Dryn now knew the name of her true enemy: Alduin, the great, black dragon and the Eater of Worlds. The ancient terror who devoured the souls of the dead, who wreaked havoc and destruction upon the living, and the very being who would bring about the end of the world. It was no easy task that had been given to her, destined to be the Dragonborn and the only person in all of Tamriel able to defeat the monstrosity that had surfaced from ages before. It was in a different lifetime that she was just Dryn, the unrenowned Bosmer living, hunting, and only worrying about herself. One year in Skyrim, and she had become a completely different person. Now, for better or for worse, she was the Dovahkiin and the fate of Skyrim, and all of Tamriel, lay in her hands.

With her husband, the ex-werewolf Farkas, at her side and with the aid of the Companions and her faithful housecarl, Lydia; she had spent the last six months honing her thu'um. She spent her time hunting down words of power and defeating the dragons that often guarded them, and she was beginning to truly live up to her title as Dovahkiin. She was frequently recognized across Skyrim both as a dragonslayer and as a loyal agent of Ulfric Stormcloak. Though she was still learning to master her Voice, there were very few people alive that could stand against her rapidly developing power. Only the Greybeards and the dragons themselves had strength comparable to hers.

However, all the dragons whose souls she had taken into herself were only practice. Each battle, each victory, each wound and lesson learned led her ever closer to her true nemesis. Alduin was the reason she had been born, the reason she came to Skyrim, the very purpose to her being alive. She would defeat him, she swore to herself, or she would die trying.

It was an intense love of Skyrim that had led her to this conclusion. She could have given up, as soon as she learned the gravity of the situation; she could have fled as far from this snowy land as she could and likely lived a quiet, happy life long before the black dragon devoured all the beauty of the world. Giving up was not in her nature, though, and Skyrim and its people had shown her a love and belonging that she had never expected. She believed in the nords, and the stormcloaks, and the very nature of the people that carved out an existence in this harsh country. Dryn had come to love them and she refused to abandon them in their time of need.

For the time being , she, Farkas, and Lydia were at Breezehome in Whiterun, having just returned from being away for nearly a month. They had killed four dragons and had met their first elder dragon. Paarthurnax , the ancient dragon who lived at the Throat of the World had warned Dryn that stronger, older dovah would be drawn to the increasing power of her Voice. "Good," she had said then without a trace of fear. "It will save me the trouble of hunting them down." Dryn thought back on her arrogant threat and she wondered now, with a new flicker of apphrension, just how powerful a dragon could get. The elder dragon had nearly stretched the three warriors to their limits, even though they had faced many such fights and were fast becoming expert dragonslayers. Only Dryn's now complete shout of Unrelenting Force had managed to keep the beast off balance long enough to turn the tide of the battle to their favour. If they had trouble with an elder dragon, Alduin would surely tear them to pieces. Dryn had to become stronger. The obsession had now become a necessity.

Adrenaline had been coursing through her veins most of the night and she had not slept at all. Farkas and Lydia has both slumped into their respective beds, glad to be home; but the Dragonborn, though she shared in their exhaustion, could not shut her mind off long enough to close her eyes and rest. She had not even bothered going to bed.

She was sitting by the fire, her skin crawling, as her brain dwelt on dragons, war, and the end of times. Having let her dark hair out of the simple plaits she usually kept it in, she was looking the part of the wild elf she was at heart. It was a bit of a tangled mess around her head, framing her brown skin with its greenish hues, her hair almost as dark in the dim light as her black eyes. Every few minutes she would brush back a rogue strand that threatened to impede her vision.

