RECLAIM: Chapter One- The Appearance of Shadows
4E 201, 20th of Heartfire, Skyrim, Solitude
General Tullius paced the halls of Castle Dour, a look of irritation painted across his aging face as a few drops of sweat formed on his wrinkled brow. His teeth grinded as his eyes narrowed, silently cursing the sorry situation he and his legions were in. Much had transpired since the 17th of Last Seed… But none more perplexing and irritating than the appearance this so called "Dragonborn".
At first, this hero of prophecy was nothing than a rumor, born from the chaos surrounding the apparent return of the dragons and their master Alduin. This alone was more than enough to deal with, and with the ongoing civil war with the Stormcloaks, a meager rumor of someone was not a matter for concern to the General… At first.
Pouring himself onto his throne, Tullius sighed heavily as he thought of the recent intelligence he had received. Before his thoughts could wander too far, the large doors to the throne room swung open, revealing Legates Rikke, Hrollod, and the soldier Hadvar escorting Jarl Elisif The Fair.
"And what do I owe this pleasure, Milady?" Tullius sighed, visibly uncomfortable.
"We have some urgent news regarding the Dragonborn…" Elisif said, her voice fringed with fright.
"I don't need to know anything about that person… They hold no value in any of our plans for winning back Skyrim." Tullius snapped, pushing himself to his feet.
"That is exactly why we're here. This morning, upon waking, I found a note on my bedside table." The Jarl said, crossing her arms nervously. "The letter was from the Dragonborn, Nero DeSade."
"Really…" The general trailed off, scratching his chin. "Why does that surname sound so familiar to me…"
Taking the note from the Jarl, Tullius began reading it. Every word on the parchment seethed with ill emotion.
"To whom it may concern: I have had more than enough of this pitiful war, ripping my nation in two, all in the name of 'peace'… Until this vile conflict has ended, the Imperial and Stormcloak forces shall not know peace, but unbridled terror." Tullius read aloud, narrowing his eyes further as he continued reading.
"The Imperial Legions have 10 days upon receiving this letter to throw down their weapons and leave the province of Skyrim. The Stormcloaks will stop operations and return to their normal lives, while the Jarls begin independently governing their own holds. The only difference will be in Solitude, where one of Nord blood and ideals will be placed on the throne." Tullius continued, sighing heavily as he paused.
"This person can't be serious…" Hrollod muttered, gripping the hilt of his blade. "10 days? Impossible."
"If these demands are not met, both sides will suffer, starting with your not so secret camps scattered throughout the wilderness. Then your forts in each hold, and finally, your armies' capitals. This Frost Fall very well may be your last." The General grumbled, crumpling up the note before tossing it over his shoulder.
The five stood silent, casting each other glances, not knowing how to react. The fact that this person has been within striking distance of Elisif was disturbing on its own, but this outright threat on both enemy and ally instilled an almost primal fear in those gathered. As Rikke opened her mouth to speak, the corpse of an Imperial soldier crashed through one of the stained glass windows of the throne room, causing everyone to jump. Hitting the floor with a sickening thud, another note fell out of the soldier's hand. The rolled note slid across the stone floor, unrolling as it came to a halt. It read 'this is a promise', sending a horrible chill down everyone's spines.
An angry scream erupted from General Tullius, causing the other three to recoil momentarily. Spinning around, the Imperial stormed to his war room, his feet hitting the floor with rage. Slamming his hands down on the large map of Skyrim, he hung his head, shaking with anger.
"I want that person dead! No one threatens my army and lives to tell about it!" The General bellowed, clenching his hands into fists. "Find them, bring them here, and I will take their head myself!"
Without a word, the Legates and Hadvar made their exit, running to tell the appropriate people.
Later on, in Falkreath…
The sun hung heavily in the sky, choking the southern hold in a thick fog. Siddgeir strolled through the woods, accompanied by his housecarl and three guards. The forest was silent, save for the footfalls of the men. Siddgeir narrowed his eyes, peering through the mist at what he assumed to be a deer. Readying his bow, the man sneered as he let loose a steel arrow. The projectile split the air with a hiss, passing through its intended target as if it were a shadow.
With a shrug and a frown, Siddgeir continued on his walk, humming a non distinct tune to himself as his group continued through the thickening fog. Some time had passed, and the five came upon a house, situated on an overlook on Lake Illinalta.
"Who's house is this?" The Jarl asked, wandering the grounds. "I don't remember allowing anyone new to live in my keep…"
"This is the DeSade house Milord. It has been here since the early days of your uncle's reign as Jarl." Nenya said, peering in one of the windows. "They've taken very good care of it, seeing as it is rather old."
"That name… Hmm…" Siddgeir mumbled, crossing his arms. "Let's see if anyone is home, I'm weary."
