~Chapter One - The Bandit~
Bron's eyes opened heavily, his mind still blurry from the last glimpses of his dream that had just ended. The sun shone brightly through the slight crack in the front of his tent and assaulted what little of the Breton's vision had cleared. Bron swore under his breath as he rubbed his face, nudging his softly snoring wife with his good leg. She mumbled incoherently before rolling over and it was less than a minute before Bron heard her breathing grow heavy once more. He stood, ducking to avoid hitting his head on the top of the tent, and stepped carefully over Irena's sprawled figure. Having slept in his work clothes the night before due to the extra amount of work Mazhnag had assigned, Bron only had to sleepily draw on his boots. After tying the stiff leather straps, he stepped out of the tent and blinked furiously against the blinding sunlight.
Bron groaned as his left leg protested being stood upon. He twisted and jiggled it around, hoping that moving it would ease the pain. The deadened grass beneath his feet crunched as he turned to lean back into the tent and wake his wife.
"Irena, wake up," he said, softly at first. After repeating the phrase a few times, his patience grew thin. He raised his fist, quietly muttering words of Magick.
Suddenly, a radiant light appeared in his palm, swirling and shining brightly in colors of blue, purple, and green. With a slight smirk on his face, Bron twirled the Magelight between his fingers before flicking his wrist and shooting the light straight into his wife's face. Irena shot up, spewing curses whose subjects ranged from the sun and sky to Bron's mother. After glaring at her laughing husband for a while, she crossed her arms stubbornly. Being a considerate amount shorter than Bron, when she stood the top of her head didn't come close to grazing the top of the tent. She pulled on her boots angrily and stormed out of the tent, fuming at the rude awakening. Bron was still chuckling when she walked up to him and smacked him on the shoulder, for that was all she could reach.
"DAMN you, Bron," she barked, adjusting her shirt as she puffed herself up to seem larger. Bron said nothing in return, only shaking his head in amusement at his disgruntled wife. He pecked her on the forehead, causing low grumbles from Irena, and began walking painfully towards the main part of Haltstream Camp.
The camp that Bron and Irena were employed at had once been a great trade center for the illegal selling of mammoth parts and merchandise. Since its hay day, the camp had been attacked by teams of guards from the nearby city of Whiterun. The bandit clan under the authority of Mazhnag the Betrayer had taken over the dusty ruins of the camp and had been attempting to bring Haltstream back to its former glory. So far the clan had done very little, for in order to continue the illegal trade most of the members had to be very discreet and subtle, which was not the strong suit of anyone in the clan. Mazhnag had been very good about punishing those who had jeopardized the safety and secrecy of the operation. Because of this constant punishment, the members who were booted out were very rarely replaced for no bandit in their right mind wanted to work for Mazhnag the Betrayer.
Mazhnag, a bad-tempered Orc of little words, was known throughout Skyrim for his abandonment of his legion in the Civil War. He had been a legate, commanding nearly two hundred men on the attack at Whiterun. The moment he knew that his legion was outnumbered and out-skilled, he fled the scene, leaving all of his men to die at the bloody gates of the White City. The rumor of his betrayal had spread like wildfire, leaving the former officer with nothing but a horrible reputation and a blood-stained suit of steel armor. No matter how many times he scrubbed it, how many spells he had his Magicka-inclined clan-mates cast, the dark splotches of the remainders of his fallen comrades remained on the armor. He kept the suit out of sight, but everyone in the clan knew that he kept it in the huge chest under his worktable. Not always in his sight, but close enough to always be in his mind.
Bron sat down at a wooden work bench next to Oenil, a large fair-haired Nord who had served alongside Bron in the Civil War just months earlier. As Bron got comfortable, positioning himself so he wouldn't get splinters in very unfortunate places, Oenil slapped him on the back and greeted him in his booming Nordic voice.
"Look who's finally up, eh?" Oenil smiled, shoving a wooden bowl and half a mammoth tusk in Bron's hands much to the Breton's surprise.
"Listen here. I was up in plenty of time," Bron started, drawing his dagger.
"If you even finish that sentence, I will run you through with my sword." Irena mocked, pushing her husband ever so slightly. Bron started slicing the mammoth tusks into thin slices, dumping them into the wooden bowl Oenil had given him.
As the trio talked and sliced mammoth tusks, the rest of the clan was bustling around, for today was the second Turdas of the month, and that was day that the Khajit caravans came in search of mammoth goods. They usually preferred mammoth furs and powdered tusks, so the clan spent the majority of the day skinning the beasts and grinding their tusks into a fine white powder to be used by alchemists for potions. The caravans were known for their generous pay for such objects, and the clan knew that whatever money they received today would be their pay for the rest of the month. The ritual on this "Day of Coin" was to get the camp looking as clean and organized as possible in order to milk every septim out of the Khajits.
