Prologue: Disbelief

Disclaimer: I do not own anything to do with Skyrim or the Elder Scrolls series. All credit for this story goes to the wonderful minds at Bethesda.

Song Credit: The majority of this chapter was written while listening to Could This Be Real by Sub Focus. God Bless Sub Focus.

This story is dedicated to the guys over at UESPWiki. I can't imagine having written any of this without the help of their wonderful site. Many thanks.

Forty-seven years ago. 4th Era 155. Middas the 3rd, First Seed.

She was in the midst of archiving the Alteration texts when she heard the cry.

Few were permitted within the Ada-mantia, or the Adamantine Tower, as it had become known by the local Bretons. Of those selected to walk within its walls, all were master mages in one field or another. It was considered the highest honor for those of the school of Julianos to become archivists within its hallowed halls. Within the island fortress, High Rock's greatest mages collected and safeguarded tomes of magical importance and historical significance. It was the largest library in existence, possibly only rivaled by Hermaeus Mora's personal Oblivion plane, the Apocrypha. Only the most talented and gifted in the magickal arts were asked to join the archivists within the Ada-mantia's walls.

When Allora Ashwing, master conjurer of Julianos' Temple in Daggerfall, was summoned to replace an archivist that had finally passed from Mundus, she had all but wept at the prospect. It was the opportunity of a lifetime.

Well into her third year in the confines of the Tower, Allora was all but mad from the boredom.

Nothing happened in the Tower. The most stringent security measures assured that fact, put in place by the Archmages of old. The guards were massive brutes, encased in shining adamantium plate and heavy orcish mail. They carried glaives of enchanted ebony that stood half again as high as the men who held them. The tower guard numbered over three-hundred men, all of them elite warriors conscripted from High Rock's armies. It was regarded as fact that the Isle of Balfiera, the home of the Tower, was impregnable by any mortal army.

Yet, when Allora heard the cry, she wondered if some infiltrator had struck a magickal trap.

She left the archive room she had been assigned to, one of over thirty library sized spaces, and stepped out into the hall. The sound was coming from deeper into the tower complex, if her ears were leading her correctly. It almost sounded like... no, that was not possible. It was forbidden.

Allora slowly walked down the hall and toward the center of the large fortress. The halls were silent stone, with magickal lamps set in walls sconces every few dozen paces. The light permeated the space, but it wasn't comforting. No, after years of walking the tower's halls in silence, Allora Ashwing found the bright, magickal lights as oppressive as any prison bars.

Mirrors, intermittently lined along the long hallways, showed Allora what she looked like. A Breton woman, barely in her mid-thirties, shrouded in the dark blue and gold robes of the School's Masters. The hems of her robes kicked up small pockets of dust as she walked. She took hesitant steps, as though dreading what would happen if she moved any faster. The halls, though wide and unnecessarily high, seemed ready to close in on her. Allora knew she hadn't been claustrophobic before moving to the Tower, but the situation had since changed after her arrival.

The mirrors showed Allora other things as well. She saw her frightened, worry-lined face, no longer youthful by any means. She had been beautiful once, for the briefest moment of her younger twenties, when her pale skin had finally started to discard the fat of youth. What had been revealed underneath was a hard-faced woman with stunning, narrowed features and hair as black as night. Her potential suitors had almost doubled in number, but Allora had no time for it. Her work was her life and nothing would separate her from it.

Years later, Allora had begun to regret her decision to remain in studious solitude. Her number of friends decreased as the years went on, as did her beauty. The years of study and magical practice were taking their toll. It showed in her face when she sighed from weariness. It filled the dulled glow of her once soft, hazel eyes. Allora was a shell of her former self, and no amount of skill in magic could replace the years she had lost.

All the years. Family taken by plague. A dull social life. No husband and a few, unsatisfying lovers. Atronachs and summoned Daedra were no substitute for social contact. Even worse, Allora had discovered that she was unable to bear children. No children...

In an act of desperation, she had prayed. For two years she prayed to Mara, to Dibella, to Akatosh, to Kynareth. She had prayed to all the Nine for deliverance, for a chance at a life that seemed long since stolen away. Two years and not a prayer answered. The Gods preferred their silent vigil, it seemed.