Dryn was clutching her elven bow as if a dragon would burst through her door any minute, but her eyes were unfocused and staring blankly into the flames. It was hours before dawn but she wanted to get back to her mission, idle waiting was not something she had developed the patience for. In her mind's eye, she kept seeing the massive black wings that haunted her dreams, and it was hard to sit by doing nothing when some poor soul in Skyrim might have their life extinguished at any moment. Worse yet, she had been forced by her loved ones to agree to staying home in Whiterun for at least a few days. "To repair and recharge," was Farkas' reasoning. "To sleep!" was Lydia's. Besides, as soon as they had returned, the joy with which they had been greeted by their friends had made Dryn feel guilty that she had kept them away for so long. For a few days, she had promised, regardless of how strong her desire to get back to the fight was.

Still, that didn't mean that she had to be literally cooped up inside the whole time, especially if she couldn't sleep. Snapping out of her self-inflicted trance, she leapt from her seat and slung her bow over her shoulder, promptly leaving the quiet of her home.

Dryn was only lightly armored in a leather tunic, having, again, been forced to relinquish her standard gear to be repaired by Eorlund Gray-Mane; but the leather was enough to stave off the cold of a night in Skyrim. It likely would not hold up well against any dragonkind, but it would due in a pinch against bandits or street thugs if it came right down to it. With that said, she did not really anticipate a fight. The streets of Whiterun were just as quiet as the walls of Breezehome had been. The night was clear, only a rare passing cloud marred the view of the shimmering stars; and the people were rarer than the clouds. Not that Dryn was expecting to see or talk to anyone, but at least it would have been something to say that she was not the only one out wandering around in the dead of night.

Turning her feet up the hill towards the market, she toyed with the idea of sitting outside the temple of Kynareth with the Gildergreen. It was a long shot, but sometimes the ancient tree had a calming influence on her, as if it were a small piece of Valenwood placed there just for her. Ultimately, she decided that would be the best use of her time rather than secretly leaving the city to find some trouble to quash. She headed forward with a dedicated destination in mind, and accepted the quiet notion of meditating through the night.

As she walked, her thoughts turned inward once again. She was so focused on the churning thoughts in her brain, that she was oblivious to the fact that she was not alone when she arrived at the still-flowering Gildergreen. Nor did she notice that the stranger watched her arrival closely, a pair of glittering blue eyes following her every movement like a predator stalking prey from the cloak of tall grass.

Dryn sat herself at the base of the tree, favouring the seat of soft dirt and brown leaves over the nearby benches. She lowered herself into a cross-legged position and leaned her head back into the solid bark with a heavy sigh. As she did so, however, she finally spotted the Breton woman sitting on the ledge where that priest of Talos usually stood. In the shadow of Dragonsreach, the woman was hardly noticeable, sitting perfectly still with her hands together on her crossed knees.

Shocked out of her thoughts with the sudden revelation that she was in the company of another person, Dryn's black eyes met the stranger's across the distance in the darkness. The woman`s face broadened into a smile. Dryn could not be certain if the low light was playing a trick on her eyes, but to her, the smile did not seem exactly friendly. The shadows cast across the woman's face made it appear more like a wolfish grin, the lines around her mouth deep and dark in the gloom. The stranger said something, but the words were carried away by a sudden, chill breeze. Dryn shrugged to indicate that she didn't hear, offering no words of greeting of her own. Sliding from her perch in a fluid movement, the woman came closer until only the small stream was between them. For the span of a handful of breaths, the only noise in the night was the trickling chime of the water over tiny pebbles.

"Would you like your bow enchanted?"

Dryn could see her face more clearly now that she was closer, the moonlight casting a kinder glow on the stranger. Her pale skin was clear of any wrinkles, but her bloodshot blue eyes carried a great many years behind them; there was also a series of small, jagged scars on her right cheek from the cheekbone to the line of her jaw. The breton's hair was a slick, dark auburn, braided tightly down her left shoulder and hanging just passed the crook of her arm. Seeing how it was free of any grey, Dryn guessed that this stranger was one of the lucky few who seemed to escape the ravages of time as they aged. She might not have looked old, but Dryn would wager that she was long past any claim to youthfulness.

"I'm sorry?" Dryn said dumbly. Enchanting was a very strange thing to be offering, let alone to a stranger in the middle of the night.