Just as Bron was beginning to crush the shards of tusk into powder with the butt of his dagger, a Wood Elf named Elrnir sat quickly down across from him.
"Bron, I need to tell you something," the Elf said, bouncing up and down, not out of excitement but out of habit. The poor Elf had a severe skooma addiction, and had been attempting for months to shake the habit, but every month, like clockwork, the Khajit caravans would come to collect mammoth wares and have bags overflowing with the drug. Elrnir would spend every coin he made the month before, and drink all of the sweet liquid in less than a few days. He would go through horrible withdrawals, shaking and stifling screams every night. Then, as soon as he would be nearly over the stuff, the Day of Coin would come and the cycle would start all over again. Bron tried every month to get the poor man to quit, and Elrnir tried harder every cycle. But he couldn't get over how the drug would make him feel, helping forget whatever troubles had upset him in his secretive past. And so he sat in front of Bron, lightly shaking like an excited dog, his eyes bloodshot and his face drooping with exhaustion.
"What is it?" Bron's eyebrows furrowed, for Elrnir was rarely worried about anything.
"I heard Mazhnag f-fighting with his wife," the Elf stammered, his eyes darting back and forth, afraid of eavesdropping bandits.
"What about?" Bron asked, slightly curious.
"I don't know. I didn't stay long enough to hear any d-details. Just that they're thinking of moving c-camp for some reason."
"Are you sure you didn't hear anything?" Oenil interjected, his face darkening.
"I heard them mention two names, Eagard and I-I think Aster," Elrnir said, looking as if he was trying to remember names, "They were talking about leading the rest of us away."
Oenil's eyes widened and Bron could feel the Nord's body tense up from where he was sitting. Bron recognized the names Elrnir had stuttered, but he couldn't put his finger on where from. Then Oenil spoke and answered his question:
"I know those names. They're the Dragonborns," Oenil said monotonously, looking straight ahead.
"Back in my old clan, we had just started getting real successful. Everyone was bringin' home bundles of coin, when all of a sudden two women, both covered head to toe in black armor, came in and killed everyone in a matter of minutes. They left me alive, but I will never forget the way that one held her sword to my throat. "I had just shot one of their horses with my bow, and the owner of the wounded horse sprinted over to me and shouted these…horrible words. Just listening to them threw me back onto the ground. As I crawled backwards to get my bow, she thrust her sword at my neck. The black blade let out this hellish smoke, and it sort of surrounded my face, rendering me blind for a few seconds. From what little I could see, I could tell she was debating shoving her demon sword just a couple more inches right into my neck. She had thrown off her helmet and her teeth were bared at me, and her eyes were filled with anger. But then I heard the other woman speak.
"'Eagard,' she said, and then she shook her head. Nothing else. And the woman named Eagard seemed to understand. She looked down at me in what I assumed was disgust. She had these golden eyes that seemed to burn right through my skin. She stood and glared at me for a few seconds. Then she took her sword and slashed my arm where my armor had fallen off. She then sheathed her sword and walked away, leaving me terrified as I've never been before in my life."
Bron blinked as he took in this tale of terror. He had never seen his Nord comrade scared, and just in telling the story, Oenil had gone pale. Irena touched the man's wrist in comfort, and the corner of his mouth twitched in a ghost of a smile.
"Why do you think they left you alive?" Elrnir asked, his trembling intensified.
"I think it might've been so there was someone to tell everyone about them. Otherwise there wouldn't be anyone to spread stories and rumors about how dangerous they are, you know?"
"That seems oddly convenient, and rather superstitious," Irena scoffed, and Bron lightly kicked his wife to send a message of silence. Elrnir gave a small smile. "Yeah, it really does. I just don't see any other reason that she would leave me alive." Bron thought about what his friend said, and continued to shave parts of mammoth tusk with his dagger.
"Ah, damn," Irena cursed, which caused Bron to snap out of his thoughts, "My dagger's broken."
"I'll get you another one," Bron instantly replied, grateful for the excuse to stand. Irena smiled at her husband.
As Bron walked away from the table and headed towards the mine, he heard a bout of laughter from his friends. The sense of community within the clan was one of the reasons that Bron chose to stay, rather than leave and find a more "respectable" source of income. He had made friends, there were little to no feuds between the members of the clan, and he was provided with food and shelter. He realized that there was a presumed bounty on his head, and for the first few months of his association with Mazhnag that made him uneasy. But lately, he was rather grateful that he had found such a group.
He opened the wooden door to the mine, and was hit with the familiar smell of must, dust, and rusty pickaxes. He made his way down the small slope of dry iron deposits and turned right, to go to the supply room. When he turned the corner, he heard frantic whispers, one voice deep and raspy, and the other high and shrill.
"We need to get out of here, Mazhnag!" the shrill voice barked. "It's not safe for us anymore!"
"Ragaba, that's enough," the raspy voice answered, with a tone of annoyance. "We're successful here. I'm not moving camp because of some idiotic superstition."