Another cry shook the conjurer from her thoughts. It was coming from the innermost sanctums, from the bastion deep within the mortal made fortress that concealed the true Ada-mantia. The massive, imposing fortress, for all its history and vast libraries filled with tomes of arcane knowledge, paled to the Tower within the Tower.

The true Ada-mantia was vast column of god-forged metal that protruded from the earth from the highest point of the island. It was impossible to know how many rooms or floors the Ada-mantia contained, as none had ever been able to open it. No weapon could scratch its surface and not even the most powerful spells could penetrate the impossibly strong magical barrier it generated. One could not dig beneath, for the Tower descended deep into the ground and none dared to brave the depths in order to discover its secrets.

The tower was a complete and total mystery, aside from the fact of its existence. Its construction marked the beginning of all mortal history. Legends told of how the Ada-mantia once held the counsel of the Gods before the creation of the mortal realm. The stories spoke of how Magnus, the first Arch-Mage and the deity responsible for all magic in Mundus, created the Ada-mantia with a thought. Other tales told of how Lorkhan's heart had been cast from the tower after his betrayal of the Aedra. Many were the theories associated with the Ada-mantia, but none could really be certain of the truth.

Allora's pace quickened as yet another cry split the air. She was getting closer. It almost sounded as though it was coming from the central chamber. That was impossible, surely? The fortress was nearly two-thousand years old. In that time, no one had ever breached the inner sanctum.

The crying grew louder as she made her way to the great door, the only door that led to the central chamber. Two of the menacing guards stood before it, their glaives held proudly at their sides. They looked at Allora with confused glares, wondering what the newest archivist was doing away from her post. She hadn't left it in over three years, after all.

"Away from this place," a Redguard with hard brown eyes told her. "You are not allowed entry."

"Not without the High Chronicler," the Orc across from him agreed. He was a brute among brutes and his graying beard was long and braided. "Go back to your station, female."

Allora stared at them. "Do you not hear that cry?" she asked angrily. "How can you stand there like that! Someone is in there!"

The guards looked at one another. "There is no sound from the inner sanctum," the Redguard said warily. "Perhaps you should get some rest. You hear things that are not there."

"I will escort you," the Orc offered. He took a step toward Allora, extending a gauntlet for her to take.

She did nothing of the sort. "How can you not hear it!" she demanded. It was baffling. The cry was almost a shriek now, one that pierced the air. Again and again, her ears heard it.

The Orc took another step forward, intent on taking her arm himself. "Come, I will-"

"What is this, then?"

The Breton, Orc and Redguard turned. At the mouth of the hallway stood the High Chronicler Vertius Cado, wearing his simple white robes of office. The wizened Imperial wore a smile on his lined face, and his silver eyes were all but lost in wrinkles. The hood of his robe sat unworn around his neck. Allora wondered if the High Chronicler was cold without it, considering the ancient mage had no hair on his head to speak of.

"I heard a commotion," Vertius said as he shuffled forward. He leaned on his mithril-plated staff as he moved and it clicked lightly against the flagstones. "It has been such a long time since any commotion has occurred within these walls. I was curious."

Allora dropped to one knee and bowed instinctively. In her three years as an archivist, she had only ever seen the High Chronicler twice. The guards stood at attention and straightened their glaives so that the blades were perfectly vertical.

"Curiosity is one of our best traits," Vertius said. He didn't acknowledge the guards or the bowing mage in any way. "It prompts us to find the means to explore the unexplored. It's the starting point to discovery. It has a hand in all history, from the Dawn Era onward. Perhaps even before that." He smiled and placed his left hand on Allora's shoulder. "But I suppose that curiosity has a hand in some strange decisions as well. What brings you here, my dear?"

Allora looked up into the old mage's eyes. "High Chronicler, I heard a cry coming from the inner sanctum. I hear it now. Someone is in there, and I believe they require help."

A look of puzzlement crossed Vertius' wrinkled brow. "A cry, my dear? What sort of cry? A cry for help?"

"No sir. It sounds to me like the cry of a child."

Vertius looked at the guards. "Well, what are you waiting for? Open those doors, and be quick about it!" He rapped his staff against the flagstones for emphasis.