Sighing heavily, Nenya trudged to the door, wrapping her knuckles on the solid oak frame a few times, calling out to anyone who might be inside. A few moments of silence passed, and as she was about to knock again, the door cracked open, revealing the eye of a person staring out.
"…Can I help you?" the man said, his voice carrying an odd chill to it.
"Yes, infact." Nenya replied, putting on a smile. "We are here with the Jarl of Falkreath, and were wondering if we could rest here for a while."
The man faded into the shadows of the house, pulling the door open and allowing the Jarl and his companions in. Ushering the group through the front room, the man invited them to sit at the dining room table. Without asking, the quiet man brought the group flagons of water, ale and mead to accompany the random food items on the table.
Grabbing a beverage, Siddgeir grinned, casting his eyes in the direction of the man. Nothing too strange about him. Blonde hair, blue eyes, of medium build and stature, but his demeanor was what threw him off. It was if the man had no soul to speak of.
"So, are you the owner of this home?" One of the guards asked, sipping his water as he grabbed a pastry from the table.
"No, I am one of the stewards of the DeSade estate here in Falkreath… My name is Krause." The man answered, looking over the group.
"There are others? For one house?" Nenya asked, giving the attendant an odd look.
"Yes." Krause answered. "Between the eight homes of Master Nero, there are sixteen of us, rotating between homes with the seasons."
"So, where is the other steward?" Siddgeir asked, looking around the main hall, almost admiring the décor.
"Killian is out hunting for dinner. The master is slated to be here before sundown." Krause answered flatly. "Make yourselves at home, please."
The day went rather uneventfully as the sun trekked across the sky. Killian returned with enough elk to feed a small battalion, and Krause went to work preparing it for dinner. Wonderful aromas drifted from the kitchen as The Jarl looked around with a cautious eye, taking note of the large assortment of weapons and armor on display. Getting too close to a mounted dagger, a small arc of electricity jumped from the blade, zapping The Jarl's nose causing him to take a few clumsy steps backwards into a table, throwing a vase onto the floor.
"Master Siddgeir, please be careful." Killian shouted from the kitchen. "Our master is quite the collector, and there is no telling what these relics could do."
Chuckling to himself, The Jarl dusted himself off and stepped outside, enjoying the view of the lake as the sun began to set. The blue sky turned to hues of flame as the sun sank, bringing with it an overwhelming feeling of dread to the Jarl. Movement caught his eye. On the road lining the lake, a large figure riding a horse turned toward the house, racing up the small hill and around the house. Quickly returning indoors, Siddgeir walked down the stairs, composing himself for dinner.
As he reached the ground floor, the front door opened, and Siddgeir's horrible feeling returned as a large man entered the house, obscured by an ebony cloak and hood. All that was visible in the shadows of the hood were the man's piercing blue eyes, scanning the room and its occupants.
"Krause, who are these people…?" The man asked, his voice almost as dark as his garb.
"Master Nero, this is Jarl Siddgeir, his steward Nenya, and few guards, of Falkreath." Krause replied, bowing to Nero. "They appeared this afternoon and were weary from their travels."
"I see…" Nero replied, pulling off his cloak in one smooth motion. "Then allow me to introduce myself. I am Nero DeSade, master of this estate. Please, make yourselves at home…"
Vanishing into the master bedroom, Nero shot the visitors an eerie gaze as the door shut behind him.
"He's certainly an odd character…" Nenya whispered to one of her guards.
"Indeed… Intimidating as well." The guard replied, keeping an eye on the door to the bedroom.
A few minutes passed, and a dinner of roast elk and local vegetables was brought to the table by Krause, while Killian hauled up a special keg of Black Briar Mead from the cellar. As the blonde Nord started carving the roast, Nero slipped out of his room, taking his seat at the head of the table in front of the fireplace. Lacing his fingers as he rested his elbows on the table, Nero narrowed his eyes, giving his guests a once over.
"Please, help yourselves…" Nero said, his tone still as dark as when he appeared.
The group mostly ate in silence, the only sounds coming from the scraping of utensils and the knocking of flagons on the table. Occasionally, one of Nero's attendants would whisper something in his ear and return to their duties.
Stuffed, the Jarl patted his belly and leaned back in his chair, releasing content sigh.
"Krause, that was a magnificent meal." Siddgeir said, smiling from ear to ear."I must ask, where did you learn to cook?"
"I was taught by The Gourmet before he was The Gourmet during his time in the south." Krause replied, keeping his blank composure. "Your compliments are appreciated."
With the meal over, the group moved to the porch for after dinner drinks in the splendor of southern Skyrim's night sky. The conversation was light, and with the inhabitants of the house being mostly silent.