"It's anything BUT superstition!" Ragaba pleaded. Bron thought about what Elrnir had told him earlier, about Mazhnag and his wife fighting. He shrank to a kneeling position behind a barrel, to hide and to listen in on the anxious argument.
"It's a story that you heard in an inn, wife," Mazhnag growled, "It's nothing more than some old fool's attempt to scare clans like us out of our wits. I can't believe you fell for something so trivial."
"Mazhnag, I've seen them for myself. When I went into Whiterun last week I heard that WE are their next target! The Jarl upped our bounty and they are thirsty for coin!" Ragaba's voice was raising in panic, and her husband let out a quiet "Hush" to quiet her down.
"Whatever these "Dragonborns" throw at us, we will be able to handle." He said shortly, and Bron Ragaba's quiet sobs in response. Slightly frightened, he stood slowly and walked into the giant supply room. The room was as tall as three mammoths stacked one on top of the other, and the walls were lined with tusks, furs, and hunting supplies. In the center of the room was a dead mammoth, lying motionless in a pool of its own blood. As Bron steadily made his way towards the knives, a chill went through him as he realized the mammoth, in death, was staring directly at him. Grabbing the sharpest looking dagger that he could see, he rushed out of the room before Mazhnag could notice what he was doing.
Once he was outside again, he realized that the sun had completely vanished from the sky, hidden behind a rather thick set of clouds. The lack of warmth and light shrouded the camp in an eerie darkness that set a gloomy mood. He walked over to the table where Irena and Elrnir were sitting. After handing his wife the dagger, he sat down next to her and furrowed his brow.
"Where did Oenil go?" he asked.
"He has guard duty for the rest of the day," Irena answered simply, inspecting her new tool with a content expression on her face.
"That's what you get for upsetting the boss," Bron joked, and Elrnir chuckled.
The trio continued their work, and by the time that suppertime rolled around, they had gone through all the tusks they had been given, leaving their table looking as if it had been snowed on. As Elrnir stood to go get their helpings of their dinner, Bron heard a shriek in the distance.
"What was that?" Irena asked, and as soon as the words left her lips they saw a figure running towards them, tripping slightly over the rocks in the ground but not stopping. Bron squinted his eyes to see who it was, but he couldn't make it out.
"Oh gods," Irena breathed. Bron looked at his wife, and her expression had changed from subtle confusion to horror, "It's Oenil."
Bron looked back at the figure, and he could see the long fair hair that separated Oenil from the rest of their little group. His eyes widened as Oenil drew closer, and he could see blood running down his chest.
"We've been routed, fall back!" Oenil yelled, and as he got even closer, Bron saw an arrow sticking out of his shoulder.
"OENIL!" Bron shouted, running towards the Nord, ready to heal him.
"Bron, run!" Oenil wheezed, and collapsed at Bron's feet in pain, "Its them! It's the sisters!"
Bron looked out over the distance and saw nothing, but he decided to walk towards their guard tower to see if he could see anything suspicious. Calling Irena over, he prepared himself for throwing fireballs at the possible enemies.
"Keep an eye on him," he told his wife, and stood, observing the horizon in suspicion. Oenil whimpered and gasped, both in pain and terrified. Bron heard his wife comforting and hushing the Nord behind him, as he walked steadily towards the guard tower. He approached the gate, and, with a slow deep breath, he opened the gate.
Then, as plain as day, he saw it.
A horse with hide as black as night with eyes redder than blood. Bron froze in fear, as the horse glared at him with cold condescension. Bron's eyes lifted to its rider, a warrior wearing a deathly black suit of armor, minus the helmet. The woman seated on the horse was glaring at Bron with the same level of disgust that her horse sported. Her dark brown hair was swept back in a ponytail, and her golden eyes seared into his, making his knees shake in terror. He swallowed audibly, then drew his sword.
"You picked a b-bad time to get lost," he said loudly, stuttering slightly but keeping his chin up in pride. The woman smiled slowly, then began to laugh. Bron's sense of pride wavered as another woman suddenly appeared from behind the horse, wearing a dark red and black set of armor that Bron instantly recognized as Dark Brotherhood garb. She sauntered forward, leaning one arm against the black horse.
"Do you wanna run that by us again, milk-drinker?" she taunted, unslinging her bow from her shoulder. The woman atop the horse did the same, and simultaneously they calmly knocked arrows and drew their bows, both pointing directly at Bron's face. He took a deep breath, thought "I love you" to Irena in his head, then stated shakenly,
"You never should have come here."
"Aster," the woman on the horse said smoothly, glancing down at the woman standing, "Are you ready?"
"Of course, Eagard," Aster replied, with a slight smile. Eagard's eyes focused back on Bron and his heart dropped into his stomach. He heard the swishing of two arrows being fired, and the last thing he saw was two pairs of golden eyes before everything went black.