The guards looked at one another again, unsure of what to do."High Chronicler," the Orc began, "We haven't heard anything down here. There aren't even any rats that call these walls home.

"The woman is clearly delusional," the Redguard asserted. "She hears things that do not exist."

"I hear it!" Allora shouted over them, "Even now, the wailing continues!" The Breton woman looked up at the High Chronicler, her eyes pleading. "Please, my lord, you must hear it. How can you not?"

The ancient mage chuckled. "My lord? Dear girl, I have never been a lord, so do not start now." His brow wrinkled and he looked at the large doors. "And I confess, I hear nothing but our voices. This tower has been silent since I arrived. Most peculiar..." Vertius trailed off, a strange look in his eyes.

"We will remove her," the Orc said. He moved to reach for her, but a sharp rapping of the High Chronicler's staff stopped him short.

"You will do nothing of the sort," he ordered. His voice radiated authority, even in his advanced age. He looked down and gestured for Allora to rise. Warily, the Breton complied. "Tell me, dear child, do you really hear this cry, this pleading? Be truthful."

Allora swallowed nervously, but she nodded her confirmation. "I do indeed, High Chronicler. I hear the wail, as sure as I hear your voice now."

"Open the doors," Vertius commanded. "Let us see what ails this woman. I am curious. Most curious."

Hesitant but still compliant, the guards opened the doors. They swung open, metal grating against stone. Allora winced, but the High Chronicler seemed unfazed. He radiated authority as he stepped into the threshold of the inner sanctum, Allora trailing quietly behind him.

It was dark within, as magical energies of any sort could not exist near the Ada-mantia for long without a mage to fuel it. The High Chancellor mage a gesture with his left hand and a ball of magical light appeared over his head and began floating lazily above him. It was bright, bright enough that Allora did not need to mimic the gesture.

The wailing was stronger now, more repetitive. Whatever was making the cry was close. It was almost maddening.

Vertius seemed to sense the archivist's sudden tensing. "Which way, child?"

Allora pointed deeper into the room that encircled the Ada-mantia. She could see the cylindrical core of metal in the center of the space, just beyond the edge of the flickering light. The cry was coming from somewhere near it.

"Then let us not dally," the High Chronicler affirmed. He shuffled his way toward the Ada-mantia. Allora followed, still unsure as to what would happen. How was she the only one able to hear the cry? Was there some kind of strange magic going on? Was she mad? The questions and doubts hounded

When the two mages found the source a few moments later, Vertius almost dropped his staff. Allora was less surprised. She had known, hadn't she? How could she not have?

Disbelief. Scholars had identified the definition of the word to mean the refusal or inability to accept something as being real. There were few instances in Allora's life when she had borne witness to the look of disbelief on the faces of others. The time she had conjured her first storm atronach at age twelve was a particularly strong memory.

Allora added another memory of disbelief to her archives when she walked out of the inner sanctum, High Chronicler Vertius behind her. The looks on the faces of the guards would have been humorous had she been paying any attention to them. They could not believe what they were seeing.

The Breton had a sleeping baby in her arms, all bundled in a cloth of shining gold.

Vertius walked slowly behind her. His wrinkled face was split with a wide grin and the High Chronicler's eyes gleamed under the magical light that still floated above him.

The ancient Imperial chuckled and watched as Allora stared down at the sleeping babe with shining eyes.

"Most curious," he breathed. "Most curious indeed."

Present Day. 4th Era 200. Sundas the 29th, Evening Star.

Three days before the advent of Morning Star, year 201

The day was warm, but in a pleasant way. Whiterun Hold had a more temperate climate than that of the Rift. And getting fitted for her new armor, Sylgja was thankful for the good weather.

"How's the fit?" Adrianne asked, her arms folded. The Imperial woman stood almost as tall as she did, clad in her long red working dress and blacksmith's apron. Working the forge had added a layer of dark soot to her face. A bit had managed to make its way into the braids of her long, sandy brown hair. The Imperial looked every bit a Nord at the forge and it showed in her craftsmanship.

