A/N: This is my first Skyrim fic. A few things. First, as the summary implied, my Dragonborn doesn't get initiated into a guild. Way I see it, he'd be too busy trying to get Skyrim on it's feet and fighting the dragons to worry about the status of any guild. Second, I may well be updating sporadically, due to my schedule and tendency to get distracted by shinies. Third, this will be a mature fic: Blood, language, violence, sex, the whole bit. If you aren't interested in any of those, then don't read and spare us a griping comment. I don't say that to be rude, simply because I want those of you readers that either enjoy or don't mind the content to not have to read such comments when they go to review. Hate breeds more hate. Lastly: I do not own Skyrim or the Elder Scrolls universe, only my characters. Enjoy!

Of Legends Born

A Skyrim fanfic

Prologue

The Warrior

Cyrodiil Province, The Imperial City

5 Midyear, 4E 201

There was vice enough in the Imperial City, if one knew where to look. Oh, true, the legitimate businesses dominated since the Thieves Guild's presence had deteriorated, but one didn't need to be a thief or skooma junkie to find things many considered... unsavoury. Gambling, for one, had a strong presence among many of the working class and those beggars that managed to squirrel away a septim. Here and there a smuggler or three managed to get some of the more 'restricted' items into the city, but it was rare since customs officials and the rule of law and justice had such a strong presence, and were constantly on the watch for such things. But the most prominent vice was one that had existed before even man's existence, since even the elves could not fully acquit themselves of the weaknesses of the flesh, and it was now a business that thrived more than most others did in the wake of the Great War between Empire and Dominion, though attempts were still made to conceal it.

And if there was one thing General Maximus Tullius hated, it was giving in to vice. His Legates knew it, his soldiers knew it, and his bloody family knew it perhaps most of all. Yet some, more than others, seemed always bent on seeing just how far they could stretch the boundaries of his patience. After so many years, one would have thought that the General's patience had expanded, but if anything, the opposite had been achieved; the fire for which he was famous burned bright and hot, causing him to snap easily.

That very fire was apparent in his stride, the ramrod-straightness of his spine and the rutted furrows along his brow as he marched at the head of a squad of a dozen Legionnaires in full kit. The only thing he hated more than giving in to vice was being woken in the middle of the night for some unnecessary frippery or another.

It showed.

The alleyway they were marching down echoed with the clatter of plate mail and the creak of leather as the short column tramped through the early morning chill. A yawn occasionally broke the face of one of the younger soldiers, though they made discreet attempts to stifle it. Some of them knew where they were headed and the others didn't, but Tullius was familiar with it, much to his disdain. The door they stopped outside of was rather nondescript, much like the others in this quarter of the city, though the sounds of late night revelers could be heard from the other side. Under such circumstances, one would not have suspected it of anything more damning than being home to a particularly rowdy family. But the General knew better.

Not bothering to stop, much less slow, Maximus reached for the handle and yanked roughly, being greeted by a wash of warm air carrying the scents of roasted foods and a few liquors... along with the slightest undercurrent of passion. Stepping over the threshold revealed a well-lit common area much like what one would find at an inn, though perhaps larger, with a long bar and kitchen near the far wall and a multitude of chairs and tables set about. A few doorways led out of this main room, and a staircase led up to a balcony that hugged three walls, with more closed doors set all around this area. People filled the room, some eating, many drinking, almost all men with a woman dressed in tawdry and revealing fashion lounging in his lap or at his side. The few onlookers were rather muscular men watching all others like hawks, each with a heavy blackjack looped to their belts, with the exception of two women; both at least a decade or two older than the young tricks plying their trade, and both dressed rather modestly, though still with an abundance of cleavage. These two both stiffened visibly when Tullius entered, easily noticeable in his ornate armour, and after a few moments most of the activity died down.

'CLEAR OUT!'

It was as transparent an order as any, and though the soldiers were outside, none of the men within hesitated, moving with a speed that would have impressed a Legion drill instructor, discarding food, drink, and mistress alike in their hurry to get away from what was clearly an explosion waiting to happen. Most of the prostitutes pouted as their business for the night disappeared, and the two women who had been watching stood and came forward, clearly irritated. But before either one of them could so much as open their mouth, Tullius was speaking.

