Iora wakes with the rain. It drips down her face, soaking her hair and her clothes. Her hands are bound behind her back, and there is a filthy rag stuffed into her mouth. It tastes of blood and earth. She spits it out, and the gag she makes has the other occupants of the cart turning towards her.
"You're finally awake," the man across from her says. "You were trying to cross the border, right? Walked straight into that ambush, just like us."
"Who are you?" Her mouth tastes like death.
"I am Ralof of Riverwood. And who are you, Breton?"
"Iora Allegra." She sees no reason to lie to this man, but she also does not wish to explain her extensive family history, either.
"Well met, Iora Allegra."
She nods but otherwise does not respond, instead opting to look at her surroundings. The cart is rickety and uncomfortable, splinters digging into Iora's thighs. A man in the armor of the Imperial Legion sits on the driver's bench, eyes on the road ahead. Another two Imperial soldiers ride massive destriers on either side of the cart, guarding its occupants.
Iora looks at the man beside her. He is huge, easily two heads taller than her, with shoulders like a bear. The bearskin cloak only adds to this impression. He, like she was, is gagged. The third man, a dirty, dark-haired Plainsman says something, and Ralof snaps at him. The Reacher pales considerably.
"Ulfric? The Jarl of Windhelm? But, if they've captured you… Oh gods. Where are they taking us?"
Ralof shakes his head. "I don't know where we're going, but Sovngarde awaits."
The Plainsman thief (for he is a thief — he openly admits to stealing a horse) panics and puts his head between his knees, arms wrapped around his middle. Underneath the sounds of the cart, horses and soldiers, Iora can barely make out the sound of him praying.
"Shut up back there," the Imperial driver calls back to them; Ralof rolls his eyes. The prisoners remain silent for the remaining duration of the cart ride.
Ralof speaks again as they pass beneath the bridge-gate of a Nordic town. He names the town as Helgen, mentioning that he used to court a girl that once lived there. A chill wind descends from the peaks of the Jerall Mountains, sending shivers down Iora's spine. Ralof notices and smirks.
"Not used to the cold, eh? You Bretons have thinner blood than us Nords."
"I think they dosed me with a magical suppressant — I would be able to warm myself, otherwise," Iora replies sharply, teeth chattering.
"You're a mage, then? What're you doing in Skyrim, of all places?"
"I was sent here to scope out potential sites of great magical power by the Synod, and to possibly join the College of Winterhold. Now, though, I'm thinking that no amount of coin or knowledge is worth being in this sun-forsaken country." She pauses. "No offense intended."
The blonde Nord snorts. "None taken. I'd recommend getting out of the country as soon as possible," he nods towards the headsman's block before the main tower, "but I think that escaping a war is the least of your worries."
Iora goes hot, then cold, then hot again. I am being driven to my death. Something inside her rails at that thought, screaming for fire, ice, lightning, for the destructive forces of nature to come to her aid. She drops off of the back of the wagon, stands in a line before a handsome Nordic legionnaire and his commanding officer.
No help comes.
"Who are you?" The legionnaire looks her up and down with a raised brow. Iora scowls at the inspection.
Raising her chin, she replies in a haughty tone, "I am Iora Allegra of House Telvanni. Release me now and you will be rewarded handsomely." The last sentence is a bit of a fib, but what the Nord does not know will not harm him. At least, that is what Iora tells herself. But she is no fool. As the cart had rolled into Helgen, she herself had seen the Thalmor ambassador. Revealing her maternal ancestry now is akin to signing her own death warrant in the eyes of both the Empire and the Dominion. The Nord looks to his superior for guidance.
"Captain, what should we do? If she speaks the truth…" The Imperial woman casts a disdainful glance at the legionnaire and the prisoner.
"Same as the rest. Send her to the block." A wave of fear washes over Iora. The Nordic legionnaire, to his credit, looks remorseful.
"I am sorry. We will make sure your remains are returned to your family. Follow the captain, prisoner." Iora's scowl deepens, but any move other than that instructed will be interpreted as an attack. The horse thief, it seems, does not appreciate this fact and sprints towards the north-facing gate.
He is shot down on order of the captain. The heavily armored woman then turns to Iora, who did not move to join the Stormcloaks. Her lip curls.
