—what was the word she used to use when she was little?—banky. Her shoulders threatened to shake again at the image of a proud Telvanni Magister—was that even a real title?—dragging a banky everywhere he went. “What was of consequence is now destroyed. The rest is unimportant.”
“Humph.” Serana frowned, loading the pot onto Allie. The beast snorted and Serana ran her hand over the animal’s neck. “I know, girl, you’re tired and you want this saddle off already. Just let me load these supplies. We can’t leave them here. We’ll need to take them somewhere else to fix them up for travel.” The mare responded with bared teeth and the beginnings of a roar when Serana pulled the strap. Fuck, too tight! She loosened the leather and the horse relaxed a little, though the ears were beginning to flatten. “Sorry. Not liking me too much right now, eh?” Serana rubbed the animal’s neck to soothe her and leaned in closer, ignoring Galar’s grunt of annoyance. “You want daddy, don’t you?” She whispered and let out a sigh. “I want him too, even though I want to kill him for being such an idiot.” She chortled. “Funny how that works, eh girl?” Allie snorted in agreement.
“Gah! Stop talking to it.” Moaned Galar. “You will only encourage it. They are better off as food, damn animals.”
“Well, we’re not in Morrowind.” Serana retorted.
“Shame.” The Telvanni released an exasperated sigh, shifting position out of boredom and Serana assumed that his many enchantments were keeping him warm. “The stench is quite overwhelming, so stop coddling the beast and hurry. By the Reclamations, you are just like that Altmer; practically treating that animal like it is a child. They are beasts, vampire, to be used, nothing more. I would think you, of all beings, would know this and he? He is wrong to care for such creatures. An Altmer should definitely know better, should conduct himself better, as befits his race. It is a gross flaw of his. This notion of compassion.”
Serana leaned against the horse, biting her lip, her mood darkening with the Dunmer’s sharp tongue. As much of an asshole as Galar was, the Telvanni was right. It was Beron’s huge flaw. His compassion. That he cared more about what happened to the people of Skyrim than even some Jarls did. And he was now in jail because he cared and she both hated him and loved him for it. She remembered watching how he bolted to his Shield-Brother’s side, still weeping from the emotional horror, the scarring the beast must have put him through when it finally relinquished him its soul. Not healing his own broken bones, but instead putting everything he had into Erik, saving his life. Stopping everything yet again when the guards began to haul Decimus away. Did the Jarl care? No, the Jarl threw you in jail, Old Mer, threw you in jail for wounding his pride. The Highest High treated like the lowest low. She shook her head and shut her eyes tightly. Not that image again, not now.
“Somebody has to put you first, Old Mer.” Serana murmured, pressing her cheek against Allie’s warm neck. She then blinked, an idea suddenly coming to her. And if you won’t, I will. Serana gave Allie’s neck a solid pat and reached for the pack that held the tents. “Galar? How much for a tome?” She asked.
“What sort of tome?” The Telvanni narrowed his eyes, rubbing the same stone again to refresh the light.
“I want the net.” Serana replied, loading the tent onto Allie’s back with a soft grunt before turning to face the Telvanni. “The net you cast at the dragon. I want it.”
“I do not sell such things. They are mine.” The Dunmer hissed. “Besides, you cannot possibly hope to cast that spell. It is beyond you.”
“Want to test that theory?” She threatened, feeling the lightning instinctively charge in her hands, feeling her eyes ignite. You dare insult me? I am Serana of the Volkihar, Daughter of Coldharbour, I was in existence before your ancestors were even thoughts. The Telvanni hovered a finger over a different ring and glowered again.
“Don’t test me, vampire. You don’t know what I’m capable of.” The Dunmer growled. “You do not deserve such magicks, Nord.” The last words were sneered, dripping with prejudice, the pointed chin of his tilting upwards. The intensity of her charged spells increased as she felt her rage build and she saw that grey finger continue to hover over that ring. A standoff, bring it, you withered piece of horseshit.
And if you die now? Calm down, Serana of the Volkihar and find another way. What would your Beron do? Well, when he’s not punching Jarls in the nose. Serana took a deep breath and withdrew her magicks to grab a bandolier to secure onto poor Allie, who was now looking more like a Khajiit caravan with each placed item.
“Alright, have it your way, Galar Rothan. I guess I’ll have to travel to Solstheim then.”
She could almost picture Beron’s smile when she saw the Dunmer tilt his head to the side in interest. That half-smile of his where that left eyebrow with the tiny bald patch shoots up. The wily smile. Bastard had a beautiful smile. Aye, you’re going to bang him, but let him stew a bit when you first talk to him. He did do a stupid thing and you’ve been sorting through horse guts for hours because of it.
“Why Solstheim? Why go there?” The Elf pressed, the lips turning downwards.
“Simple,” Serana flashed a demure smile at Galar. “You’re not the only Telvanni alive, you know. Probably not even the only one who knows that spell, and I bet the one I’m thinking of right now would sell it to me without question. Hmm, what was his name, again? Äelberon gave me a rather detailed account of Morrowind’s history once during our many travels, let me think…all you Dunmer have such strange names to me...” Her eyes shot up while she thought. “Who could it be? Oh, I remember his name now.”
“Don’t.”
It was about as close to pleading as that arrogant Son of a Bitch was ever going come to and it still sounded like a snarl.
“Master Neloth.” Serana whispered. I’ve got you by those wrinkled balls now, Telvanni. You’re going to sell me whatever I want.
“You wouldn’t dare.” Galar seethed, forming fists with his hands, no longer able to mask his rage. “You would go to that monster madmer of a wizard? You would go to that magic-wielding, bastard son of a Hlaalu whore and a Redoran… a Redoran netch tanner who couldn’t enchant a staff to save his wrinkled old arse if a soul gem spread its legs for him then and there! You dare!”
Serana blinked at the display. Galar looked like he was going to explode and the image of Beron’s drawing flashed through her mind, making her laugh again. She shrugged. “Well? You leave me no choice. I was perfectly willing to buy the tome from you, but you don’t sell such things to pathetic little Nords like me.”
The Elf relaxed, unclenching his fists and resumed his calm demeanor. “The question is, what are you willing to pay for them? I do not take septims.”
I have a bad feeling that I’m going to regret this. It will help him bring down a dragon. She cleared her throat and resumed her loading. “What is your price, Galar Rothan?”
“Soul gem dust, which is what I use to write the tomes.”
“Easy enough.” She replied, giving the rope securing the rest of the supplies a tug before turning to face the Telvanni. He casually slid his finger over the first ring, bathing his features in the harsh light of the candlelight spell.
“Oh, I’m not finished yet, vampire. Ten soul gems, black, and filled.” She knew the Telvanni could see how her face changed, how the darkness crept over her features. “My price is steep, vampire. You willing to kill for that Priest? You willing to face the consequences should he ever learn what you did to get that spell? If you can’t stomach the work, you can always pay in Grand gems, but I will need twenty of those. They do not hold charges as well, and I prefer that my enchantments hold their charges.”
Her brow lowered. Dammit, Beron did not use enchanted weapons and she only recharged her father’s sword with the souls of lesser beasts; wolves, spiders... She did not even have black soul gems, save one. A treasure she kept close to her. The deep black-purple gem that had once held a part of Beron’s own soul.
When he braved the Soul Cairn. For you. When he put you above him, giving you everything of his, trusting you. Now, it’s time to put him above you. The dragon at Windhelm nearly killed him, those powerful jaws only pertans away from closing over his body when he flew through the air. It would have killed him instantly. The Soul Cairn. She’d have to go back there. Would mother help? Of course she would, you’re her daughter. She’d have to write her and then perhaps steal away for a few days, maybe a week. When this was over and after some time with him. Yes, that would be a good time. Serana took another deep breath and extended her hand towards the Dunmer.
“I will bring you what you require, Telvanni.”
“Interesting.” That infernal eyebrow shot up again.
“Do we have a deal? Or do I need to head to Solstheim?” Why not head to Solstheim? Would Master Neloth charge the same? Or worse? The Telvanni were a mad bunch and Beron always spoke of them with strange mixture of respect and distaste. Capable of doing unspeakable things in their pursuit of knowledge. She felt the Telvanni gingerly touch the tip of her fingers with his own.
“That is all of a hand shake you are going to get from me, vampire, but yes, we are in agreement—“
“About fucking time too!” Both whirled in shock to see the blue spectral form of Katria appear from the ground. “You need to get out of here! Dreth and his men are less than a day away, half a day really.” The ghost scanned the area. “What in the Gods’ names happened here? Shor’s Bones! Are those horse parts? Where is everybody?”