Sylgja finished clasping the last buckle on her leather armor and looked into the long mirror. The smith and her customer were inside the shop, away from the heat of the forge. "It's great," Sylgja said with a genuine smile. Though the armor was new and needed breaking in, it was already a major improvement over the bulky and ill-fitting studded hide set she had been using. "Worth every coin." That was true. Even though the cost of the custom armor was nearly jaw-dropping, (or it would have been, if she'd still been on her miner's salary), Sylgja understood the most simple rule of adventuring: a warrior was only as good as the armor she wore. And while Sylgja couldn't afford a set of Corundum-laced scale and hide (yet), the new leathers were a significant improvement on her mother's old armor. The best parts of the old set had been used in the construction of the new, which helped with the cost of labor and materials. Sylgja was also somewhat loathe to just discard her old set, considering it had been a gift from family.

"It's fantastic," Sylgja said as she stretched in the new gear. "A little tight, but it'll break in fine, I'm sure." She tried on the leather cap, her brown furrowing at the touch of the helmet's nose guard. It was something she'd have to get used to, but the added protection was well worth any initial discomfort. "This is a great fit, Adrianne," she commented on the cap. "Heavy for leather, but that's fine by me."

"I weaved some light chainmail into the layering. Should keep a sword or axe-blow from getting too much purchase." Adrianne's usual stoicism vanished with a smile. "It's not often I get adventurers who come in for upgrades. Glad to see that the lifestyle is treating you well."

"Well enough," Sylgja agreed. "I'd be lying if I said I wasn't surprised with myself." She bent and in the new set of Nord-style leathers. It was easily the best fit she'd ever worn, tailored as it was to her body. The lamellar was protective yet easy to move in, an excellent choice for a girl swinging a warhammer. A short-sleeved, chainmail byrnie was layered under the armor for additional protection, and under the linked steel was a fur-lined shirt to help deal with Skyrim's colder nights. Sylgja was kitted and protected. Now she felt like a warrior, a real Nord. She pulled off the helmet and brushed at her hair a little, smoothing out her locks.

"Your new hammer is cooling out front," Adrianne said. "I think you'll be pleased with how well it turned out. I know I am."

"Let's got take a look," Sylgja said, giving herself once last glance in the mirror. She saw a woman, not yet into her twenty-eighth year, who had dark brown hair down past her ears and soft, light skin, darkened a little by travel and sun. Her pale lips hardened into a frown as she saw the dirt on her face. When was the last time she had bathed? Eight damn it all...

She followed Adrianne out into the mid-day sun and over to the forge. Her new armor was tighter to move in, but had been crafted to be a lot quieter than her old set. Sylgja suppressed a smile. Maybe now Derkeethus will shut up about me being too loud when we're sneaking about.

It was as if Adrianne could read her thoughts. "Your Argonian friend went up to Dragonsreach while you were getting changed. He said something about, 'showing those half-wits how it's done.' I assume he's talking about the tourney that Jarl Balgruuf is hosting today?"

Sylgja groaned aloud. "Derkeethus can't resist showing off. It's not enough that he's one of the best archers in Skyrim; no he's got to prove it to everyone else."

"And is there a reason you're not up there with him?" Adrianne asked, pointing to the light crossbow resting along Sylgja's back. A sturdy weapon of simple steel, Sylgja's crossbow hung off of a shoulder strap and a pouch of bolts sat ready on her right hip.

"They're not taking crossbow entries," the Nord woman muttered. "Said something about it not being 'a weapon of skill.' Damn snowbacks. I'll show them weapon of skill when the melee starts up."

A warm smile spread across Adrianne's face. "Well, let's see if this will give you an edge." She reached into a trough of water and pulled out a massive steel warhammer.

Sylgja's mood brightened almost instantly. "By the Eight." She trailed off, unable to find the words to describe her gratitude.

It was beautiful, a true masterwork of forging. Stunning scroll work and patterns were worked into the hammer's head, both to add artistic flair and remove some of the excess weight. The head itself ended in a hammer and point; the former squared to crush armor and shatter bone, while the latter was curved and looked sharp enough to punch through flesh with ease.

Adrianne handed the weapon to Sylgja. The warrior was surprised by not only the hammer's superior balance, but also by how much better it felt in her grip when compared to her old iron hammer.

"I don't get a lot of requests for custom warhammers," Adrianne explained as Sylgja inspected the weapon. "So I gave it my all. I call it Boneshatter."