'Where is he?' His tone brooked no argument. He took no back talk from his men, he'd have none from these two.

'General-' the first began, though immediately overruled.

'Where is he, Amillie?' Her lips compressed into a thin, bloodless line, face taking on a decidedly chill glare that would have worked on lesser men. It was a look wasted on a man that had repeatedly stared death in the face, spat in it, and lived to tell the tale. Her dusk-skinned companion hastened forward in the ensuing silence, with a huskily smooth voice.

'He's not here tonight, general. Perhaps you should check one of his other haunts.' Tullius scoffed condescendingly

'Don't bullshit me, Ranni. My information is accurate, now where is my nephew?' Silence, followed by an indignant huff before Amillie's thick Bretonian accent spoke again.

'Upstairs, dans le Red Room...' She'd barely finished speaking before the Imperial was moving again with a string of muffled curses, followed by a tall, plate-clad Legate and two more Legionnaires. Turning right at the top of the stairs, he went all the way down to the end of the balcony and the last door. Gods, he could hear both the bastard and the whore he was with...

Tullius didn't even bother with dignity. The door was met with an angry shoulder that forced it open, stepping into a room covered with curtains of rose-red silk that hung from ceiling to floor and encompassed a four-poster bed, on which the room's occupants were decidedly... busy. Lavish appointments aside, it really was all the general could do to not grab a candle and toss it onto the drapes in his anger. His nephew didn't even seem to notice that they were no longer alone, continuing to plough the young woman as he was, even when Tullius reached for him. The facade dropped instantly, fingers clamping around the older man's wrist in an iron grip as he twisted at the waist, chromatically brilliant eyes meeting the old soldier's steely greys. Everything stilled, with the exception of the constant slap of skin on skin, and then a lopsided grin curled lazily along the young man's face.

'Uncle! Good to see you, though I'm surpris-' He was cut short as Tullius drew back and punched him square on the mouth with his free fist, knocking him flat onto the bed and completely out of the prostitute to blink dazedly at the red-covered ceiling.

'Godsdammit all, Decimus, I've told you NOT TO COME HERE!' The general's anger was nigh-palpable in a heartbeat, even as his nephew reached up and brushed fingers over the stinging welts forming on his lips in seeming unconcern, his mistress for the night attempting to cover herself as she trembled.

'You know what being part of this family means, the precedent we have to set for the people, and still, YOU EMBARASS ME! If your mother hadn't been my sister-' He stopped, gulped. Decimus took the opportunity to raise a finger and open his mouth.

'But she was your sister...' Anything further was cut off at the look on his uncle's face as he stood there, shaking in his anger. The Nord behind him shuffled slightly before returning to a schooled position of dutiful attention until her superior managed to gain control of himself.

'And it is only because we are blood that you are being given this chance.' He drew himself up, crossing his arms over his chest and fixing the prostitute with a pointed stare until she took the hint, keeping the sheet wrapped more or less around her as she gathered her clothes, risked a quick kiss, and then scurried out to the younger Tullius' protest.

'I already paid her for the night!'

'Stow it!' the elder countered. 'I'm leaving tomorrow, I've been appointed governorship of Skyrim. And you're coming with me.' Decimus' jaw dropped, a look of bewilderment clamping onto his features.

'Skyrim? Cold, snows a lot, where even the women grow beards? Oh, present company excluded, of course,' he said at the look on the Legate's face.

'Skyrim. The Fatherland. Call it what you will, we're going there. You have until mid-morning to be ready to go.' The old man turned to his subordinate. 'Legate Rikke, I want him out of here and back at the family estate in an hour. If he protests-' he interjected to Decimus' loud indignation, 'tie him up and haul his sorry ass there.'

'Understood General,' she replied, turning and motioning to two of the guards waiting on the balcony.

Decimus flopped backwards, drained and irritated enough that the lack of sexual stimulation finally got through to his engorged prick. Gods save me...