Shit! There was so little time to think. “Jail.” Serana answered.
“Jail? How?” The ghost exclaimed.
“Dragon, a dragon happened. Very complicated. Shit, Erik. Galar, watch Allie.”
“Oh really?” The Dunmer guffawed, crossing his arms over his chest. “You expect me—“
“Bal’s Balls! You don’t have to actually touch her, just watch her, dammit! I need to grab Erik. Unless you want to carry around an injured Nord with…” she thought for a moment. “With guts and blood and stuff, probably fleas too.”
“I’ll watch the animal.” The Dunmer grimaced. “Though if something attacks, I will not save it.”
“She can probably take care of herself bloody better than you can. Come on, Katria. You head to the jail. It’s near the Palace of Kings. I’ll head to the Temple—ah fuck.” She groaned, slamming her palm to her forehead. “Temples. Dammit, perhaps Lareyne is nearby.” Serana started walking quickly across the charred bridge, beckoning Katria to follow, continuing to plan their strategy aloud. Fuck, Beron was much better at this! “She’ll need to get Erik out of the Temple and outside the city to Galar and Allie. Hopefully, Lareyne can handle this. Go, go to the jail, Katria. I’ll catch up.”
“But the dragon? Explaining?”
“There’s no time!” Serana bellowed.
Katria nodded, dematerializing into nothingness, leaving Serana to her thoughts as quickened her pace. See, this is what happens, Beron, when you break the Jarl’s nose. Shit happens. She growled in frustration and continued to walk, her hand charging with Invisibility when she noticed two guards beginning their patrol of the bridge. You better have healed that arm, Old Mer.
If I could only tell what the fuck just happened here! Cursed Decimus in his mind, his hands still clenching the bars of his cell. He heard Grulmar heavily breathing and Äelberon was strangely silent. It was almost like his silence had a flavour...emanating from his cell. And now you're just losing your shit, Dec. Flavour? Emanating? Just what the fuck?
“Grulmar?” he hissed at the Orc. “How the fuck did you break your arm?”
“This is not the first time this has happened, am I correct? Has he manifested inside you before?” Äelberon suddenly asked, breaking that silence and Decimus twitched. He? Who the fuck was ‘He’? The Altmer's voice was concerned, but with a sliver of uncertainty as well. Wariness. Well, Grulmar just spoke the same strange tongue as Äelberon. The Dragonborn. What in the Emperor's underwear does that mean? Is Grulmar another Dragonborn? Well...fuck.
The Orc chuckled and then grunted with pain. “Ya can guess twice, Shiny.”
There was a thud as something struck the stone wall with considerable force. Ronnie?
“By Oblivion! I know how they work, Grulmar! I am only trying to help you!” said Äelberon, evidently irritated. Well, if Ronnie’s antsy enough to feel like jumping out of his own skin then you're certainly in over your head, Dec. Let the damn Priest handle it.
“Yeah?” mumbled Grulmar, the tone of his voice heavily implying that the Orc was sneering. “And how is that workin' out for ya?”
“Shit.” Ronnie cursed under his breath. “Auri-El, genassa Bala…”
Fuck, was Ronnie praying?
You're such an ass, Grulmar, thought Decimus, spitting between the bars. I have no idea what happened here, but if anyone can help, it's Ronnie. A fucking priest. A Priest. He said ‘he’. Ah fuck! What’s wrong with you, Gru? It was the sort of jobs that no Goldpact ever took, no gods, no Daedra. Decimus shuddered, when they go…inside mortals, take over their bodies, their thoughts. Possess them. Even the Vigilants were scared to take those jobs, so Ronnie took them, and the look on his face when he saw the Altmer after one such job said it all. Like he had seen right into the open gates of Oblivion. But that Old Mer’s seen those gates, stared them right in the eye. Why do you keep pushing him away, you little shit? You need him. I need you to need him. He wished he could say that out loud, but some words just weren't meant to be said. Some ears weren't ready for those words.
He was worried, but he couldn't admit that out loud. He knew Grulmar since he was very little and even then, the lad was strange sometimes. Strange just as he was minutes ago. But what did that mean? Ronnie will have answers. Ask him.
He heard a sound behind him and turned around only to see a blue form rising through the ground. “Fuck!” he yelled, hitting the bars with his back. “Don't do that to me, ghost!” he growled at Katria. “I nearly shitted myself.”
“Katria?” asked Grulmar, surprised. “What are ya doin' here?”
“Dreth is on his way here,” she explained seriously and Decimus frowned. He was about to spit again, but he stopped himself and gulped instead. Fuck. “Barely half a day away from here.” She continued. “And he's not alone, he has at least eight mercenaries with him.”
“We need to get out of here,” the Imperial muttered. “Mercenaries, you say? Some amateurs?”
She shook her head. “No. They seemed like professionals to me. Orcs in their orichalcum armors, Alik'r warriors, a Dunmer woman and some Nords. Well-armed.”
“You are correct, Decimus. We need to find a way out of here,” said Äelberon, clicking with his tongue. “Out of here, hmm, let me see. Windhelm jail…. I can hear those cogs in your mind working even from here, Old Fart.
“Why?” asked Grulmar and Decimus frowned. “I mean, we're in prison, Erik is in the Temple of Talos. What can they do to us here? My guess is that Dreth has two shards right now, so if we let him come to us, we can take them right from under his nose.”
Decimus couldn't believe his own ears. This Orc had them running from Dreth across practically all of Skyrim...this Orc runs away from problems at every opportunity...this Orc just suggested they should do nothing and wait for Dreth? What's wrong with you? “You mad? We can't sit on our arses. You know very well that guards can't be everywhere.”
“With that band of mercenaries he'll attract a lot of attention,” Grulmar objected and Decimus shook his head.
“I can't believe we're having this conversation,” growled Katria. “He won't stop at anything to get to the Aetherium Forge. Guards? Don't make me laugh. He'll buy them all and you'll be dead come morning.”
“Yes. They are right, Grulmar,” whispered Äelberon. “Can you get us out of here? Pick the locks?”
“Me? Why do ya think—“
“Scamp’s Blood! Grul. Mar!” snarled Äelberon, and Decimus didn’t have to see him to know those eyes were blazing. Yeah, that's how you have to go on him, Ronnie.
“Oh, for tusk's sake. Now I'm good to ya, eh?” mumbled Grulmar. The Altmer groaned and Decimus heard the Orc rise to his feet. A few seconds later, he heard the sound of a lockpick clicking in the lock.
The Imperial scowled, remembering how thoroughly the guards searched Grulmar before throwing them all in here. They found all his knives, all his lockpicks. They forced him to remove his leather jacket with all its hidden pockets and pouches. They found every single piece of gold he had hidden. Damn, they even took his boots. Damn Orc had more knives and lockpicks in them. “Grulmar?”
“Yeah?”
“Where did you hide that lockpick?”
There was a click of the Orc's tongue followed by a snort. “Don't ask when ya really don't want to hear the answer, Uncle.”
“Aye, I do not see Nords looking there…” quipped the Elf and Grulmar let out a funny chuckle, like he knew exactly what the Altmer was talking about.
Gross. Just gross.
Decimus shuddered and looked at Katria. “Can't you do something to get us out of here?”
She shook her head. “I'm...tired. I can't make myself more solid, that would take too much of my energy. I could disappear, like steam over a cooking pot.”
The door to Grulmar's cell creaked and the Orc came to Decimus' door. He was barefoot, only in his leather greaves and a roughspun tunic. He was holding his right hand against his chest, clearly in pain. Decimus took a look at it and saw the bloodied knuckles, with a purple swelling around them. I’ve seen a few broken bones in my life and this is not broken. But it has to hurt like Oblivion. Grulmar put a lockpick into the lock and started playing with it with his left hand, which made it even more impressive.
The lock gave easily and Grulmar moved on to Äelberon’s cell, while Decimus headed to the wall opposite, where all their belongings were stashed. He started donning his armor, then his bandolier with his knives and his silver sword. Afterwards, he strapped his belt that held his baskethilt sword around his waist and began grabbing Grulmar's items. Dragonborn’s balls! So many knives! So far, he counted twelve knives. Eight light ones and four heavy ones. Then there was a quiver with bolts for a crossbow—which Grulmar no longer possessed—and a quiver of arrows for Zephyr. And then his sack with a box full of poisons and potions, insulated by some blankets. Only person who carried more gear on him sometimes was the Old Fart. Funny how two people can be so different and yet so alike. There was a bedroll tied to that sack, but no tent. Someone else will have to carry that tent. He looked around. Fuck. We don't have a tent. Ah, yes, we’ve got a tent. With the horses—fuck, no we don’t.