Sylgja ran a hand across the freshly cooled metal. "Boneshatter, I like it."

"It's probably one of my best pieces, and I'm not just saying that."

"I know you're not," Sylgja said as she hefted her new weapon onto her shoulder. "It's exactly what I needed. Thank you."

Adrianne's smile broadened. "You are welcome. Now, I imagine you'll want head off up to the tournament. If not for your own glory, then to see how your Argonian friend is doing."

Sylgja rolled her eyes. "I'm sure he's fine. Might be upsetting a few folk, but nobody can argue with his skill." She glanced at her new weapon and a grin spread across her face. "Now where do you keep your practice dummies and how much to rent a few? Boneshatter and I need to get used to each other before the competition starts."

The smith nodded. "Understood. They're on the side of the house, and there's no charge."

Sylgja raised an eyebrow in surprise. "No charge? I'll probably smash them to bits."

Adrianne laughed. "Feel free. I'll be honest, ever since you showed up I've wanted to see what Sylgja the Hammer is like in action."

Sylgja weighed the hammer in her hands. "Well, Adrianne," she said as her fingers eagerly gripped Boneshatter's handle.

"I don't think you'll be disappointed."

"Well, that shot was disappointing."

The Argonian's smile was as mocking as it was predatory. Derkeethus was the only of his kind to show up for the archery contest. Hist, he was probably the only Argonian in all of Whiterun Hold.

What did the warm-bloods think of him, his green scales and long, muscled tail? How did they see his pointed snout or the way his proud horns protruded from his skull and curved alongside his head over the flat patch of tissue that covered his ears? Did they fear his scaled claws or his wide mouth filled with sharp teeth?

Derkeethus was well aware of the looks the humans were giving him. They wouldn't take him seriously until he proved himself. His posture was certainly alien to them. He stood a little hunched over, his shoulders wide. He didn't have the look of an archer. He had the look of a predator, an apex one at that. It was fitting then, that he was the only one of his kind at the contest. Derkeethus was already the top predator there.

Derkeethus glanced at the Nord that just fired, a bearded man covered from head to toe in banded iron armor. The human's arrow was stuck in a ringed target across the Dragonreach canal, and it was far from its intended mark. "Were you even aiming for the center? I couldn't tell. Neither could they." Derkeethus nodded over at the audience; a collection of Whiteruns' higher-ups and guests of honor.

Seated at the center of the table was Jarl Balgruuf himself, observing with a casual air and a practiced eye. The Nordic equivalent of a king, Balgruuf the Greater was an intimidating sight, even slumped in a throne like he was. Long yellow hair and braided beard. The fur and finery of Jarl mixed with the large blade of a steel war axe at his belt. It was all very regal, and all very Nordic.

The Jarl was flanked on both sides by his entourage. Balgruuf's younger brother, the intimidating Hrongar Stone-Fist, sat at the Jarl's right, looking bored and out of place in his barbaric scale armor and red warpaint. Hrongar was also the Jarl's firstmost thane and obviously took his duties as a warrior seriously; his head was clean shaven, his brown beard was long and braided and a large greatsword of fine iron rested against the side of his chair. Next to the thane sat a balding Imperial wearing the yellow cloth and chain of the Whiterun guard. Commander Antonius Caius looked less imposing when compared to the bulky Nord next to him, but there was a hardness in the man's eyes that could only belong to a trained soldier and killer of men. Behind all three men stood Irileth, the Jarl's Dunmer housecarl. The red-haired elf radiated suspicion and hostility. Probably had something to do with her narrowed eyes, hard leather armor and the fact that her right hand didn't stray too far from the sword of Nord metal at her side.

Derkeethus wondered for a moment why the chair at the Jarl's left was empty, but shrugged it off.

A small gaggle of citizens were watching from nearby benches, but their provided seating was a far cry from the regal chairs and the grand table that had been brought out for the Jarl and his personal guests. Still, Derkeethus had a decent audience, and at that moment he was going to entertain the crowd by pissing off one dumb specimen of a Nord.

"A bit embarrassing, don't you think?" Derkeethus continued. "I mean, there are three targets over there. You might have tried for an easier one."

The Nord rounded on Derkeethus with angry eyes. "You watch your mouth, you lizard filth."