"Move it, half-breed. You cannot delay the inevitable." Iora stumbles when the Imperial pushes her between the shoulderblades. A low, rumbling sound echoes from over the mountains. The legionnaire freezes midstep.
"What was that?"
General Tullius, in his thick Bruma brogue, dismisses the Nord. "It is nothing. Carry on." A priestess of Arkay begins to speak. A Stormcloak soldier steps forward, a sneer on his face.
"Enough! It seems we are braver than any of you milk-drinkers. I will face my death like a true Nord." He strides forward and kneels before the axeman. His neck rests on the bloodstained block. "My ancestors are smiling on me, Imperials. Can you say the same?" The man's eyes are locked onto the Nordic legionnaire, who goes pale and looks away.
The axeman's blade whistles through the air. Blood spurts from the stump left, and the corpse's head falls neatly into a red-stained basket.
The Imperial captain points at Iora, "Next, the Breton!"
The rumble can be heard again, this time much, much closer. Iora hesitates, palms slick with sweat. The legionnaire once again wonders what the source of the sound was. Ralof prods Iora in the back.
"Come on now. I'm right behind you."
She goes.
She does not see the monster swooping out of the mountains, does not see the terrible eyes and fangs. She does, however, see the Imperial soldiers go deathly pale and hear the much-lauded General Tullius draw his blade and call for archers and battlemages. A roar unlike any Iora has heard before sets the ground shaking, fire falling from the sky and stones from the main tower falling loose from the mortar.
Another roar, and her vision goes black. She comes to with Ralof's arm around her waist and Ulfric Stormcloak is ushering them inside a yet-standing tower. Just as the Jarl of Windhelm shuts the heavy wood door — wood does nothing to protect against fire, you fools, Iora shrills in her head — a flaming rock crashes into the earth, shaking the ground beneath their feet and sending the Breton woman tumbling out of Ralof's grasp. Her breath leaves her chest in a soft oouf.
Iora blinks, tears forming in her silvery-blue eyes against the smoke. Ulfric shouts something, voice tinged with authority and edged in panic. Ralof hoists Iora up.
"... an you walk?" Her ears are ringing still. She nods. Together, they limp up the stone stairs of the tower. The air rumbles, and the stone wall Iora uses as an extra support bursts open, sending a Stormcloak soldier tumbling back down the stairs. In the years to come, she will claim to have been able to hear the man's neck snap in two as he fell, but if that is not true, there will be none alive to deny her words.
An enormous, scaly black snout can be seen through the new opening. Ralof stumbles back, his fist wrapped in Iora's tunic as he yanks her back, yelling. Iora can barely hear him. She yearns to get closer, and she pulls against Ralof's grip. His fingers slip, but that brief moment is all she needs to wrench herself out of his grip; likewise, it is all the beast needs to beat its wings and soar into the sky, roaring.
Tears roll down her face, and Iora lets out a despairing wail. Something within her mourns being unable to fly with the creature. A dragon, she realizes deep within her head. That is a dragon, like in the legends and prophecies. Something inside her chest resonates with that knowledge.
She blinks back to the present when someone shakes her. It is Ralof. He says something, then points out of the dragon-made hole at the burning thatch of a house. Through the flames, Iora can see an attic floor. Jump, Ralof mouths at her. Without thinking, Iora jumps.
She crashes to the floor, which miraculously holds. Flames singe her hair, sending it curling into a frizzy mess by her cheeks. The fire roars and leaps the hole her descent created in the roof. The Stormcloaks do not follow. Iora shudders and picks herself up off of the floor. Her palms sting where splinters dig into the tender skin.
She stumbles across the floor and finds a hole in the floor where a support beam had collapsed earlier. Sparks burn tiny holes into her clothes. Her feet burn when she lands in a pile of smoking embers. Iora feels tears roll down her cheeks, leaving streaks in the soot. An Imperial soldier — the one from before, the Nord — grabs her arm and pulls her back from the main street. A second later, flames hotter than anything she's ever felt before fly down the avenue. He saved my life.
The legionnaire confers with an older man, who has his hand on the shoulder of a filthy young boy. The child looks to be, at most, eight or nine years old. The legionnaire nods once at the man, and turns back to Iora.