Äelberon emerged from his cell and Decimus noticed the Elf’s right hand glowing immediately as he approached Grulmar. The hand hovered over Gru’s knuckles for a few seconds, but the Orc winced away from the Altmer. Äelberon sheathed the spell and it was then that Decimus finally got a look at his other side. His left arm was wrapped in a makeshift cloth sling, bringing it to rest close to his chest. For fuck's sake. He still hasn’t healed his broken arm.
“You dumb Elf—“He started, but the look on Äelberon’s face silenced him.
“It is manageable.” He stated coldly.
Instead of protesting, Decimus tossed the Orc’s boots in Grulmar’s direction. He snorted and started putting them on, and then took his shirt made of deerskin, pulling it over his head, followed by his leather jacket.
“We'll have to grab some cloaks on our way out,” the Orc mumbled while he struggled with the rest of his equipment. Grulmar seemed to pause mid-thought when his eyes caught something shiny on the table. Decimus recognized the ring that Galar gave him and reached for it, seeing the twinkle in that Orc’s eyes. But the Orc was faster.
“Give it back, lad!” Decimus growled, his hand darting forward to grab Grulmar.
“Finders keepers,” said the thief, dancing out of Decimus’ reach.
“Fine! Keep it, you little shit. It's bloody useless anyway,” he said with resignation. He's like a fucking magpie. Anything shiny and he just has to have it. Makes me wonder why he didn't steal Ronnie himself. If he isn’t shiny, don’t know what is. Decimus’ eyes drifted to the Altmer. Poor bastard was a mess, his armor still sporting so many soot stains and dried blood. His face and hair was dirty with more of the same, the hair disheveled, the face marked with cuts and bruises. Fuck, he was so busy fighting the tail that he forgot that it was Äelberon who served as the dragon’s punching bag during that fight. Decimus shook his head. How do you do it, Old Mer? I wouldn’t even be able to get up the next fucking day. At first he made to help the Elf with his gear, but then stopped. The guards did not see the need to strip him—Priest of Auri-El and all that—so he only had to work to retrieve his weapons, which he was managing far quicker than Decimus expected him to, that right hand kicking in, compensating and he using his hip as leverage, like he already knew exactly what to do with his old body when one part was failing. The heavy bastard already sheathed at his waist, leaving only the bow to be slung. Before the Elf could finish slinging that fat arse bow, Decimus reached quickly and handed the Elf his quiver of ebony arrows.
“I needed something to do.” Decimus grinned. The Altmer sighed, accepting the quiver. “World not challenging enough for you, Old Mer, that you gotta now run around with only one arm?” A different look from him this time, thoughtful mixed with a bit of sadness and pain.
“Erik.” He said softly, but not without a measure of determination. “My arm can wait, friend.”
“You’re a sucker, you know that, right?” Decimus accused, leaning forward.
“Aye, Old Blade, I know, you too.” The Elf smiled a tired smile and then he gestured with his head towards Grulmar. “Gotta watch over the younglings, eh?”
“Aye, we should just get married and raise them together, right?”
Äelberon guffawed, “I cannot believe you just said that with a straight face. Decimus Merotim of the Goldpact, for all your knightly trappings, you are no better than a merry man sometimes, always ready with a joke. Marry you I will not. Absurd notion, especially with the way we both like women.” The laugh turned into a smile, but there was a quick flash of something deeper behind those red-orange eyes, making Decimus narrow his in response.
“You alright?”
“Yes, I am, friend.” The Altmer nodded, but there was still something in those old eyes that made Decimus look away to find Grulmar, suddenly uncomfortable with the depth of emotion.
“Gru, you ready?” Decimus spit and out of the corner of his eye, he saw those eyes roll. Now you’re back to normal, Ronnie. I’ll just keep spitting and we’ll go swimming, friend.
“Yeah.” The Orc replied.
All three suddenly heard quick footsteps and before they could do anything, the guard returned with a bucket of water and rags. When he saw them out of their cells, the bucket fell to the floor, washing the stone with water. Grulmar instinctively reached for a knife, only for Äelberon’s hand to rapidly grab the Orc’s wrist with the knife halfway drawn. Grulmar growled, beginning to pull away, but the Altmer’s bear of a hand applied just enough pressure to let the Orc know he wasn’t playing, those eyes intently focusing on the guard.
“We can't stay here, Skjoggi,” Äelberon warned in a voice that wasn’t hard, but wasn’t soft either. “Someone is fast approaching the city and if he finds us here, it will come to ill.”
“Who is coming?” asked the Nord, a hand clutching the hilt of his sword.
“Taron Dreth,” answered Grulmar. “One nasty tusker of a Dunmer.”
“We need your help, Skjoggi Red-Plank,” continued Äelberon, letting go of Grulmar’s wrist and taking a deliberate step forward, his eyes not leaving the Nord’s. It never ceased to amaze Decimus how strong of a calming effect that Altmer could have on people without fucking using any magic on them. Maybe he would be able to convince the Nord. Maybe not. The “maybe not” was the reason why Decimus’ hand was very close to his bandolier with the throwing knives. He didn't want to take that Nord's life, but if he had to...better him than all of them.
The Nord was considering it. Decimus saw those eyes under the helmet frantically jumping from one to another, thinking. He had his orders, yet in front of him stood the Mer who did more for Windhelm than the stupid Jarl did. The Mer who was the Dragonborn, not some pretender. And those dragon eyes stayed on their target, like a fucking eagle.
“Please.” The Altmer emphasized. “Not for me, but for the safety of these men.” Grulmar was about to open his mouth and ruin it, but that did it, those words made Skjoggi lower his hand from his weapon and relax. Decimus let out a gust of air. It was the guards, always the guards, Ronnie had their respect. You earn a guard’s respect when you are in the battle with them, Jarl Farts-under-Cloak. When you put them above you. When’s the last time you actually fought with your men, Ulfric Stormcloak?
The Nord looked back down hall he came from and whispered. “I'll do my best. Some guards agree with the Jarl, but many, many think as I do. That the Jarl is making a mistake imprisoning you, Dragonborn.”
Decimus spat and looked at Äelberon. “Damn, that means that some will try to stop us. Are we going to fight them?”
The Altmer shook his head resolutely. “No. I refuse to shed the blood of people who are simply obeying orders. Another way will present itself.”
I get it, Ronnie, but there is a chance we might have to shed blood. We can't talk our way out of here, but for your sake I hope it will go without bloodshed, thought Decimus. He eyed the Altmer and his wounded arm. When shit goes south, try to be faster than him, Dec. You'll do him a favour if all the blood falls on your head and not his. He'll feel bad anyway, though…
“Then what do ya want to do, Shiny? Dress like a guard?” chuckled Grulmar and then his face became serious. “Wait, now that's not a bad idea. That would be really hilarious.”
Skjoggi's eyes went to Grulmar. “I could get some helmets and cloaks—“
“No,” chirped Äelberon unexpectedly, raising his hand to stop everyone, his head now tilted to the side, lips moving and his eyes darting back and forth as if he was reading. Oh come on, you're reading one of your mind-books again? Better be worth it. Äelberon used his forefinger to draw in the air, the outline of what vaguely looked like it could be the Palace of Kings to Decimus. “I studied the layout of the Palace when I was writing a draft of my proposal to the Jarl…” He paused and smiled, his finger stopping and tapping at nothing. “Here we are!” the Altmer whispered, tapping with his finger and then moving it again, following some imaginary line.
“Here what?” snorted Grulmar. “You're going to conjure up a portal to transport us from here?”
“Oh, for fuck's sake,” growled Decimus. “Just shut your trap for a second and let him work.” See? Now you're even getting under my skin, Grulmar. I wouldn't be surprised if I strangled you in the near future.
“There is… a secret tunnel,” Äelberon mumbled, his eyes moving like they were memorizing something. “Leading to the old arena near the docks. Should be deserted.”
“Really?” said Decimus, Skjoggi, and Grulmar in unison, exchanging confused glances.
“Well, of course there is! Yes, just...up the stairs and behind the wall.” nodded Äelberon, with a smirk on his face. “See, another way.” You really do enjoy this, don’t you? The Altmer eyed Skjoggi. “Do you think you could keep the other guards occupied for a minute? I know I am asking a lot of you—“
“It's alright,” nodded Skjoggi. “I'll buy you some time. Talos guide your steps.”