Derkeethus rasped laughter. "And there's the famous Nord bigotry. You do your kinsmen proud, I'm sure. Are you finished? The grown-ups want to have their goes."

The Nord reared up to full height, which was not inconsiderable considering that he already stood a full head over Derkeethus. "Why you little-" He curled his hand into an armor covered fist and brought it up with hurtful intent.

Balgruuf's voice cut the air like a battleaxe. "Enough! Sinmir, control yourself." The Jarl's glare was enough to give everyone pause.

Sinmir dropped his hand almost immediately. "Apologies, my Jarl." The man skulked away, even as he glared at Derkeethus from under his iron helm.

"So," Balgruuf said as he turned to look at the Argonian contestant. "You believe you have what it takes to best the others that have performed so far? I have seen many fine archers today." He nodded to a group of nearby warriors and hunters.

"I believe so," Derkeethus replied. He nodded at one of the archers, a Nord woman with long red hair and a trio of green war-stripes painted across her face. He knew what she was, all wrapped in the leather, hide and steel of ancient Nordic hunting attire. Her armor was custom-made, and there were only a few Nords in all of Skyrim who could craft such garments. That warm-blood who worked the Skyforge, Eorlund what's-his-name, only made armor for the Companions, so it had been easy to spot. "You, Companion. What do they call you?"

The Nord woman looked a bit surprised, but she answered quickly. "Aela." Her voice was low and dangerous, but also carried a bemused air. She is not one to be trifled with, Derkeethus decided. Seen a lot of death and combat, that one. A peerless hunter and killer just by the smell of her. Good on those Companions, having one such as this within their ranks.

The Argonian nodded. "Aela then. You have my respect." He glanced at the other archers, a motley collection if he'd ever seen one. "The rest of you don't."

They bristled and grumbled, muttering curses and casting vicious looks in his direction. Only two remained silent; Aela and a man hidden beneath a set of steel plate armor that had yet to try his hand.

Unlike Sinmir's ugly, slightly rusted iron plate, the silent man's armor was of peerless quality. Heavily influenced by Nordic designs, the light blue of the metal was covered in swirling patterns and intricate designs. Not one inch of the human's flesh was visible. All the places where armor was minimal, namely around the knees and elbows, were wrapped in a black bodyglove of woven leather with burnished steel scales. A winged helmet sat on the man's head and it gave the rest of the armor a sharp, sleek appearance. He stood slightly apart from the other contestants, as though he was simply observing. A spiked mace of sickly-green orichalcum was looped on the armor's waist; the brutal weapon terrifying and elegant at the same time. The rim of a rounded shield could be seen poking out from behind the plated warrior, that same light blue metal and flawless craftsmanship.

"Very well," Derkeethus heard Balgruuf say. The Argonian pulled his gaze away from the armored stranger and turned to the Jarl. "You may attempt to prove your worth," the Nord king asserted. "The wind is high, and the shot is distant. Best of luck to you."

Derkeethus bowed slightly, his hide armor allowing him to complete the gesture with little difficulty. "Thank you, my Jarl."

He took a moment to stretch and limber up. His arms rotated and he shifted from side to side in order to loosen his leg muscles. The simple hide armor he was wearing allowed him the freedom of movement required for great archery. It was a self-crafted piece, a fact that Derkeethus was quite proud of, and it served him well. The armor was easy to wear and left his arms free to move with little hindrance, a must considering his preference for ranged combat. A sleeveless, chainmail byrnie covered his middle with a minimum amount of straps and buckles. Its minimalist style ensured that Derkeethus was able don the armor quickly if the need arose, even accounting for his tail. Though it wasn't as protective as a traditional suit of boiled leathers, a quick mageflesh spell could more than make up for the relative lack of armor.

"Watch and learn," the Argonian said as he stepped up to the line. Derkeethus pulled an Imperial-style recurve bow off his back. The bow, carved from strong cherry wood, was strengthened by the steel reinforcements and leather straps that covered its surface. He gave the string a few tugs to warm the bow up, then settled into an archer's shooting stance and drew a single arrow from the quiver at his hip. Drawing breath, Derkeethus nocked the steel-tipped missile into the bow and aimed. A simple yet skilled draw and release followed and the arrow was embedded in the center circle of the leftmost target.