"Stay close to me if you want to live," he says. Iora follows him quietly, still not quite believing what she's seeing, even as an archer is engulfed in flames right in front of her. The woman dies screaming. The scent of flesh burning has Iora's mouth watering and bile rising bitter in her throat.
The legionnaire follows through on his promise, pushing Iora to the side when the dragon - a dragon! - lands on the wall above them and roasts a battlemage across the road. He says something about staying close to the walls, and Iora nods, but truly, her eyes are on the dragon, the first seen in a thousand years. She wants to stay and watch the beast, but the legionnaire tugs her away, towards the keep.
Her surprise is palpable when Ralof appears. Ulfric is not with him, and Iora wonders where he has gone. The two Nords stare each other down. Iora looks between them. She loudly clears her throat. The sound seems to break the two men out of whatever pissing contest they were locked in, and Ralof shakes his head and spits on the ground at the legionnaire's feet. The Nord leading Iora tugs her into the keep after him. He shuts the heavy wooden door behind her.
Iora slumps against the wall. She is exhausted. Nothing could have prepared her for this, and she voices as much, wry amusement coloring her words. The legionnaire introduces himself as Quaestor Hadvar Erikssen of Riverwood and offers to cut Iora's bonds. She gratefully accepts his help, massaging her wrists in places where the rope had rubbed them raw. Hadvar hisses in sympathy when he sees the wounds, muttering unflattering things under his breath about the person who had tied them.
"I am sorry, but I do not have any poultices on me. There hopefully will be some farther in the keep."
Iora shrugs. "It is fine. As soon as the magicka suppressant wears off, I will be able to heal them myself."
"You're a mage?"
The young woman snorts in a very unladylike manner. "I am a Breton and the daughter of a Telvanni wizard, Quaestor. My very blood is chock-full of magic." She pauses, a thought striking her. "Is my being a mage going to be an issue for you, Quaestor?"
Hadvar shakes his head. "No. So long as you keep your spells aimed away from my head, it should not be a problem."
Iora feels the barest dregs of magicka trickle back into herself as the magicka poison fades away. Her hands glow weakly, and the warmth of restoration magic spreads over her wrists. Hadvar watches in fascination. When Iora sends a questioning look his way, he flushes.
"I was never any good at magic," he says in response. "But it always fascinated me, to the chagrin of my parents."
Iora nods thoughtfully in agreement. "You Nords do not have the strongest affinity for the arcane. But it does speak well of you, that you are willing to work with magic-users, rather than shun them like so many of your countrymen do."
They scrounge around the room, dropping coins into pockets and — in Iora's case — stripping out of filthy clothes and donning the clean leathers of the Imperial Legion. Hadvar looks away as she dresses, then helps her with the many straps and buttons on the uniform. He laughs when she wonders out loud why there are so many buttons. After she is properly outfitted, Iora ties her singed clothes into a bundle and tucks it beneath her arm. Hadvar hands her an iron sword, heavier than she's used to.
"What am I meant to do with this?"
"Well, swing it, for one. Use it to defend yourself, maybe. Magicka is not an unending fountain of power, if I remember correctly." Hadvar's tone is drier than the deserts of Elsweyr. Iora rolls her eyes and hands the sword back to him.
"I do not need a corporeal weapon," she informs the Nord tartly. Her hands go out to her sides and glow a deep purple. Out of thin air — or what seems to be thin air to the quaestor — twin curved daggers appear in the Breton's hands. They glow with an otherworldly light, humming softly. Hadvar moves back a step, eyes on the Oblivion-summoned blades.
"You are a conjurer, then?"
Iora's expression is bland as she replies, "Amongst other things." She pauses. "I suppose you could call me a jack of all trades, master of none. Do you have that saying in Skyrim?"
Hadvar nods in acknowledgement, but now keeps a fair distance between himself and the Breton sorcerer. Iora rolls her eyes, but does not begrudge him his reaction. Even in more tolerant circles, conjuring is looked down upon as a… less savory school of magic, mostly due to the — somewhat unreasonable, in Iora's humble opinion — stigma against necromancy. She follows him down the hall.