“Auri-El’s Grace, friend.” Äelberon nodded back, the smirk becoming a smile. “And thank you. I will never forget your kindness.” Decimus could see the Nord swell with pride. A Nord, swelling at the words of an Old Mary. The feelings he inspires in people...Damn, I think that he could turn me to faith if he ever felt the need to try. I would even become a farmer if he wanted me to become one, and not for one moment would I feel like I was being manipulated or pushed to it. Decimus shook his head, suppressing a laugh. Decimus the Farmer. Now that's fucking hilarious.
They suddenly heard heavy footsteps coming from the stairs and they all looked at each other, eyes wide. “Behind the corner!” whispered Decimus and they all pressed themselves against the wall around the entrance. Only Skjoggi remained standing in full view, prepared to discourage anyone from going further.
“Stop—“he said, but was cut short by an angry woman.
“I'm here to see three idiots!” the woman barked. “Let me pass!” Äelberon made a sort of whimpering groan, making Decimus frown at the Mer. Only for a toothy grin to claw its way to his face. You're in so much trouble, Old Fart, he mouthed without saying a word and Äelberon’s face turned sour, a silent “shit” delivered through gritted teeth. “So you better stand out of my way or they will have to scrape you off the walls, Stormcloak!”
Decimus saw the Nord tremble a little bit and he certainly knew why. As stunning as she was, that woman could be scary as Oblivion sometimes. Grulmar, on the other side of entrance, was suppressing a laugh—not doing a very good job with it either. Äelberon blew a gust of air from his nostrils, as if readying himself for battle, and took a step forward, right into the entrance, that jaw beginning to jut. Go ahead, take that bull by the horns, Old Mer, Decimus grinned.
“We are escaping, Serana, so unless—“he began, the voice completely different than the one he used with Skjoggi. Firm.
“Your arm! You big stupid—“She started.
“Confounded, woman!” He thundered, silencing her immediately. “Enough! We can argue about it later. Right now, we have to reach safety. Dreth is on his way.”
“Don’t you think I know that?” She countered, making Grulmar and Decimus exchange uncomfortable glances. “Katria told me. Galar’s with Allie at the gate, Bal only knows if those two won’t end up killing each other. Lareyne is bringing Erik to them. Why didn’t you heal your arm? How are you supposed to fight—“
“I will heal when I bloody feel like it! There is no time and you know better than to fight now!” Decimus saw Äelberon’s hand gesture to Skjoggi. “This young man is helping and…” The tone lowered. “I will not let you endanger him with rash behavior.”
Decimus heard a frustrated growl and loud stomp. “Rash behavior? Me? What about you?”
“Serana.” He warned.
“Dammit, alright. I despise it when you end the argument before it begins,” she replied with suppressed anger. “We'll continue this later.”
“I would expect nothing less. Let us be on our way then.” Äelberon nodded, watching her emerge from the corridor, a flicker of concern in his eyes. She looked awful too, covered in dried blood and dust, still sporting her own wounds from the dragon attack, her hair tousled like she had been bending and twisting for something. The Altmer placed his good hand on Serana’s shoulder, steering her towards the stairs, and the funny thing to Decimus was that, as mad as she seemed by the tone of her voice, she didn’t recoil from his touch. When a woman’s really angry with a man, she recoils, doesn’t want to be touched. Serana wasn’t angry.
Erik was standing against Allie, ashamed that he had to use the animal as a support. His chest still felt like it was filled with liquid fire and he was tired. Broken, tired, and ashamed. He was ashamed that Lareyne had to help him out of the city. A She-Elf he had carried to bed at Candlehearth just the night before, his arms easily bearing her weight. He was ashamed of the stares from everybody around him. The furrow of Decimus’ brow and by Talos, he wouldn’t stop spitting! The impatient foot-tapping of Galar. Even Lareyne’s sympathetic stroking of his hair didn’t help. It only reminded him of being broken. Useless. Serana glancing every so often while she was loading a pack with supplies. And Grulmar… Grulmar kicking the snow and readying the rest of the gear, packing tents, mumbling to himself.
“Should’ve left him at Windhelm…”
You’re right, Gru.
Their pity was all around him and Erik wished he could run. No Nord wants fucking pity. Why didn’t those teeth close over me? Why didn’t I die? At least in dying, I’d be in Sovngarde now. I’d be with Ysgramor, Kodlak, and all the brave men and women who died honorably. Singing in Shor’s hall, the mead flowing.
Only his Harbinger seemed unconcerned. He was stretching out Erik’s arm, feeling it, studying it with his bare hand. Despite the freezing cold, it felt warm against his skin. The right one, because his left was still in his sling. He then attempted to pry the fingers from their fixed position. He wasn’t being rough, it was as if he was trying to figure out something. Nothing, they didn’t move and Erik’s heart sank. You can at least heal your arm.
I’m maimed, Harbinger, everybody else knows this. Why don’t you?
“Äelberon,” started Decimus, his voice quiet and Erik hated that, hated that he was talking like Erik was glass or eggshells, “Dreth, he’s on his way.” Erik looked up at Decimus, watched the Imperial again nervously spit upon the snow. “We need to get moving. It’s only going to get colder.”
“Aye, Dreth is on his way, so get a bloody move on.” His Harbinger replied, the tone becoming slightly annoyed while he continued to inspect Erik’s hand. “As far as I know, the dragon making his lair at the springs is dead, so head there and you will be fine. I do not need an audience for this. The bunch of you standing about like old women. At least Gru and Serana have the right idea and are fucking packing. We all have work to do. Your group to Mzulft, mine to Raldbthar. Serana, Erik, and I are better able to cope with the cold of the Pale.”
Galar groaned, walking off in a huff, the “by the Reclamations…” ringing in Erik’s ear.
“Just tell me, Äelberon, that you’re taking Erik back to Jorrvaskr first.” Decimus asked. Erik saw the Imperial turn to Serana and shrug. She only shrugged back and resumed packing, her face betraying nothing. She had been mad at the Harbinger, according to Lareyne, when she told her to find Erik, but she didn’t look mad now, only busy.
The Altmer completely ignored Decimus and faced Lareyne. “Lareyne, a question?”
“Yes, Knight-Paladin.”
“By any chance, did the priests of the Temple work on Erik in my absence?”
She sighed. “Yes, Knight-Paladin, they did. They stopped after a while, claiming that only time would heal his wounds.”
“I see.” The Priest nodded, his voice becoming introspective at his next words. “Hmm, time… Yes, time does heal all wounds. On that they were correct.” The tone then changed again, kindly like, and his Harbinger acknowledged Lareyne. “Thank you, Lareyne, and thank you for bringing my Shield-Brother here.”
“I did my best.” She bent her head. “I hope you can help him.”
The Harbinger looked Erik right in the eye. “I will help him.”
“I do not know what for? Leave him, he is useless.” The Dunmer hissed, throwing his arms up in the air. “I have my gear, I am ready. Let us be off.”
“Uncle. I’m done here too.” Grulmar chimed in, slinging his pack onto his shoulders, his eyes on Erik. “We’re done here. We need to get going.”
I’m done here.
“Grulmar is right, Decimus.” Aelberon agreed, lowering Erik’s hand gently to rest at his side, his eyes finding Decimus. “And the lot of us agreed. Splitting up is the only way we can throw Dreth off and perhaps even thin his numbers. Eight mercenaries, becomes a far more manageable four.”
“Dammit.” The Imperial grumbled, his light eyes catching the light of the torch he was bearing. “How the fuck—“
The Elf chuckled and eyed Decimus. “You grumble like an old woman.”
“And you’re crazy, Old Mer. You better take Erik back to Jorrvaskr. Unless you can heal him up? Help him? You really should take Lareyne? Gru’s idea makes sense.”
“No.”
“You stubborn fucker!” The Imperial crossed his arms over his chest and spit. It was a sore spot between Decimus and the Harbinger. The talk to make their plans. He just watched while they discussed—or rather argued—the matter. Grulmar suggesting that his Harbinger, Serana, and Lareyne head West, while Galar, Grulmar, and Decimus headed south. He was not mentioned.
“Should’ve left him at Windhelm…”
Those words still stung. They were like brothers once.
“You know they freeze before they hit the ground.” The Altmer quipped, still eyeing the Imperial.
“Well, maybe I’ll aim them at you, you dumbarse.” The Imperial replied, beginning to make that sound with his nose only to be cut off by a wave of the Altmer’s hand.
