1
Their argument quickly devolved into a nasty spectacle, toxic and tortured in the way only a lover's quarrel could be. Harsh words grew into rousing epithets, culminating in a physical outburst directed moreso at the tableware than each other. Soren had to clean up the mess they made: shattered glassware, utensils strewn akimbo, an overturned plate that sent blackened potatoes and a turkey leg rolling across the floor.
Soren shrunk away as the red-haired woman broke off the confrontation, striding across the room and out the door with a look that was equal parts determination and spite plastered to her fair features. He swallowed uncomfortably as she exited - the misty evening enveloped her short and slender form in the blink of an eye - and turned to the broken goblet that she had left behind. The wine had begun to pool on the uneven floorboards, crimson like blood draining from a butchered pig.
The man she left behind stayed put. After a moment, he walked over to the bar and pulled up a stool on which to stew in silence. He ordered himself a brandy; despite the earlier outburst, the Innkeep, a Redguard woman named Jonna, did not shirk his request. The Moorside Inn could hardly stand to turn away paying customers, no matter their disposition.
After a long moment the other inhabitants of the bar turned back to their drinks and resumed their tired conversations. The tension in the air slowly began to abate; the bard in the corner resumed his pitchy ballad. Soren circled around the room, exchanging empty mugs for full ones, accepting reluctant offers of hard-earned coin. All the while he watched the man at the bar from the corner of his eye: he stood out like an Orc in a Colovian bathhouse.
He was middle-aged, tallish with Nordic features. A pair of green eyes peeked out from sunken pits in a gaunt face, steadily clouding over as more drink disappeared into the tersed, slitlike mouth that simmered under his slender nose. He kept his dirty-blonde hair pulled back in a low, loose half-tail; the short, unkempt beard that wrapped around his slightly crooked jaw framed his face quite well. Perhaps half a decade ago his features might have exhibited some boyish charm, but the stoicism that had since replaced it hinted as some past trauma. It was a typical trait among veterans, Soren had observed, and Skyrim did not lack for their kind.
He wore a simple scaled coat that descended to his knees: behind the dirt and the grime Soren could barely make out a dark, forgotten shade of blue glinting off the tiny metal plates. Streaks of mud adorned his faded leather boots and trousers, both of which were reinforced with strips of beaten steel. At his side, a slender sword rested against the bar, secured in a scuffed leather scabbard and looped hastily in his sword belt. The hilt was wrapped in shiny black leather, its sturdy crossguard carved with flowing nordic symbols; a small sapphire, set in the center of the cross, glinted in the dim light.
One by one the regulars of the Moorside Inn finished their drinks and emptied into the night. The candles burnt low in their sconces, their retreating light giving way to a sleepy miasma. Even the bard had abated, relinquishing his futile efforts to win himself more generous tips. His ears finally spared the unpleasant ruckus, Soren had to double his efforts in resisting the urge to sit down and nod off.
Soon, only the stranger remained. He had drained drink after drink, slowly but steadily. Soren was old enough to recognize that he was drinking with a purpose.
"You want a room, stranger?" Jonna asked. She was a foreigner, unlike Soren, but most found her rough-hewn and dependable in a distinctly Nordic fashion; she was well-liked in their small community.
The man mumbled in the negative and withdrew his coinpurse to pay for his lengthy procession of drinks. He fumbled with the catch, swore, and in a fit of annoyance overturned the bag, leaving a small pile of mismatched coins on the counter. Jonna sifted through them, pursed her lips, then swept them all into her apron.
"All of them? Really?" the man grunted. He fixed a glare on the Innkeep that looked more confused than annoyed.
"You're short a few, in fact," Jonna replied, "But I'll let it slide because of that tongue-lashing you caught earlier."
The man grunted and tried to stand, promptly making the true extent of his intoxication clear. He stumbled into a nearby table, knocked over a few chairs, and would have ended up on his arse had not Soren rushed over to steady him. Though he was taller than Soren, his frame was lean and wiry, easy to support. The man wrapped one arm around him and grasped at Soren's apron.