The crowd oohed its appreciation and light clapping filled the air. The competing archers looked on in stunned silence. A light smile tugged at the corners of Aela's lips. The plate-covered stranger remained silent.

Balgruuf nodded his approval and sat back in his throne. He waved his hand for Derkeethus to continue.

Derkeethus nocked another arrow into his bow and let it fly. The right target suddenly found itself with an arrow in its middle. Another approving nod from the Jarl. The archery competition was his, and Derkeethus knew it.

The final arrow buzzed through the air and hit the center of the middle target. The crowd gave a roar of approval and strong applause filled the air. Derkeethus basked in the praise. Sylgja was going to be extremely pleased at how much gold he'd made. Twenty septims turned into two hundred? That was two days worth of work, and Derkeethus had made it in mere moments.

"Very impressive," Balgruuf admitted. "You certainly have great skill, mister..."

"Arrows-From-High, my Jarl." Derkeethus bowed graciously, holding his bow out behind him and using his tail for additional balance.

Small gasps and whispered comments spread across the crowd like wildfire. The Jarl himself cast a surprised look in the Argonian's direction. Arrows-From-High was a name steeped in adventure and legend. Derkeethus kept a smile from appearing on his face.

"I am finished, my Jarl." Derkeethus stepped aside and indicated the targets with a theatrical hand. "If any think they can best my shot, let them step forward."

Aela chuckled and offered the Argonian a small smile. "I know when I'm beat. I don't like to admit it, but I do know. You handle that bow well, Arrows-From-High."

Derkeethus grinned back. "You honor me, Companion."

Suddenly, and to everyone's surprise, the plate-covered stranger stepped forward. His eyes were little more than narrowed black slits. He approached Derkeethus, still without bow.

The armor spoke. "You." The sound of his voice deformed to a metallic growl as it passed through the plate mask. "Loose another."

Derkeethus blinked stupidly. "What?"

"Another arrow," the armor said. "Into the air. Wherever you choose. I will hit it."

Derkeethus laughed, though the sound was somewhat nervous. He had no idea what to make of the situation being presented to him. "You'll hit my arrow." The Argonian could not believe what he was hearing. "You have no bow, you simpleton."

The armor did not rise to Derkeethus' insult. "Loose another, Arrows-From-High. I will shame you."

That got Derkeethus' blood boiling. He hissed and yanked an arrow from his quiver. A slight shift. An arm movement. Derkeethus' arrow was screaming across the sky.

A streak of blue fire shot past and cut it in half.

Derkeethus turned, his beady eyes wide. The armored stranger was looking up, his eyeless gaze fixed on the two bits of smoking arrow that now tumbled from the sky. In his left hand was a shimmering purple-blue bow, one made of magickal energy. The bow was hard to even look at, as thought it was somewhere between realities. It was a wicked looking thing, a recurve bow that dripped as much malice as magick. It there were several places along the bow where the frame was curved into points, and a quiver of magical blue arrows pulsed at the small of the armor's back. Both bow and quiver made a strange whistling sound as they rippled with magic, as though they were made of wind itself.

And every ripple of conjured surface, quiver, arrows and bow, blazed with magickal orange flames.

Everyone present had fallen into a stunned silence. The Jarl and his guests were looking on, wide eyed. Several of the hunters stood slack-jawed and gawking like fools. Aela could only stare. Even Derkeethus had been rendered mute by the sheer skill of the shot.

The plate-wearing archer reached calmly behind and pulled another flaming arrow from its incorporeal sheathe. He nocked it into the mystical bow and inclined his head to look at the dumbstruck Argonian.

"Again."

Derkeethus glared at the armor and snarled. The competition be damned, he would not lose to a sorcerous upstart! Another of his arrows went spiraling into the air, this time in the opposite direction.

The armor pivoted and fired again. And again, his mystical arrow split Derkeethus's steel in mid-flight. Both sections of the broken shaft burned into nothingness. A half-melted arrowhead clinked on the stonework near the Argonian's feet.

Derkeethus's bow clattered to the ground. His claws opened and closed as he struggled for words. "That's... that's not possible."