“I am finished arguing with you, Decimus.” A sarcastic snort from Serana, making the Altmer flash an annoyed face at her before continuing. “Three mages in one ruin is preposterous, it is an inefficient use of our grossly limited resources. And then there is the cold factor, as I have already mentioned. Makes absolutely no sense to have an Altmer from Summerset traipsing about the Pale at night when she is not used to the conditions. Auri-El’s bow! I feel like I am constantly repeating myself. It is tedious.”
“Fine… Galar.” Decimus sneered.
“I heard that, Imperial.” Warned the Dunmer. “Do not dare associate that crass, southern, pie-scarfing bulldog with House Telvanni…”
“Rothan!” Äelberon interrupted.
“What now?” The Telvanni turned and Äelberon blew him a kiss. The Dunmer made the sourest face Erik could possibly imagine and then turned around to walk, Grulmar sniggering behind him. “Disgusting Dusken… like damn savages. I am surrounded by savages… dammit, walk behind me, you filthy beast!”
The Harbinger followed them with his eyes for a second and then turned to face Decimus again. “I will help him.” The Altmer repeated resolutely, quickly hoisting a pack over his broad shoulder with his good hand.
“Whatever.” The Imperial mumbled, kicking at the snow, his expression still pissed off. “Come on Lareyne. You’re with us.” He said then, beckoning her with his hand. She gave Erik a quick kiss on the cheek.
“Be careful. And with luck, I’ll see you again.”
“Later?” he managed, remembering their first meeting. She tried to look at his face, but Erik saw them. Her beautiful green eyes, shifting quickly to his deformed hand.
“Later.” She smiled warmly, and she gave him another kiss, her lips so warm against his, but there was a sadness behind those beautiful green eyes that Erik couldn’t bear to look at right now. She broke from him and Lareyne joined Decimus; the two beginning to catch up to an already walking Galar and Gru. Heading south towards Kynesgrove and the volcanic springs. Gru didn’t even look back. You hate me that much?
“Decimus!” The Harbinger hollered into the night, making the Imperial stop and turn, walking backwards.
“What, fat arse?” Decimus yelled back.
“May gold’s fortune smile on you, Decimus Merotim of the Goldpact!” The Elf smiled, lifting his good hand to say goodbye.
“Yeah, yeah, tell Auri-El to go fuck himself!” the Imperial grinned, sticking his tongue out.
“I will deliver the message personally when I recite my tenets for the night. Now get out of here, you bastard! And make sure the babies behave. Especially the little green one.” Äelberon laughed, his eyes twinkling.
Don’t you even see my hand?
Erik could faintly hear Grulmar’s “Tusk ya, Shiny” in the distance.
“Will do, honey!” The Imperial beamed.
Erik’s eyes briefly widened when he saw the Altmer turn his raised right hand and extend his long, white middle finger towards Decimus, making the Imperial burst out laughing before he turned around to resume walking forward.
“I taught you well, Old Mer.” The vampire chuckled, walking towards them. Funny how no steam came from her lips. She was already as cold as the air around her.
“Have everything?” The Harbinger asked.
“Aye.” She nodded, but then gestured with her head towards Erik. “Shouldn’t you be helping him onto Allie?”
He turned towards the West, and Erik saw those red-orange eyes narrow. “Let Allie rest her back. We will walk. We may need her legs later.”
“I can’t walk!” Erik suddenly exploded, unable to take it anymore. “My hand? Don’t you see? Don’t you understand? I’m maimed!” His Harbinger seemed surprised by Erik’s outburst and gave him a quick once-over. The silver brows then lowered like a brooding bird of prey.
“Dragon take your legs, boy?” He asked, the voice no longer playful, but gruff. His lips turning to form a disapproving frown.
“No.”
“Then walk.” Cold as ice, making Erik shudder, taken aback. The Altmer then grabbed the reins of his horse to lead her, flicking his head towards the West, towards Serana, who was already walking. “Now move!”
Erik jumped at the command, wincing at the pain in his chest, watching the Altmer lead the horse away from him. Leaving him standing alone in the snow, his pack on the floor. Erik looked at his pack and then back up at the Altmer.
“How? How do I pick up my pack? My gear?” He felt like crying again. Alone. Why was this being done to him? He saw the Altmer pause and turn slowly, but there was no sympathy behind those fiery eyes, no pity, no remorse, no sorries.
“You want to die, boy?” The Elf asked coldly.
“No.” Erik stammered.
“Then figure it out and hurry. Weather is turning for the worse.”
Erik looked deeply into those eyes, trying to understand, extract something from that grim face—his famous mercy—only to see nothing except a frown, the fire eyes boring into his. The wind blew through the tendrils of white hair that escaped the confines of his hood, cutting into the lined skin, the bruises, cuts, his own arm in a sling. The Harbinger turned slowly and resumed his walk, straightening his back. Tall and proud in the bone-biting winds, asking nothing of anyone, carrying his own gear, his own weapons, leaving Serana to hers, leading his horse.
“Beron?” It was whispered, Serana.
“No.” The Elf growled.
And then Erik understood, stooping slowly to pick up his pack, finding the strength.
He didn’t show me pity.
2nd of Morning Star 4E, 203
The sky was finally getting bright, the sun poking its head from behind the hill they were riding around, following the road from Whiterun to Windhelm. They were moving alongside the snow and ice-encrusted western bank of the White River, with its smattering of dried vegetation, slowly nearing the bridge crossing it, connecting it to Windhelm's outskirts. Dreth's eyes were set on the hill to his right.
“What in Mephala's web happened here?” he murmured in awe, gazing at trees torn from the very ground, rocks split in half, scorched and ploughed land.
“Dragon,” replied the Dunmer female riding behind him with her typical cold voice and he turned around to look at her. At first, he welcomed another Dunmer in his band of merry adventurers, but he regretted it very shortly after she spoke. Yes, her cold, grey face with yellow tattoos swirling around her eyes and cheeks were moderately disturbing, but her voice. It was as if ice spoke. And gods, those opinions. So obsessed with death… Dreth suspected she was either a Morag Tong assassin. Or ex-Morag Tong. Maybe even they found her obsession with death unsettling.
“What? A dragon fighting with a hill?” laughed Vorstag riding next to her.
“She's right,” said Belrand, riding next to Dreth. “I’ve seen firsthand how the land looks after a dragon attacks.”
“Well, if you don't mind me asking,” Interrupted the latest addition to their group, Marcurio, an Imperial mage, “but why would the dragon attack a hill when the city is quite clearly over there?” He pointed towards the black walls of Windhelm looming in distance.
It was a good question, only no one dared answer. Speaking of Windhelm, as they closed in on the city, Dreth could smell that smoke was heavy in the air. It seemed that the beast didn’t completely ignore the city. He was waiting to see if someone would point out that detail, but they were all silent.
At least the dragon didn’t attack them while they were on the road. According to Belrand, they sometimes did this, targeting wagons, caravans, and most didn’t survive.
He started with Belrand, Vorstag and Jagaark—the Bleak Walker—but the group had since gained new members. While Dreth, Jagaark and Vorstag were obtaining the second Shard, Belrand sent couriers all over Skyrim, using favours and making promises to obtain other mercenaries.
They met with most of them in Whiterun, found them at the Bannered Mare anxiously waiting for their new employer, gold, and some action. He thought their enthusiasm charming. There, Jenassa joined him, the Imperial mage Marcurio—who absolutely irritated Dreth to no end with his smart mouth. Then there was Benor from Morthal, an ugly Nord in a set of old iron armor sporting an even older iron battle axe.
Then there were two Alik’r warriors who didn't even bother to give their names, brandishing their curved scimitars and, Dareth suppressed a chuckle, bringing his own cloak more securely over his shoulders, completely wrapped in furs, looking like two little Black Skaal. They weren't used to Skyrim's cold weather, and more importantly, they seemed to both respect and scorn the Bleak Walker. Every time he spoke, they jumped up and always tried to get out of his way.
And lastly, bringing up the rear of their diverse convoy were two Orcs—male and female, though Dreth sometimes could barely tell the difference—who seemed very uncomfortable in their saddles. I heard Orcs eat horses just like the Dunmer do. Beasts, that's what they were, but Dreth couldn't deny that Ghorbash the Iron Hand and Borkakh the Steel Heart were intimidating and effective in their heavy orichalcum armor.
And now they were heading to Windhelm to grab their last asset, who was kind enough to inform them that Greenskin and his companions were holed up in the city, not looking like they would move anytime soon.