The Assassin

Cyrodiil Province, Cheydinhal

21 Sun's Height, 4E 201

Not many ventured near the old ruins of the Dark Sanctuary anymore, be they man, beastkin, or animal. A stillness, unnatural and stifling, seemed to permeate the air around the collapsed bricks and rotted columns. The only ones who ever came close to the place were the occasional ne'er-do-wells in too deep a stupour to do much more than stumble about, and guard patrols, though even they were few and very far between. And the squirrels, which were the only wildlife that managed to circumvent the city's gate, always stayed atop the wall as they bounded and skittered along on their way. Whispers surrounded the place, mostly in the form of hushed stories spoken at the inn; of a time when the building had stood, albeit derelict, and been a creaking shroud for the vast Sanctuary beneath; of the people, if people they could be called, who lived and trained there, slipping through the dark cover of night to murder throughout Cyrodiil; and of their mistress, pale and cold, beautiful yet terrible to behold and worse to face down, the most bloodthirsty of all, who left aught but shrivelled husks in her wake when she went forth from her home.

Of course, it was all just hearsay and myth. The villagers had seen to the destruction of that den of iniquity, Count be damned, and that darkness was gone now.

Yet still, whispers persisted, the most real of all those being what the wandering drunks thought they heard whenever they accidentally passed through the ruins on their way home for the night. But not just whispers: sometimes it was a simple sound, at the edge of hearing; others, a tune, like that of the lullabies sung by mothers to their infant children as they slept. But tonight, clear and moonless and dark, it was something different altogether. The shadows that had dissipated since the Sanctuary building's destruction had been gathering, creeping in by night and hiding by day, joined the next night by more and more, until the place seemed choked by them when the sun slid past the horizon and the Lady Night spread her cloak upon the province. Whispers had returned, more constant, quieter and yet louder than before, compelling, spoken in a tongue no mortal needed help to recognise; for it was speaking in the language of instinct, which all creatures, man and animal, are born to. And it was but one single word, a command, of a venerable, ancient, and terrible force, yet at the same time one who spoke with a mother's love, and the urgency with which she would rouse a sleeping child to spirit away before a conflagration

Awaken.

Below, in the ancient catacomb that still held remnants of offerings to Sithis' glory, a black form stirred, long and lithe, filthy with dust and dirt and the detritus of a century of still hibernation. A single eye, radiantly orange-copper and glowing quite literally with hunger, snapped open.

The instinct of a hundred years without sustenance took over, darkening the eye to an abyssal pit. The blackness writhed, shifted, and ultimately metamorphosed violently into a form more monster than woman, as an avaricious roar heralded its return.

Gaius swung around drunkenly, grunting and looking blearily about. He was certain he'd heard something...

Shtoopid wollves and their shtupid howls... his inebriated mind managed to string together. The man began his swerving trek back toward the eastern gate, and the pallet that served as his home. It was a warm night, and if he'd been sobre he'd have thought that he wouldn't need a blanket. The sudden awareness of a pressing pain near his groin served to take him off course to answer nature's call, however. Any other night, he'd have been lucid enough to realise that he'd veered away through the ruins of the old Sanctuary, along with anyone who'd not been drinking. But it was the anniversary of his sweet Claudia's passing, so it deserved recognition, and he had been saving up quite a few septims anyways. Stopping to steady himself against the charred, lichen-covered remnant of a wall, he reached down and fumbled with the strings of his breeches, sighing in relief a few moments later as his urine began splattering against the ground.

Something caught his attention. Just a small sound, like the waking breath of a lover, but still enough to penetrate the alcoholic fog that addled his brain. The balding man looked around, still holding onto his pecker and continuing his urination while trying to find the source of... whatever it was that he'd heard. Unable to turn far enough and see, even with the wall's help, Gaius rolled, placing his back against the crusty brick and mortar and blinking numerously. By the time he realised that he was no longer peeing, he still hadn't managed to see anything, and so began hitching his pants up again.

A low, deep rumble, saturated with predatory menace, was all the warning he had before cold, hard digits choked off his airway and slammed him hard into the wall he'd just been using as a crutch. Even in his drunken state, instinct kicked in, slamming adrenalin into his veins and snapping his mind into flight mode. But there was no escape, despite how he kicked and thrashed and beat at the grey limb that held him in place. Muddled eyes stared into abyssal, inhuman pits where his assailant's own eyes should have been. Stories were once told of these monsters, looked upon more as legend and myth rather than fact, and Gaius himself, in his youth, had been guilty of scoffing and dismissing them.