"Kyne's tits," he groaned, holding his head with his free hand. "Where's my sword?"
"I don't think that's a good idea, fool," Jonna replied, raising her brows, "I would have cut you off far earlier had I known the way you handle your liquor."
She nodded to Soren. "Put him in the corner room - he can sleep it off. Tomorrow we'll see about how he can make up the difference he owes."
"My sword!" The man lunged forward, ripping free of Soren's grasp. He promptly toppled forward, smashing into a rickety table. Unable to sustain his weight, it collapsed downward, sending splintery fragments sliding all over the floor along with the poor drunk. He rolled off the debris and groaned in pain, curling up and clutching his stomach.
"You can get it back tomorrow," Jonna replied, shaking her head as she spoke. "After you build me a new table. Stupid drunken sod."
Soren apologized profusely as he helped the man up and led him over to the corner room.
"S'okay, boy," the man grumbled, "You look familiar, somehow. You got a father, or a cousin, or something?"
Soren felt his cheeks flush. "Erhm... not anymore." His voice sounded small and weak next to the man's raspy baritone. "Never knew my da. I, ah, had an older brother, but he left to go fight dragons. Musta been seven, eight years ago. He never came back."
The man was silent as Soren fumbled with the door and then led him into the small corner room. He sagged heavily onto the bed and took one of his boots in his hand, struggling to unbuckle it. Evidently, the straps proved too clever for his sluggish fingers, for he soon gave up. He looked back up at Soren for a moment and squinted his eyes, but his spark of recognition evidently did not blossom into a flame.
"That's a sad story," the man mumbled, "And all too common. Know how it feels - sorry, kid."
Soren lowered his head. He didn't much care to talk or think about it - he'd been very young, and the worst moments of the dragon crisis remained to him a nightmarish blur. The man resumed trying to take off his boots, and Soren heard a tearing noise followed by a short, sharp curse; he'd torn one of the buckles right off.
He was about to leave him in his drunken misery but remembered that he ought to account for the man's room and board in the guestbook.
"What's your name, sir? For the books, you see."
The man looked up. His eyes were bleary, his forehead red. A smudgy trace of blue woad was barely visible on the left side of his face: two jagged lines that descended from his forehead, over his left eye, culminating in two points on his cheek. The warpaint hardly looked fearsome - just messy.
"Jakt," he croaked.
Then, in one smooth, delicate moment, he bent over, retched once, and spewed the contents of his stomach all over the floor.
2
Jakt awoke to a pounding headache and the all too familiar smell of sick. He sat up and groaned at the telltale combination of stiffness and rustling scales that indicated he'd slept in his armor. Trying to ignore the dull pangs that echoed in his brain, he lifted his armored coat off his torso and unbuckled the patchwork greaves affixed to his trousers. He'd managed to get one boot off, it seemed, but the buckle at the ankle had evidently torn and was nowhere to be found. He pulled it back on and wore it loose.
The night came back to him in a jumble. He remembered helping the serving boy clean up his own upchuck, and the mug after mug of mead that had led to that inevitable end. The disapproving face of the bartender percolated through his messy cavalcade of thoughts. Then he remembered why he'd been drinking so heavily - the argument. Thinking about it made him want to bury his head in his hands, which he did.
"Good, you're up," came a crisp voice: the Innkeep stood at the door. Middle-aged, with dark skin and a weathered face, she looked stern and disapproving. She walked over and offered him the mug in her hands: salt water. Jakt gargled for a moment and spat, thankful for the sharp, almost painful freshness it brought to his breath.
"Any freshwater?" he asked, pointing to the mug. "Free, I hope?"
"There's always snowmelt. You'll have to get it yourself, though." She turned and walked back into the main room.
Jakt took a breath and pushed himself upright, following her out. The Moorside Inn was a cozy space with a simple wooden bar, a collection of long tables and rough-cut stools; a large stone fire pit crackled faintly in the middle of the room. Jonna sat in front of last night's embers, trying to stoke them into a roaring flame, but the wood was wet and smoky, and wouldn't catch. Jakt wandered over and placed a hand on her shoulder.