Dreth was currently thinking about his approach while on the road. There were two possibilities. I could go in there and attempt to negotiate with them, not stir any trouble. Or I could put my mercenaries to good use and just kill Greenskin and all of his fucking friends.
He measured up the band of mercenaries again with his eyes and sighed. Boethiah knew it was hard enough to keep them from killing each other. It was that undeniable flaw of every mercenary's personality which made them constantly go for each other's throats. Gold. It was like fever to them. He smirked inwardly, he understood that sickness well.
To his surprise, Jagaark usually stopped any fight before it happened, but Dreth's thoughts were that he was doing it unintentionally. He didn't give a crap about the other mercenaries, but every time he moved, coughed, farted, or said something, everyone looked in his direction. Their eyes wide, waiting for him to perhaps pull that black-gold sword out of his scabbard and slaughter them all. Which meant that most of them forgot about petty fighting.
Belrand told Dreth that if the Bleak Walker did decide to kill them all, they probably wouldn't be able to do anything to prevent it—except Jenassa. She was probably the only one who was good enough with a blade to stand her ground against the Bleak Walker. Which means that when it comes to swords, she's the second most capable asset against that Goldpact Knight everyone is talking about.
Decimus Merotim—the Old Blade—was somewhat of a legend among these mercenaries. Some were even friends with him and Dreth found this respect towards some random stupid knight very annoying. He knew very well that stories could be exaggerated easily, turning men into demi-gods walking Nirn. On the other hand...expect the worst, hope for the best.
Then there was the matter of Greenskin. The little green asshole with tusks, cursed Dreth in his mind. He hated and feared that Orc at the same time, because he was as clever and ruthless as he was. For a beast to have such intelligence! It was unholy. No trick is dirty enough for him, no one is spared in his climb to the top. All that matters is gold. He frowned and pulled the fur cloak closer to his neck, shivering in the cold. Which makes him the most dangerous of all his “friends”, even while all these mercs think it´s the Goldpact Knight who is the most dangerous.
As they neared Windhelm, crossing the bridge over the White River, they saw that the large stone bridge leading to the city was scorched and nearly destroyed—the dragon’s doing more than likely. The closer they got, the more they saw and when they cleared the bridge, they noticed that the stables were in ruins, a big boulder situated among the debris. The stench of decomposing horseflesh mixing with residual smoke.
And then he saw something near one of the farms near the stables. Something large and ivory against the dark, scorched earth. “By Azura!” he gasped. He had never seen one.
“That´s a fucking dragon,” murmured Belrand.
It was nothing but bones, but it was still huge.
“A dead dragon,” whispered Jenassa in a strange voice, stranger even than her normal one. Breathless and husky. “It´s so...beautiful. It´s an art. The art of death, and he makes such glorious art, that one does. Great art. I remember his last art very well…” Dreth looked at her with a puzzled expression, noticing how her cheeks suddenly flushed a deeper gray as the blood rose to her face. “I´m soaking wet,” she purred and everyone looked at her, their eyes wide. She blinked, but then narrowed her eyes again. “What? No one is up to the task?” she challenged.
Everyone in his party exchanged glances and it seemed that no one wanted to volunteer. Dreth considered it for a second, only to think better of it. She has a lot of knives on her. Don´t want to end up sliced during sex, no sir, thank you, sir.
He heard someone spur a horse and saw Jagaark heading towards Jenassa. He casually lifted her from her own saddle and set her upon his lap. Then he turned the horse around, heading towards some rocks. Everyone followed them for a few seconds with their eyes.
“I hope his arse freezes off.” Griped one, Dreth wasn’t paying attention. But, they kept at it. Jagaark was no longer around, they were bloody going to talk up a storm now. Dreth sighed.
“I highly doubt that. She´ll keep him warm.” Joked another.
“She´ll ride him to death.” Argued a third.
“Want to bet?” Volunteered a fourth.
Borgakh Steel Heart then scoffed. Dreth wondered when the only other female—well, that was still a matter of debate in his eyes—would open her mouth. “Some puny Dunmer will hardly ride that man to death. Only Orcs can do that.” Her yellowing tusks flashed and Dreth actually felt some bile creep up.
“Yeah, but she´s prettier than some Orc. Nobody wants to screw you.”
“How about I rip your head off with my bare hands?!” she bellowed. Yes, that is a way to win a man’s heart, you beast. Dreth rolled his eyes. Top on my list of what I want out of a woman.
“Shall we bet on whether she can actually do that?” Mercenary number four again and Dreth’s palm hit his forehead.
“Sure, why not?”
Dreth scowled and was about to address the fools when he noticed a group of people on the bridge heading towards them. People with big axes and warhammers. “Enough chit-chat!” he growled, pointing his finger towards the bridge. The group of mercenaries were quiet, studying the approaching crowd. It was mostly comprised of Windhelm guards, bloody Stormcloaks, but there were also some Dunmer and common citizens among them.
“You think they´re here for us?” whispered Belrand, checking his sword. He then released a small chortle, “It´s been some time since someone tried to arrest me.”
“I hope they´re not. There´s a lot of them,” spat Vorstag. “It will be bloody and I think that mister-grey-skin isn´t paying us enough to fight guards.”
“Aye,” The others sounded in unison.
“Oh, just shut up and let me do the talking,” Dreth snapped. Their narrowed eyes and surly expressions told him that they didn’t like that he did that, but what else he was supposed to do? Mercenaries. Always weighing every action against gold. I wonder if they would want gold even for taking a shit. He took a deep breath and put on his most friendly smile. The crowd was getting closer and he felt a cold sweat on his skin, even in the bloody cold.
The first man in the crowd to approach—some Stormcloak with his face hidden under a helmet—raised his eyes towards Dreth. Here we go. He made himself smile more and opened his mouth to greet the guard—
“Move aside, idiot!” barked the guard. “You´re standing in our way. Can´t you see the stables are gone?”
“Of course,” Dreth nodded and made his horse move aside, motioning the others do to the same. The crowd passed them, the people chatting excitedly with each other, joking and laughing. And everyone had either battle axes or warhammers. What in Oblivion?
“Isn´t it a bit early in the day to go to war?” chuckled Marcurio from the back and Dreth shot him a look to shut up, but Marcurio seemed to completely ignore it. “I mean, look at them. All happy and shit. Never seen anyone happy when he was going to die—“
“Oh gods! Will someone shut him up, for fuck´s sake!”
“Shut him up yourself, asshole.”
“How about a bet?”
By Azura, Dreth really hoped that Jagaark would come back with Jenassa soon. He was missing the Reguard already. They don’t talk nearly this much when he was around. A man in steel armor suddenly separated himself from the crowd and came closer.
“Shor´s Bones! Sitting on your horses like a bunch of grannies,” he laughed and Dreth looked at him, not sure how to take the obvious insult. It was a Nord with a shaved head, grey beard, and blue eyes.
Belrand jumped off his horse and came to the Nord. Dreth watched them clasp forearms in a warrior’s greeting. “Stenvar, you old cunt! You look older every day!”
“Fucker! Just look at your head!” laughed Stenvar. “You used to have hair up there,” he rubbed Belrand´s bald spot on the top of his head. Dreth hoped that they wouldn’t strip and start counting scars. They did that at the campires every night, it seemed to Dreth, and he had seen his share of Nord thighs, chests, a Dunmer ass, and the male Orc even showed a scar on his—Dreth closed his eyes and shook his head. You just had to go give yourself that image again, didn’t you?
“You don´t have any hair, you Eastmarch bastard,” replied the spellsword.
“That´s because I´m shaving it, you Haafingar pussy.”
Dreth coughed and the two men turned their eyes to him. Belrand spat on the ground and gave Stenvar a pat on his back before gesturing to Dreth. “This is Taron Dreth, our employer. And this is Stenvar, the last addition to our company.”
“Pleasure to meet you, Stenvar,” nodded Dreth, ignoring the Nord’s raised eyebrows. “In your letter you mentioned they are in the city.”
Stenvar scowled and then shook his head. “Disappeared last night. The Jarl got pissed off and locked them up in his prison. They got out.”
Dreth hit his thigh in frustration and cursed in Dunmeris. “Which means we have no idea where they are currently headed. Unless you managed to pull that out of them?”
Stenvar shook his again. “Tried to weasel it out of Erik a few days ago, but he didn’t say anything and neither did Greenskin.” He reached under his armor and pulled out a few papers. “But I don’t think we’re quite as screwed as you may be thinking.”