"The hour is rather late…" Nero said, drumming his claw-like fingernails on his heavy metal flagon. "It would be my honor if you spent the night. The roads of this land are not as safe as they were in the past."
"That is for certain DeSade." Nenya said, shaking her head. "I have a pile of bounties that need taking care of."
"Unfortunate problem to have…" Nero said, pushing his jet black hair out of his face, taking another drink of his mead. "I, sadly, do not have the time to deal with your bandit problems."
"And why is that?" Siddgeir asked, cocking an eyebrow. "These bandits would seem to be no problem for one such as yourself."
"My resources are a bit… indisposed." Nero said, his wolfish grin gleaming in the torch light.
"Such a shame, there is a fair amount of gold in it for whoever completes the bounties." The Jarl said, slightly disappointed.
"I'm good on funds, but thank you for seeming to look out for me and my finances." Nero replied, downing the remainder of his drink. "But, I must retire for the evening, please, drink to your hearts content."
Slipping through the door into the shadows, Nero left the Jarl and his men in the hands of Krause and Killian. Of all the people to wander into his southern stronghold, he did not expect the Jarl himself to appear. He scoffed to himself as he vanished into his bedroom, locking the door behind him.
Sitting on the end of his bed, Nero narrowed his eyes as he heard the others come back inside. Two children slept on the opposite side of the room. Two boys who bore a striking resemblance to Nero himself. Hearing the muffled voices filter in through the wall, Nero laid back, looking at the ceiling as he could feel the first bits of sleep start to crawl in.
Nero's eyes shot open as the lone rooster broke the serenity of the estate. His sleep was not restful, but his sleep never was. His family had been 'blessed' by Hircine with Lycanthropy, dating all the way back to the beginnings of the 2nd Era, when his ancestor traded the humanity of his line for power. Every person born with the blood of Nephren DeSade was born a werewolf, with one large difference: the ability to shift at will, and as many times as they wanted, without the 'time limit' cursed to the rest of Hircine's children.
Sitting up, Nero rubbed his eyes, dispelling the last bits of sleepiness from his mind. With a quiet yawn, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed, planting his feet firmly on the floor as he stood, numerous joints and vertebrae popping and cracking as he realigned his frame. Walking silently to the door, the lycan undid the lock and cracked the door open, carefully peering out into the main hall. A vicious grin crossed his lips, seeing as his Stewards had done exactly of what was expected of them.
Siddgeir, Nenya and the guards were all passed out on the table. Their drinks were drugged from the time Nero arrived to the Manor. The particular concoction was one of his own design, stripping the memories of the past few days of those who ingested it. The particular dose was enough to erase the thoughts of the night prior, and most importantly of their host.
Closing the door, Nero looked in the direction of the sleeping children. Snapping his fingers a few times, the teenagers began to stir. Before they could speak, Nero was at their bedsides, giving the signal to be silent. Crouching beside them, Nero began to whisper.
"We have some guests in the dining room. They became drunk and slept where they fell." He said, his voice barely audible. "I'll summon the wolves, but the both of you need to get them down the road."
With a silent nod, the two got up and readied themselves as Nero walked into the main hall, his hands glowing with an unearthly light as a pack of spectral wolves appeared. The twins emerged from the bedroom, cloaked in black robes and unnerving, emotionless masks. Placing the unconscious bodies of the guests onto the backs of the wolves, the pack moved for the door.
"Leave them at Neugrad, Siddgeir's Imperial connections will make sure he'll be found, and by the time they're on the way back to Falkreath, we'll be on our way to Riften…" Nero ordered, beginning to make preparations. "In two days, we meet at Vilemyr Inn in Ivarstead. You'll beat me there, but the room is already reserved."
Without a word, the boys and the wolves left, headed east as instructed.
"No problems?" Killian said, appearing from the shadows of the home.
"If the tonic works, no." Nero replied, donning his cloak. "But if it doesn't, you'll have to murder them, and anyone else knew where they were yesterday."
"Understood…" Killian replied, stepping back into the darkness. "I have also received correspondence from Whiterun… Everything is moving as scheduled."
"Excellent." Nero said, pulling on his cloak.
Without another word, Nero gathered a few items and made his exit, out the front, whistling for his horse to appear. Mounting up, the lycan pulled his hood over his head as the sun broke the horizon. With a light kick, Nero's horse broke into a full gallop onto the eastern road, his thoughts centered on the future of Skyrim, and his place in that future.
The teenagers and the pack of wolves moved silently through the forests of Falkreath, their guests still out cold from their heavy night of drinking. Nero's conjuration spell was holding nicely, despite the growing distance between the caster and the conjured.