"Let me help you with that," he murmured. She looked at him quizzically, but stood and handed him the poker before stepping aside. He pushed it back to her and knelt down before she could question him, positioning his face close to the sputtering fire. The warmth felt good, and he breathed deep, welcoming new life into his tired, roughshod lungs.
He whispered a word in the Tongue as he exhaled: a thin, steady stream of flame surged from his windpipe. He held the whispered command until the wood crackled into flame.
He turned back to Jonna to find her eyes wide - not with fear, but with amazement.
"You're a sorcerer?" She asked, "You certainly don't look the part."
"Not exactly," he replied, standing and warming his outstretched hands over the flame. He looked over at her again to see comprehension dawning on her face.
"The Voice," She said, with some awe. "You couldn't be... Are you - ?"
"No," he replied, cutting her off curtly: he didn't like the reverence in her tone. Thankfully she got the message and did not continue. At that moment his headache returned with a vengeance, and his parched throat, agitated by his display, bothered him once more.
"I'll get a bucket," he mumbled to her and started for the door, not really caring for her reply. Grabbing the wooden bucket that hung from a peg by the threshold, he opened the door of the Moorside Inn to behold the sleepy logging village in all its morning glory.
Morthal. The run-down capital of a poor, neglected provincial hold, the village welcomed him like an old, worn-out hound, lifting its head curiously for a moment before returning to its torpor. A trio of guards milled about: they stared at him with suspicion as he walked to the bank of the swampy, half-frozen river that ran through the city. He removed his boots, rolled up his trousers and waded in, the deathly cold water shocking his legs to the bone. He squatted down to give his face the same treatment, submerging it in the frigid, life-giving substance, hoping to chase off his hangover with the threat of frostbite. While he had learned to acquiesce to the harsh climate of his ancestral homeland, it had taken many long years to do so.
Jakt came up for air only when his skin began to scream for mercy. He felt about in his left trouser leg for a dagger he kept tucked there, its sheath sewn into the lining; finding it, he used several whacks of the pommel and the blade to break off a few chunks of ice, wrestling them into the wooden bucket before sloshing back to dry land. He stood for a moment, letting the cold air prickle at his wet skin, and took in the small town. It was constructed half over water, a collection of rickety wood buildings, half of which stood on stilted crannogs. The largest of these was the lumber mill, the town's only commodity with any sort of value. Next in size came High-Moon Hall, the seat of the local Jarl, distinguished not only by its respectable size but by the draped banners that depicted Morthal's sigil: a black, three-pronged swirl over a sea of green. It reminded Jakt of some otherworldly tentacled being, reaching through the void. He shivered, and not from the cold.
It was uncharacteristically clear that morning: the fog that usually covered the sleepy little town was low and translucent. Jakt could see the village line clearly, beyond which stretched the twisted, ominous foliage of the Drajkmyr Marsh. The two towers of Morthal, tall wooden structures capped with bright-burning bonfires kept lit at all times, loomed over the marsh. Also known as the Twin Candles, they were the easiest to see landmarks in all of the Hjallmarch, and yet still those who wandered into the marsh often did not find their way back.
Movement caught Jakt's eye: the serving boy from the inn stood on a nearby platform, chopping wood near a smoldering forge. His bare arms revealed well-formed musculature at odds with his ruddy, boyish face. Jakt watched him raise the woodcutter's axe in his hands and all of a sudden the pieces clicked into place.
"Benor," Jakt called up to him. The boy looked up, confused, then noticed Jakt and faltered. His face was red and sweaty. Jakt put the ice bucket down and jogged over to him.
"He was your brother," he continued, looking down at the lad, whose name he could not remember. The boy looked down, nodded. He was shorter than Jakt but quite stocky, overdeveloped for his age, which Jakt guessed at around fifteen.
"You knew him?" he asked, his tone shy.