“Hey, Stenvar,” shouted Vorstag. “Where are all those people heading?”
Stenvar looked up and then at the crowd Vorstag was pointing at. “They´re going to try to chop that dragon into pieces. Tried last night with woodcutter´s axes, but the bones are too hard. So today, they’re trying with battle axes and warhammers. For souvenirs, you know. It´s not every day the Dragonborn kills a dragon in front of the city gates.”
“Is the Dragonborn still here?” One of them asked, and to honest, Dreth was curious too. That skeleton was massive.
Stenvar shook his head and spit, his face going a little sour. “Already left.”
The Dragonborn, Dreth mused. It was a mixed bag with that one. Either the locals talked about him like these mercs talked about the Old Blade, or they spit and cursed the mention of him. Very curious that a person could be so polarizing, but that wasn’t what was important now. At least, the bastard was doing his job. I will do mine, he smiled.
“Those papers?” reminded Dreth and Stenvar mumbled something into his beard and handed them over to Dreth. The Dunmer looked at them and noticed there was a seal, which was broken. “I see you’ve already read it.”
The Nord snorted. “Of course I did. Well, at least I tried. It´s in some gibberish I can´t read. But I have a pretty good idea of what’s in it because I know who it´s from.”
Dreth opened the letter and noticed a paper with a map. That´s… familiar. It looked like the other half of Katria´s map and his eyebrows shot upwards in surprise. “Where did you get this?”
Stenvar shrugged. “Just read and maybe you´ll understand.”
The Dunmer looked at the paper again, noticing the content was in Daedric. No wonder the Nord couldn´t read it. Very few in this frozen shithole can read Daedric. Except scholars and Dunmer. His eyes focused on the words and with every word he was more and more shocked.
Dear Mister Dreth,
I would like to tell ya to go tusk yerself, but sadly, I really can't, right? Because by now ya probably have guessed that I want somethin' from ya. We're after the same thing, right? The Aetherium Forge. But I'm goin' to tell ya that without me, ya won't be able to unlock it. And I won't be able to unlock its secrets without ya. So how ‘bout we just work together, hmm? Split the prize just between us, fifty/fifty? Because I don't want to share with those tuskers. Splittin' fifty/fifty with ya sounds like a better option than gettin' only one-sixth of the prize.
As a show of good will, I'm givin' ya a copy of the second half of Katria's map. Ya will notice there’re only two locations, not three. That's because I don't want ya to follow me. The location in the south is most probably the location of the Aetherium Forge and the other one in the west…
Well, here's a little secret for ya. There’s a bounty on a certain big Altmer who happens to be my companion on this endeavor. But it's not any official bounty you’ll hear about around our normal haunts. I met a certain fella in Windhelm and he revealed himself as a Thalmor operative. It seems the good Old Mary Dominion is offering fifteen thousand gold pieces for that Altmer's head. Fifteen thousand! Do I have yer attention now? I thought so. The second location is where that Altmer is headin', followed by ginger Nord, red-haired Altmer female and black-haired Nord woman. He rides a black charger, big ass fucker with horns and everything. Ya know where I'm headin' with all this, right? Just know that that black-haired woman is the Altmer's weakness.
Ya don't trust me. I don't trust ya. But that doesn't mean we have to be enemies here. Think about it. Either way, I'll see ya in the Rift.
The Greenskin
Dreth stared at the letter for several seconds. You clever bastard. Playing both sides! I knew I should not have underestimated you! It was so cold, so calculating...Damn, Orc. I´m absolutely stunned. His eyes found Stenvar again. “Do you think we can trust him?”
They looked at each other.
“Trust who?” asked Belrand, not understanding.
“Guess.” answered Stenvar. “I’ll give you a hint, big pain in the arse in a little green package.”
“Ah fuck,” growled Belrand, figuring it out who it was. “Us? Trust him?”
“Yeah, I know.” Stenvar shook his head. “He´ll try to screw us over the first chance he gets. But I can tell you he has some issues with that Altmer and Erik the Slayer. I´m not surprised he’d be trying to sell them out. But...before we chase after them,” he added, scratching his ear. “There´s someone you need to talk to. In private.”
Dreth frowned, his eyes narrowing in distrust. Sounds rather suspicious, that is true. A stab in the back? No, most likely not. These Nords are not the sort. “Is there some value in this private talk?” he asked.
Stenvar smirked. “You have no idea.”
Dreth nodded and turned to his band of mercenaries. “Wait here and guard the horses. I hope this won´t take long.”
“Why do we have to freeze out here?” One asked, probably one of the Alik’r. Where’s Jagaark? Still banging away, I presume?
“Shut up, you milkdrinker.” Replied a Nord.
“Shut up yourself, savage.” Another Alik’r.
“Hey! Those Orcs are savages, not us.” The Nord again.
“I´m going to show you who´s the savage, Nord.” Was wondering when the She-Orc would chime in again.
By the Reclamations, get off this blasted beast so you can at least take a break from these idiots. Dreth slid off the animal and followed Stenvar.
Stenvar led Dreth towards the city and Dreth´s eyes fell upon the docks—or what was left of them. Pretty much anything made out of wood was burned down and even the stones were somewhat deformed. Melted by dragon´s fire. But that didn´t impress Dreth much. He was from Morrowind; fire and lava was his every day’s bread and butter. Stonefalls wasn’t a very safe region, with its unstable volcanoes.
It took them several minutes to reach their destination in Windhelm—an unassuming house sitting close to the wall towards the right when entering the gate. Stenvar knocked and Dreth raised his eyebrows, tilting his head in surprise. Since when do Nords knock?
“Oh, do come in,” came a muffled voice from inside. Dreth immediately noticed the strange accent. For a few seconds he wasn´t able to place it, but then he once remembered meeting an Altmer born in Summerset Isles and he spoke in a similar fashion. Dreth couldn’t identify from which part of the Isles though.
Stenvar opened the door and motioned him to enter. It was a humble home, clean, with typical furniture, not that he was paying much attention. No, instead, his attention was focused on the Altmer sitting at a chair by a wooden table. A pair of light green, Elven eyes stared back at him, their expression strangely amused. The eyes were part of a golden-skinned face with rather high cheekbones, creating an inverted triangle shape with his long chin. The chin was covered with a neatly trimmed, white-satin goatee. He was bald and sporting several gold earrings along his left ear. The Elf was dressed in a jacket of soft, supple, finely tooled brown leather with matching boots, trousers, and gauntlets. Underneath the jacket shown a tunic of deep carmine red, with several decorative slashes on the sleeves of his jacket exposing more of his tunic. He looks like some sort of dandy. Trying to pass yourself off as first Century, eh?
And the smell, by the Reclamations, what kind of sweet, cloying cologne was that? Dreth could feel his eyes beginning to water and he blinked.
“You must be Taron Dreth,” said the Altmer with his strange—and very irritating—accent. Or maybe it wasn´t the accent, but the tone. Every word from that Altmer´s mouth dripped with sarcasm and arrogance. “Come, sit,” the Altmer motioned to a chair on the opposite end of the table.
Dreth noticed a dark grey and black tabby cat sitting on the table, watching him with bright amber eyes that seemed way to too intelligent for his liking. The head, a striking wedge. As he approached, he noticed a scar across its left eye and a notch on the cat´s left ear. An ear that was adorned with several golden hoops. In fact, both ears were adorned with gold, and the black leathery nose sported a nose ring. Dreth’s eyes narrowed, were those tiny leather bracers on the cat’s front legs? Black leather bracers? Cats don’t wear bracers. Wait a second...that´s not a cat. That´s a damn Khajiit. An Alfiq! While his mind was shocked, his composure remained the same and he nodded at the Altmer.
“You know my name, but I don´t know yours, mister…?”
“Kahleron,” purred the Altmer with a teasing smirk, as if saying that name was some sort of an inside joke to him. “Please, sit. I would offer you food or refreshment, but sadly, my precious Niranye has already left to her store.”
Yeah? As if you couldn´t fetch the food yourself. Altmer… He took a seat and then noticed a unusual shadow in the corner. Well, for a second he really thought it was a shadow, until he looked carefully and realized it was a Bosmer standing as motionless as a statue. Clad in a green tunic with fur around his neck, leaning against a bow made of some foreign beast´s horns.
Kahleron noticed that Dreth had noticed and waved his hand dismissively. “Oh, do not mind him. That is my…” he started, but then paused for a second, only to continue with a grin from those sneering full lips, as if he was saying another hilarious joke. “Fist. One of many, actually.” He chortled.