He should have listened. But it was all moot, anyways, as ashen lips parted to reveal gleaming fangs, and with another growl, the dark head darted forward, sinking the sharp canines into his neck and spilling the sanguine bounty that lay within it forth. The Imperial's mouth opened in a silent scream, held there in a rictus of beatific horror as the vampire fed until she'd sucked the last possible dregs of his vitae, leaving a withered, wrinkly shell where there had once been a man.

Perhaps it was the sound of the body as it was tossed to the ground; or it may have been the slaking of her hunger that his blood offered: Either way, a sharp gleam appeared that had been absent from the creature's obsidian orbs, and the whoosh of a deep breath entered her lungs before being slowly exhaled, body relaxing somewhat if the lowering of her bony wings was any indication. For the first time in a century, rational thought- intelligence- entered her mind. Memories bubbled up to the surface, fire and blood and screams punctuated by a child's cry before all was dark. A shake that moved her whole body dispelled it all; here and now, she could act. The Imperial's blood had been rank with alcohol, and tasted horrible to begin with. Before anything else was to be done, she needed a proper meal.

An act of will called on powers so ancient that even she did not know their origin, fuelled by magicka and the vital essence that she'd just imbibed to disperse her body into vapourous mist, undulating and flowing near the ground yet still held together by her will alone.

The Listener moved toward the city keep, silent, invisible... and hungry.

The Mage

Skyrim Province, Southern Eastmarch

13 Last Seed, 4E 201

She cried as she ran, tears running down dirt-stained cheeks from blind eyes as Fleur crashed through bush and bramble. Even though she'd been without sight since birth, the young woman had never felt so helpless as she did now, her so-called handicap giving her a greater appreciation for Tamriel and the Eight and even allowing her to know the area surrounding her family's farm in ways that normal people did not. It didn't matter now, though, as she'd long since passed those boundaries in her headlong flight to parts unknown. Over the sounds of foliage tearing, she could hear the pursuit gaining on her. Likely it was only a matter of time now, but the young Breton's mind was so set in flight mode and clouded by fear that harbouring any thoughts of surrender was impossible. The only imperative the young girl was capable of sustaining was to flee, catching her foot on something and tripping. A frightened noise of pain escaped her as she nearly skinned her palms raw on the hard ground, breath nearly knocked clear of her lungs but body automatically scrambling to right herself back up to her feet and set her onto the reckless path in front of her again.

I should have made it to Darkwater Crossing by now. I should have made it! OHSWEETMARASAVEME! Her thoughts continued gibbering somewhere along that tangent for Fleur knew not how long, only that she was continually blundering forward without the slightest clue of what was coming.

They caught her eventually, as she was clambering her way up an incline. Fleur could smell them before the first was upon her, the rancid stench of unwashed bodies and, in one case, wet fur from the Khajiit that had fallen into a stream during the chase. She'd taken a step, fully intending to take another, foot even lifted to do it, when the bandit grabbed hold of her ankle and jerked to pull her off balance and smack her face on the ground. Another pained cry escaped the blind girl, eyes squeezing shut and spilling more tears, then a foetid weight was keeping her down, pinning arms and legs while calling out to the rest of his mates in triumph.

'Look here, lads: Got us a ripe one what thinks she can escape!' Several heavy footsteps approached, clomping on the road and hooting excitedly. There was so much pressure on her arms and spine that it was bringing fresh tears to her eyes, the memories of the past hour momentarily forgotten under the circumstances. Rough hands twisted her limbs and began to bind her hands with a coarse rope as lewd jokes were passed around the group, the bandits chuckling with malintent. One of them seemed rather nervous, though.

'Hurry up, Gogrom. We need to get off the road, it's too exposed here...' There was jeering and several calls for him to shut up.

'Keep yer yap closed, Rig. Ain't no patrols out this close to Riften,' the orc rumbled. Fleur whimpered and tried to twist a bit, but the bandit took hold of her head and smacked it into the ground lightly. Lightly, that is, for a full-grown male orc. She screamed and wept more, barely coherent of anything else the brigands were saying.