The woman titled her head slightly to the side, her smile frozen in place. "Your bow. Would you like it to be enchanted?"

"No, thank you," Dryn responded after inhaling and exhaling slowly. Dryn brought her head forward from where it had been resting to study her guest more closely. There weren't many people in Whiterun with any inclination towards magic and even fewer with the skills of an enchanter. The last grace the city with such an ability was Farengar Secret-Fire, who had been arrested and imprisoned with the rest of Balgruuf the Greater's staff after the Battle for Whiterun. A random person able to enchant was rare enough, but in Whiterun, this small Breton woman was sorely out of place.

"I don't charge very much," she said, her tone placid and gracious. She spread her palms, as if showing that she was no threat. "I simply enjoy the practice."

Dryn wondered if this woman had been hired by Jarl Vignar as the new mage of Dragonsreach. It would at least explain her presence in the city, though it did not quite explain why she was offering enchanting services in the midnight hours. "No, I'm alright. I like my bow the way it is." She was not refusing just for the sake of it. Dryn's bow was the last heirloom she had to remember her family by, and it was far too valuable a possession to risk a poor enchantment being placed on it.

"Fair enough." The woman bowed her head in parting. "I'm sorry to have bothered you."

Just as she began to turn away, Dryn found herself overwhelmed with a flash of curiosity. She blurted out: "Who are you?"

The woman stopped mid-step. She carefully placed her forward foot back on the ground, and turned only her chin towards Dryn. The smile had not faded even slightly, and her eyes were all the more intense when she met the dragonborn's gaze once more. "My name is Circe," she said, without any further explanation. Her lips parted just slightly, baring a set of small, white teeth.

Dryn could find no further questions to ask, and Circe the stranger offered no more information; the dragonborn was forced to resign to watching as the mage carefully climbed the steps towards Dragonsreach. A memory struck her then, once Circe was just beyond the last step towards the grand building, and Dryn realized what had been bothering her ever since she had laid eyes on the woman.

Her robes were blue. A dark, shimmering blue to compliment her eyes, the colour of the sky as it shows the first signs of darkening into evening. A blue that ignored the fact that it was night time and there was no daylight to have them so clearly lit and colourful.

She had seen the effect only once before, six months ago, the night after a dragon had attacked the very city. There was nothing dangerous about the memory and, it would seem, nothing inherently dangerous about this Breton named Circe. She was clearly a mage, but that alone was not reason enough to be suspicious. Still, there was an unsettled feeling in her gut that left Dryn dissatisfied with the encounter. She leaned her head against the tree again, but she did not close her eyes and the peace of meditation did not come to her.

Circe. Perhaps she had heard the name somewhere before, but no recollection came to mind immediately. Dryn met so many people in her life and her travels that it was becoming a serious challenge keeping them all straight in her mind. Often, she relied on Lydia and her journal to keep the basic facts in order. So and so needed such and such. This person's daughter is missing, and this person thinks they've stumbled on a dwemer ruin. A rogue mage travelling Skyrim offering discount enchanting services? She was almost certain that she had heard of no such thing.

Still, there was no reason for it to bother her so much. What difference did it make that the mage had conjured some way of glowing in the dark? There were spells that did that, Dryn told herself in a half-hearted attempt to convince her to let it go. The back of her mind nagged at her though. The woman hadn't been glowing. She had not cast light on any of her surroundings. Instead, it was as if the darkness simply wasn't touching the fabric of her clothes. Some enchantment then, Dryn settled on the idea. If the woman could enchant, she must have enchanted her clothing and the effect was causing the unnatural appearance.

Dryn caught herself and realized that she was obsessing. She shook her head sharply then took a deep, calming breath. Placing her palms firmly on her knees, she closed her eyes. The dragonborn had far greater matters to obsess about than some unknown mage with shiny clothes. Dryn assured herself that in the morning, the whole event would be gone and forgotten.