A Bosmer called Fist. Now that´s hilarious. And people say Altmer have no sense of humor. “I highly doubt you wanted me here for only polite conversation. So how about we get down to business?”
The Altmer made the tiniest of frowns, evidently dissatisfied. Probably dissatisfied with me even bloody speaking before he gave permission. Arrogant fuck. “There is a tradition where I come from, that before one begins talking about business—“
“Honestly, I don´t give guar´s shit about your homeland traditions.” cut in Dreth, slowly growing irritated. No wonder fucking Veloth left, you ass.
“As you wish,” hissed Kahleron. “Well, business it is, then.” He adjusted his gauntlets slightly. “So, a little bird told me you have made a certain Altmer your enemy.” Dreth noticed something twitch in Kahleron’s face when he said the world “Altmer”. Like he was forced to say it. Hmm.
“I did? And which one is that? I have many enemies, including Altmer ones,” chuckled Dreth. Dreth’s irritation gave way to enjoyment when he learned he could piss off the Altmer. Whoever this “Kahleron” was, he was trying to pass himself off as a mercenary, but he clearly wasn´t. What Dreth saw in front of him was a sparkling whore trying to look like a tough sellsword. And it wasn’t working. Dreth’s eyebrows creased a tad and then his lips threatened to twist into a smile again. Someone should tell him that.
“The one in Greenskin´s company,” hissed the Altmer again. He then took a deep breath to regain his composure, those light green eyes narrowing. “Yes, I know about Greenskin and I know about that letter. Stenvar brought it to me and I read it, very happily. Daedric is not all that difficult a script to read.” He smirked.
Dreth narrowed his eyes. So you read Daedric, eh? No, definitely not a mercenary, you stupid idiot. Just keep fucking up so I can learn more about you. “So what do you want then?”
Kahleron flashed a wicked grin, his clearly plucked eyebrows shooting up. “I want in, of course. I want to collect the bounty on that Altmer´s head. And a share of that great, big treasure of yours.” He purred like a big kitty.
As if on cue, Dreth saw how that Alfiq´s eyes sparkled when it jumped onto the Altmer´s lap. Kahleron rubbed behind its ear… “There, there my pet…” The Altmer cooed and Dreth nearly puked. Rubbing that beast´s ear...disgusting. Touching it. There was a reason why those beasts are slaves. Not worthy of anyone´s attention.
“That´s your price? A cut from that bounty and something extra from the treasure?” Clarified Dreth.
The Altmer raised his eyebrow and stroked his goatee, though Dreth noticed not with the same hand he had used to touch the beast. “A cut?” He shook his head and chuckled. “Oh, no! Nothing as mundane as that. I want the entire bounty. Forgive me, we want the entire bounty,” he corrected himself, gesturing to his…colleagues? “I will just need you to loan me a few of your mercenaries.” He then smiled and winked, “just to be sure.”
Dreth smiled in return. Stupid spoiled noble Altmeri brat. Well, not even a brat, you are far older than you’re making yourself out to be. If you only knew how to bargain. So used to everyone fulfilling your every wish, eh? “In that case, you´ll get only half of the bounty.” He saw how anger briefly flashed in the Altmer´s light green eyes, only to quickly evaporate. “If you want to use my men, we´ll split the gold.”
“But the Altmer is your enemy too.” He protested. “I´ll be doing you a favour—“
“With the help from mercenaries I have already hired. Fifty/fifty. Or no deal,” interrupted Dreth resolutely, beginning to rise from his chair. A heavy hand landed on his shoulder lowering him back. Dreth released a tiny gust of air and slowly turned to regard Stenvar’s grim face, smiling. “So this is how we´re going to play it?”
“I want the whole reward for that Altmer´s head,” growled Kahleron and Dreth´s smile turned into a grin. Who is this sorry bastard to make you so, so angry? Altmer didn’t get angry. Their emotions were restrained, but it was there, anger in those light green eyes.
“And if I say you´ll only get half?” Dreth asked.
Kahleron glanced at Stenvar and then at the Bosmer and Dreth almost guffawed. Even the little beastie hissed, leaping from his Master’s lap to the table again, pacing, little sparks of lightning coming from its front paws as it walked. Spellcaster! A teeny tiny spellcaster! What are you going to do, make my eyebrow hairs stand on end, you piece of filth! Dreth shrugged, it was time to put Mister Kahleron in his place.
“Or what? You´ll slash my throat? Vaporize me? I have a Bleak Walker in my employ, friend,” Dreth chuckled. “If I disappear, that brute will go on a rampage and kill anyone who...has hurt or killed his employer. Have you ever read the stipulations in a Bleak Walker’s contract, Kahleron? I think you should. You certainly don´t want one of them breathing down your sweet-smelling neck.” His eyes then found Stenvar. “And let´s not forget the fact it´s me who´s paying for all those men. Do you want to draw money from your own pocket to hire them? They want money up front. 1000 each. Do you have that much money on you?” There was a silence from the Nord and Dreth couldn´t help but laugh. “And then there is the fact at least three guards saw me enter this house. Yes, I might be just another greyskin to them, but you´re a fucking Old Mary. You´ll always be their first suspect.” A growl came from Kahleron’s mouth and Dreth raised his hand in dismissal. “Oh, so gloomy, so intimidating. Watch me quake in my boots!” He shrugged and brought his hands to the air in a gesture of exasperation. “Alright, well, let´s be done with it. Slice my throat, hack me into pieces, make me a pincushion for arrows, tear me limb by limb! Vaporize me! Anything!” he nearly screamed. He then rose from his chair and leaned against the table with both hands. The beastie hissed, but Dreth ignored it. “Do it!” He cried. “Do it, kill me!”
For a second, Dreth thought the Altmer was going to leap across the table and strangle him with his prettily gloved hands, but then there was a flash of amusement on Kahleron’s face. “Alright,” he rose from his chair. “Half it is then.” He extended his hand and Dreth looked at it, very puzzled. “Deal?”
Dreth shook the hand, seeing the etched design on the leather more closely. It was beautiful, he noticed, while his mind was still trying to understand what had just happened here. The beastie’s infernal purring was not helping either. This Altmer was up to something, but he didn´t know what. I´ll have to watch this one carefully.
“Deal,” he nodded.
Author’s Notes – Dovahzul Translations
Wo los hi wah faan zey sahlo? Voth wo los tinvaak? Fahraal!
Who are you to call me weak? With whom am I speaking? Answer!
Lif mok, nu, hi wuth draafraan mahkur! Rok los ahk goraan fah daar ahrk dreh ni mindoraan! (Leave him, now, you old dung heap! He is too young for this and does not understand!)
Nii los hi wo dreh ni mindoraan, Wuth Rovaniik.
It is you who does not understand, Old Wanderer.
Wuth Rovaniik? Druv dreh hi faan zey tol
Old Wanderer? Why do you call me by that name?
Table of Contents
Chapter 5 --- Chapter 7
Comments
Well, it indeed won't ever come to a Nord's mind to look for lockpicks in such a place...XD But what is Grulmar up to? Is he really in such a despair or is this a part of a very tricky plan?
Well, it indeed won't ever come to a Nord's mind to look for lockpicks in such a place...XD But what is Grulmar up to? Is he really in such a despair or is this a part of a very tricky plan?
Don't underestimate clever Orc's hiding spots xD
Don't underestimate clever Orc's hiding spots xD
Well, it indeed won't ever come to a Nord's mind to look for lockpicks in such a place...XD But what is Grulmar up to? Is he really in such a despair or is this a part of a very tricky plan?
Priorities
The lockpick scenario is interesting. Sotek has his own hiding place too although his isn't that drastic.
Nothing like a squabble in a jail.
The lockpick scenario is interesting. Sotek has his own hiding place too although his isn't that drastic.
Nothing like a squabble in a jail.
To quote Rynandor from Straag Rod: “Your honor will be your undoing...”
Ael... more
To quote Rynandor from Straag Rod: “Your honor will be your undoing...”
Ael... more
It sounds like Inception when I said it out loud...
It sounds like Inception when I said it out loud...
Little piece of shit.
Oh, as for Malacath and Trinimac and Grulmar...let's say that will remain an unsolved mystery for very very long time. Sorry.
Little piece of shit.
Oh, as for Malacath and Trinimac and Grulmar...let's say that will remain an unsolved mystery for very very long time. Sorry.
To quote Rynandor from Straag Rod: “Your honor will be your undoing...”
Ael... more