The sudden splash of something hot and wet on her cheek however, was very noticeable, but moreso was the powerful scent of iron in her nostrils and the salty tang of copper on her tongue as some of the blood got in her mouth. Gogrom gurgled, his body fully coming to bear on Fleur's as he suddenly went limp and collapsed. Eyes snapped open in confused fear under the crushing weight, though she was hardly alone in that general sentiment if the ruckus coming from behind her was any indication. Then there was the clash of metal and cries of pain: Battle, some unknown third party entering the fray with wild shouts and, from the sound of it, slaughtering the unprepared bandits to a man. Fleur struggled weakly.

'Please, help,' she called out plaintively, several times before Gogrom's corpse was removed.

'It's alright, we're with the Legion. Help me get her up,' someone commanded, his voice carrying the fluting accent of one native-born to Skyrim. Hands rugged with callous were nonetheless far more gentle than her would-be captor's had been, cutting her bonds and rolling her onto her back before pulling her up to her feet. Fleur hissed at the burning sting in her palms, the skin broken and bleeding in several places.

'Are you hurt girl?' that same voice asked, his breath warm on her face and, judging by the proximity, from the same person that held her right shoulder to keep her steady. The Breton's head swivelled towards him as best she could tell before answering, 'My hands...' They were turned up, presumably so the wounds could be observed, and then he swore under his breath. 'Kallef, get over here. We need the bandages and a healing potion.' Someone whistled, hands cupping under Fleur's and lifting them higher.

'She did a number on 'em... Did you fall?' His voice was deep and rich, as she'd noticed in the few Redguards she'd encountered, a meek nod providing her answer. A gentle clap was placed on her shoulder. 'Well, don't worry. We'll have you fixed up in no time.' When the potion was drizzled onto her bleeding hands she nearly cried out again from the moment of sharp pain, though it turned into a warmth that seeped down into the muscle and began to slowly mend, hardly noticing the linen strips that were wrapped to keep the wounds clean. 'She's good to go, Hadvar. A day at most before her hands are smooth as a babe's skin. Orders?'

'Give me a few moments with her... Where are you from, lass?' the one she now knew as Hadvar asked. With the danger of the bandits passed, the reality of Fleur's situation hit her and brought new grief to her sightless eyes.

'They're dead! My parents are dead!'

The Thief

Skyrim Province, Southwestern Rift

15 Last Seed, 4E 201

Vaelith was not unfamiliar with hardship. Indeed, the Bosmer had endured much of pain since even before his flight from Valenwood decades ago, enough so that it was counted among his constant companions. Old Kar would have approved of many of the lessons since learned, if not the methods by which they'd been discovered. It was pointless to think on his former mentor's teachings, though; he had little time to spare if he wished to live.

The Imperials had been thorough in their search, he had to give them that. It seemed that the new governor of Skyrim was a wily old scrib, and tough as kagouti hide to boot, showing his soldiers by example where one could hide blades and lockpicks on one's own body. Sleeves, lapels, and boots were all easy enough to figure out; harder were inside the legs of breeches and behind the leather of his belt. Found and confiscated as they may have been, Vaelith had not survived as long as he had without picking up a few unorthodox tricks. For starters, the legionnaires would have noticed a small gap in his boot soles had they bothered to look; enough for, say, a slender and short stiletto to fit through.

The trick now was to remove said sole enough to slip the blade free while his hands were bound and then cut himself free, all without drawing the attention of any of the nearby soldiers. Fortunately, the prisoner cart he'd been confined to for the trip to Helgen was high enough to do an ample job of obscuring his activities from the Imperial slobs escorting the convoy, and he made sure to take his time, as much to take his time as anything. Not like there was much else for him to do right now, anyways, and going fast would only result in his getting sloppy. The fact that he'd been caught to begin with was shameful enough, but the Bosmer was unsure how he'd handle it happening again while trying to make his escape.

