As if nothing happened, Weylissa sheathed her sword after wiping it on the grass filling the gaps of Falkreath. It wasn't long before the crowd of people started crowding the melting dragon. Shouts of 'by the gods!', 'a dragon?', 'what a sight!', 'is this real?' and 'sweet Stendarr I must be drunk. . . .' Spread around.

Calmly the Altmer Dragonborn approached the soul being wrenched out of the deceased dragon, and sifted through the bones that hadn't burnt themselves to ash. She proceeded the gather them until she felt a hand on her shoulder. A ragged voice foiled the air. Weylissa peered up to see a withered old woman, Tekla she believed her to be, shivering with fear and excitement.

'It's. . . . Really dead, then?' She rasped.

Weylissa nodded. 'The bastard just rotted before your eyes, and lost its soul, and I slew the beast. So yes, it is dead,' she answered irritably.

'In all my years, I've never seen such a thing!' Feeling a new wave of annoyance, Weylissa idled to face the voice. A young Nord woman in revealing clothes looked upon the skeletal thing with awe.

'Girl, you are but an newborn to many mer. Next time try not to be so stupid to ask such a. . . .'

'Oooh! These teeth are so shiny, gleamy and. . . . Deadly!' This time Weylissa huffed at a little boys words. The kid had stuck his entire head inside the jaws of the dead dragon, and fiddling with the, indeed, deadly fangs.

'Child, you really ought to be careful,' Weylissa warned, wandering over to coax the kid away.

'It may be dead now. . . . But where did it come from?' Freezing halfway through sauntering over to the boy, Weylissa took in the figure of Siddgeir. The jarl, no matter how oblivious to many situations, exceeded that and gaped at it, dumbfounded.

Racking her knowledge, the Altmer explained. 'All dragons come from Akavir, from some beliefs. However, the old Nords, Atmorans, believed they did belong in this world yet revered them as gods, bringing upon themselves the dragon cult, and the ultimate aspect of Alduin.'

'How do you know all that?' Weylissa felt her head pound as she heard the thick Nordic man's accent. Raising a hand to massage it, she feebly answered.

'Altmer have a hunger for knowledge so far not yet sated, which obviously Nords do not.'

It could have been her imagination, but she swore she could hear him mutter, 'Sounds like something the Thalmor would say. . . .'

That was one thing she could live without, all the Thalmor references toward her. No matter how many times she reminded strangers or friends, they just couldn't understand that not all High Elves, as the lesser races call them, are not all Thalmor. 'Large ears do not mean dull hearing,' Weylissa found herself hissing.

'I know that.'

'By the gods, I don't even know what to say.'

'I-is that another dragon?'

'Take cover!'

'Holy shit!'

'Are you kidding me?' The Altmer muttered incredulously. With haste she drew her sword and readied an ice spear spell, and her mind for more pointless questions and headaches afterward.