The armor flexed his bow hand and the flaming weapon vanished into the air, along with its quiver. "The smoldering scraps of your arrows say otherwise." The armor turned and bowed before Jarl Balgruuf. "My Jarl, award the Argonian his prize. He is skilled, and my magic is not sportsmanlike."

The Jarl was almost at a loss for words. "Yes. Yes, of course." He waved his hand and his steward rushed forward, a weighty gold purse held tight in his grip. Though he presented it Derkeethus, (the Argonian took it without saying a word), the steward's gaze remained wide eyed and rooted on the masked stranger. Everyone watching, from the Jarl to the lowest commoner, sported expressions etched out of disbelief.

The armor returned its black gaze to Derkeethus, who had managed to grab his bow from where it had fallen. "Congratulations, Arrows-From-High." He then turned and nodded to the Jarl. "My lord." Without another word, the armor walked to the Jarl's table and took an empty seat next to Balgruuf himself.

"I believe this contest is concluded, Jarl Balgruuf."

The Jarl spared the slightest glance to his neighbor. Derkeethus could almost feel the unease radiating from the Nord.

"Yes," Balgruuf said after a long silence.

"I suppose it is."

"Why does Whiterun have so many stairs?"

Sylgja found her thoughts forming into words even as she left the market behind her and walked the steps to the Cloud District, Boneshatter strapped comfortably across her back. She had thoroughly enjoyed smashing up some of Adrianne's practice dummies. Even better, Boneshatter was as excellent a weapon as she could have hoped for. The hammer would definitely give her a competitive edge during the melee. A gust of wind caught her hair and she brushed a lock of brown out of her eyes with an instinctive hand.

As she ascended, Sylgja's gaze rested on the gnarled, burnt branches of the Gildergreen ahead. She silently lamented the death of such a wondrous tree. She reached the top of the stairs and looked up at the once-magnificent branches, imagining what sort of wonders they might have held in their boughs before the freak thunderstorm that had stripped the Gildergreen of life.

Sylgja was so focused on the tree that she barely registered the approaching figure until it was within arm's reach. Her gaze shifted to a panting green Argonian, his bow strapped across his back and a simple iron blade at his belt. "What's going on?" she asked, perplexed.

Her friend was so out of breath that he could barely rasp out the words. Sylgja couldn't hear Derkeethus until the Argonian was alongside her, his clawed hands on his knees as he gasped for breath. "Syl... oh damn everything..."

Sylgja frowned and looked down at her friend. "What's wrong? Why the rush?" She caught sight of something hanging from the Argonian's belt. A coin purse, filled to the brim. "I see you won the archery contest, no surprise there."

Derkeethus lifted his head and fixed Sylgja with a frantic stare. "Not important. Syl, that man you've been looking for, the armored mage. He's here. Up at Dragonsreach, guest of the Jarl. He's wearing a suit of Nord plate, but it's him."

"What are you-" Sylgja cut herself off. She knew exactly who Derkeethus was talking about. But that meant- "Nord plate? That's not the right armor!" she exclaimed. "How can you be so sure-"

"It's him," Derkeethus insisted.

"But-"

"For Hist's sake Syl, he shot my arrows out of the sky with a summoned bow."

Sylgja was no longer looking at Derkeethus. She rushed past him and ran up the stairs to Dragonsreach Palace. With each step, she was that much closer to the man who had changed her life forever.

LM here,

These characters are really fun to write. As is also the case in my Fallout 3 fic, the character base I'm working with tends to be a little bland/one-dimensional. Adding personalities to these... personalities is really enjoyable, and I hope that they come across as believable.

For those of you who don't know, the Adamantine Tower is known by four names. Ada-mantia happens to be my favorite, more mystical, so that's the one I chose to use the most. It's also called Direnni Tower and Ur-Tower. I was tempted to write a bit about how Akatosh and all the other Gods got together within it to discuss the events that would come to pass, but I decided against it. Gods should stay unknowable, at least in my book. Immortality is not something I'm particularly versed in. (Between you and me? I think the Divines are assholes anyway. The Daedra aren't any better, mind you, but at least they show their true colors).

Thanks again for stopping by. Hope you enjoyed it, and let me know what you think.

Levi Matthews