It took him the better part of the day, and the convoy had long since stopped for the night when Vaelith managed to finally work the sole enough to get his blade free. The thick ropes that bound him took some time to get through, and it was nearing false dawn when he'd sawed through them all the way. Taking care to keep as still as possible, despite the several snoring guards and watchmen, making surreptitious glances all around to find the best angle of escape. After the patrol passed by, oblivious to his seeming-asleep form, the thief looked around again, confirmed his ability to run, and let the tattered ropes fall to the cart deck before slipping out of the cart and keeping his form low to the ground. His whole body ached after having been in one position for days, but he tuned it out as best he could and made for the camp perimeter leading deeper into the forest, travelling east as far as he was able to tell.

See these bastards try to catch him out here...

It wasn't long before he could hear the sounds of pursuit, and despite his speed Vaelith found himself wishing for the familiar comfort of his bow and a full quiver of arrows on his back. At least the Imps hadn't stripped him of his clothing. An involuntary shudder went through the mer's body at the thought of that. It was cold enough with his furs, nevermind running around in tattered rags. Keeping his mind focussed on the task of escaping, Vaelith darted through the central Rift forest, keeping his pace until long after his pursuers had faded into the distance. Dawn's cerise light was just beginning to colour the sky when he stopped, panting heavily and trying to catch his wind. Struggling to hear anything over the thundering roar of blood rushing through his ears, Vaelith settled his weight against a nearby ash trunk and sank down on his haunches until he'd managed to regain a modicum of his breath. He soon picked up on the gentle babble of a nearby brook and silently made his way there, little more than a blurred form in the mists. His thirst was slaked quickly, the clear waters sweeter than any he'd tasted in some time, the added factor of his freedom no doubt deepening the taste.

Exhaling quietly in relief, Vaelith stood again, greeted by an endless montage of hazy grey trunks.

Well, at least being lost meant he wasn't in the Imp's custody. If nothing else, the fog would be burned away within a few hours by the sun and he'd have some idea of where he was. There were a few berry bushes in the immediate vicinity which he proceeded to strip clean, fingers and lips stained red when he was finished and the mists beginning to clear as the sun rose. Licking his digits clean and using some saliva to clear his lips of the sweet taste, Vael looked up at the sun and turned east once more, though he angled himself to follow the river and eventually hit Riften. If ever there was a thieves' haven, he'd find it there.

Fortune awaited him.

Dovahkiin

Skyrim Province, East Falkreath Hold

16 Last Seed, 4E 201

If there was one thing Ragnar hated about Imperials, it was that they were so damn suspicious of anyone trying to share the road with them. They didn't own the fucking thing, no matter what hoity-toity rank any one of them held. Just looking at their camp further on up made him want to punch their general in the mouth, consequences be damned. The power of protection in increased numbers meant nothing when he and his were over a dozen metres away. He held no illusion to his capability in a fight, but his group of stragglers had been on the road for weeks and fended off more than one bandit and wildlife attack, and they were weary: If the predators were smart, they'd pick them off with ease before any one of the Legionnaires could be bothered to do something. Where once they'd numbered ten, they were now barely half that number from the raids. They no longer drank ale, even on the cold nights, and their eyes were grim and hard.

Gods-damned Imperials...

Hati emerged quietly from the brush and stepped into the meagre circle of light thrown out by their campfire, followed quickly by Sköll. Both toted a brace of a few coneys, and the younger twin's satchel was filled with a few roots and herbs he'd managed to scrounge. The two handed their finds off to Falda, the group's unofficial cook, and then sat down to warm themselves. Sköll tossed a few logs on at her direction before holding out his hands with palms towards it, seeking to drive the chill from his flesh.

Ragnar observed it all with vibrant blue eyes, senses still stretched for the slightest noise of incoming threat, laying on his side with his bedroll spread beneath him and working a strip of elk jerky. The mountain forests obscured Masser and Secunda, though the moons were still both near the horizon this early in the evening. Tearing off a piece of the preserved meat, Ragnar chewed on it for several minutes as he watched Falda get Siri to help her with preparing the rabbits, going so far as to threaten the other woman with no supper when she resisted. He smirked, chuffing at the display. The stupid woman should have known by now she had to pull her weight outside of combat as well. Grudgingly, Siri sat down and got out her knife, her face pinched in displeasure at the current task though she said no more and simply did it. Why animal guts bothered her was a mystery: She'd been covered by the entrails and blood of men plenty of times and never shown such squeamishness. They didn't have to wait too long before the meat was roasting on a pair of spits and the aroma of rabbit filled their camp, hopefully wafting down to the Legion so the bastards could smell what they were missing. The twins busied themselves with cutting up tubers and getting snow to melt for water, putting the cooking pot up when directed and stoking the fire once more.