Another foggy day was on tap for the southern reaches of Skyrim. With every passing moment, the mist crept from the ground, gripping the land with no respite in sight. The woods were deathly still as the teenagers continued on to the Imperial fort buried in the forests of Falkreath. The footfalls of the two young men were the only sounds to be heard in the fog that morning, aside from the occasional snoring of Jarl Siddgeir.
Fort Neugrad sat at the foot of the Throat Of The World, on the boundaries of the holds of Falkreath, The Rift, and Whiterun. Creeping to the tree line, the two teenagers knelt in the tall grass, scoping out the fort before them.
"Rather poorly guarded for an Imperial foothold, wouldn't you say, Fenrir?" One boy said to the other.
"No blood today then… How boring." Fenrir replied, pulling off his mask. "Faust, this fog doesn't help my eyes any. Smell them out."
With a scoff, Faust pulled off his mask as well, closing his eyes and inhaling deeply. A grin crept over his lips as his eyes opened once more.
"Smells like the entire garrison is meeting in the courtyard." Faust mumbled, sliding his mask back on. "We'll leave them at the door, and the wolves will vanish. Nero has to be at about his limit for this spell anyways."
Pointing at the fort, the two snapped their fingers, and the wolves took off with their guests. Without a sound, the two slipped back into the woods as the spectral beasts dropped the Jarl and his party at the main gate. The sun continued its march across the sky, indifferent to the terror approaching the kingdoms below.
Gerdur stood on the riverside, looking to the south as a chill gripped her. The village of Riverwood had, up to this point, been largely unaffected, but something was still not right. Many odd individuals had been staying and passing through the village as of late. The boost to the local economy was welcomed, but the general feel of the air was disturbed.
Gerdur narrowed her eyes as she saw the fog rolling up along the river, giving her another chill. Peering through the mist, her eyes shot open as a figure appeared from the fog, walking a large horse behind them. The sound of the river faded in the woman's mind as the figure drew closer, heavy steps of the horse filling her ears, and replacing her calm state of mind with a sickening feeling of dread.
Nero left the horse at the main gate of the village, turning his attention to the guards approaching him.
"Hold, traveler!" One of the guards said, hailing the lycan.
A wicked grin spread across Nero's lips as the guards stopped. Pulling off his hood, a false look of concern replaced his malicious gaze.
"What seems to be the problem?" Nero asked, his voice horribly slick.
"A decree from the Jarl, asking for the whereabouts of a criminal." The guard answered.
"It must be important if the Jarl has issued a decree…" Nero trailed off, running a hand through his horse's mane. "I'd be glad to help."
"Excellent. Let's speak a bit more privately. We can speak at the inn if you'd prefer."
"That will do fine."
Nero followed the guards, shrugging off the looks of distrust as they passed through the village. A large wolf hound sat on the porch of the inn as the three arrived, immediately going on the defensive. As it locked eyes with the lycan, the dog's hair stood on end as a low growl escaped its throat. Nero narrowed his eyes, casting glare at the beast as they entered the inn, taking a moment to adjust to the low light and the stink of stale ale.
A feeling of unease hung on the air as the guards took a table in the back, motioning for the bar wench to bring them drinks. Pulling off his cloak, Nero took the corner seat, casting a glance around the room. For being the middle of the day, the inn was rather busy. Townspeople, adventurers and merchants all mingled, discussing recent events.
"What in Oblivion is going on in this town…" Nero muttered, nodding to the wench as she delivered his drink.
"Some strange things have been happening, traveler." One of the guards replied, pulling off his helmet."We don't know your situation, but the reason we stopped you is because you look like a capable warrior, and the Jarl has issued a decree from interim Queen Elisif… Her highness and the empire have been threatened, and has put out an order to find the person responsible before any more strife comes from these events"
"Goodness… That sounds rather dire." Nero chuckled, taking a sip of his ale. "And what could I possibly do to stop this, I am but one man, not particularly versed in the ways of combat."
"Your eyes give you away." The other guard laughed, slamming down his mug. "You have the eyes of a trained professional. You don't get those by living a 'normal' life."
With a smirk, Nero shook his head, taking another sip of his beverage. "You can blame my eyes on my father. He was more of a warrior than anyone I'll ever meet."
The conversation turned to business, all the while Nero was dissuading the guards into thinking he was just an ordinary wanderer. The guards went on to tell some information that wasn't privy to the general public: that the person in question was the legendary Dragonborn. Inside, Nero was laughing. His well laid plans were working, throwing the land into the more chaos than it already was in.
The ale continued to flow, but not for the lycan. His time table was still in motion, and certain things needed to be set in place. One order of business was dealing with a local guild, namely, the Companions. Bidding farewell to the guards, Nero slipped out the door, pulling his hood back over his head as he made his way back to his horse and out of Riverwood. The four hooves pounded on the cobblestone as Nero galloped toward Whiterun.