Falda looked pointedly at Ragnar and flicked her knife first at her nearby rucksack, then at the piece of meat he was still working. 'Come on, you too. Get me the salt, butter, and peppercorns, then the bowls. And put that away, you'll ruin your appetite,' she directed in a no-nonsense tone. Though his mouth twisted in a playful grimace, he did as told and pocketed the snack before reaching for her pack.

'I don't think anything could spoil my appetite for your cooking, woman,' the Nord joked. She simply told him to remember to get the bread, as well. When everything was combined in the pot, Falda handed him a ladle and had him stir regularly while they waited for the rabbit to finish cooking. Finally, their cook announced it ready and had the others help to cut up pieces small enough to go in the pot. The sun had nearly set when the stew was doled out, Ragnar calling softly for Björn to join their repast. Their final member materialised out of the shadows, relieved of his sentry duties for a few moments to enjoy the meal and comradeship of his friends.

'So,' the middle-aged man started between a mouthful of bread and stew, 'we make Helgen tomorrow?' The group conversed amongst themselves in the fluting tones of Nordic, disdaining the more popular Tamrielic while within the boundaries of their homeland out of a mixture of pride and the desire to keep their topics obscured from the ears of any Legionnaires curious enough to try and get within earshot. Ragnar breathed on his spoonful of stew to cool it, enjoying the taste before answering with a hum.

'We'll likely wake at false dawn if those Legion types stick to their habits, but it's only a few hours' hike now.' A smile broke his features. 'I can almost taste Vilod's mead again. He mixes juniper berries with it. Taste of Sovngarde on Nirn if ever it came here.' Siri nodded emphatically, having grown up in the settlement and knowing precisely what the warrior spoke of.

'He speaks truth, though I'd settle for not having to follow those stinking Imperial pigs over paradise right now,' the younger woman said, a chorus of chuckles and jeers returning the sympathy from the others. Even through their good humour, Björn kept a watchful eye on their surrounds, joined by Ragnar and occasionally the twins. The younger warrior finished his meal first, scratching at his beard as he got up to clean his dish and spoon in the snow, setting both aside when done before taking hold of his axe and blanket, as well as one of the remaining heels of bread. A few snowflakes had started to fall lazily, though he'd little doubt that more would come before the sun rose again.

'I'll take first watch,' he said, setting himself at the very edge of the light and wrapping himself in the furs. Björn joined him when he'd finished his own meal, the two sharing a companionable silence borne of countless long nights spent similarly.

'What do you plan to do when we are finished, Ragnar? There's little call for mercenaries where you're headed,' he asked after a long while. The question itself didn't irk the younger man as much as the answer, but Björn was probably the only person he hid nothing from. That notwithstanding, he didn't reply for several minutes as he wrestled with it internally.

'I received a letter some time ago from... an old friend, telling me that my father died. I have his affairs to settle.' It was more than any of the rest of their group would get, and it was enough to satisfy Björn's curiosity for the time being. He knew how difficult it was for Ragnar to share anything about his past, moreso the topic of his father. More silence followed as the others turned in for the night, the fire snapping quietly. The scene was a smaller version of the Imperial camp further up the road, host to a greater number of larger fires and sleeping soldiers.

'Get some sleep, Björn. We still have distance to cover tomorrow.' His friend and mentor nodded, clapping him on the shoulder before going to his bedroll. Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled and was answered moments later by her pack. The sounds of sleeping Skyrim surrounded them all and brought a measure of comfort to Ragnar.

It was good to be home.

A/N: Hope you enjoyed the read. Comments and reviews are always welcome, but please be constructive with your criticism. Mean-spiritedness will not be tolerated.