"Knew him?" Jakt said, cracking a smile, "I fought with him. Tough bastard, he was - saved my life a couple of times. Carried a battle axe as if it was a wooden spoon."
"What ever happened to him?" the boy said, not looking up. Jakt's smile disappeared.
"He fell in battle," he began, slowly, "Fighting for something greater than he - like a true Nord." His words felt forced, empty: Jakt had seen many of his kinsman die in battle. Usually they spent their last moments crying out for their mothers, soiling their trousers, begging for mercy. He had not even seen Benor go - only ever heard about it, from a lesser man.
The boy's shoulders sagged slightly, but he looked up and met Jakt's eyes. He nodded slowly, with what might pass for acceptance: he'd had long years to come to terms with Benor's absence.
"Soren!" came a yell from the forge, "Where's that firewood, son?"
"Thanks," the boy murmured as he turned back to the task at hand. Jakt watched awkwardly for a moment, unsure what else to say to the lad. Eventually he turned away.
He wandered back to the Inn, feeling helpless and stuck. It was hardly a new sensation.
3
Jakt did a double take as he crossed the threshold of the Moorside Inn. Two strangers, dressed in distinctive robes, had joined Jonna in the main hearth. The taller one, a Redguard man, nodded a greeting. Everything about him was nondescript: his ageless face, shaved head, plain blue robes, neutral features. The other, a young, dark-haired Nord woman, stared at him curiously.
"Jakt," Jonna called over to him, "I'd like you to meet someone."
Jakt sighed under his breath, wondering where she'd learned his name. He was hardly excited to meet these newcomers - they had the look of magic users, which always put him on edge.
"My brother, Falion, the Jarl's court wizard. And his apprentice, Agni."
"Not sure I'd call High-Moon Hall much of a court," Jakt quipped as he quickly pumped Fallion's outstretched hand, "More of a hovel."
Falion seemed amused by his barb, but Jakt ignored for a moment him to focus on the young sorceress instead. Agni didn't stretch out her hand: just looked Jakt up and down, in a manner that was somewhere between distaste and intrigue. It was a look he'd felt far too often. She had shiny yellow eyes and pale, unblemished skin; her slender, symmetric face benefited from a pair of dark red lips and a small, pointed nose turned ever so slightly upwards at the tip. Jakt gave her a smirk, and in response she tilted her head ever so slightly to the side and raised an eyebrow. He wondered if she had yet seen two decades.
"Ahem," Falion said, shifting Jakt's attention away from the striking young sorceress, "I've heard much about you, Jakt Blade-Dancer."
Jakt laughed aloud, a terse chuckle devoid of mirth. "No one's called me that in a long while. But I appreciate the title, and I must say I've heard of you too, Falion Vampire-Lover."
Agni raised her eyebrows at that, and Jakt heard Jonna suck in her breath and curse under her breath. Falion frowned slightly but otherwise appeared unfazed.
"How very flattering. A moniker no doubt learned from someone at the College of Winterhold," he replied, "A scorned lover, perhaps?'
It was Jakt's turn to scowl.
"What is it that you want?" he asked, changing the subject, "Here I am in your sister's debt, so I assume you have some trivial task that needs be attended to.
"Trivial? I would not call it such," Falion began slowly, "A manner that would not only benefit myself and Jonna, but all of our community."
"Go on," Jakt said, already feeling restless.
"Morthal has seen strange tidings of late," Falion said, "Stranger than usual. Something dark and twisted lurks in the marsh, and its aura trickles into the village; the gloom seems to be infecting the townsfolk-"
"You mean, more so than usual?
Falion gave a half smile at that. "Aye. Three have gone missing in the last month: locals, who know better than to stray off the beaten path. Two have since returned, three or four days after they vanished, no memory whatsoever of what happened to them."
"Spare me the melodrama and let me guess what comes next," Jakt cut in, "You'd have me storm the marsh and slay the beast?" He laughed again. "Do I look like some thug, to be hired for loose change?"
"Yes," Agni interjected with just a trace of snark.
"Incorrect," Falion said reproachfully, ignoring his apprentice, "What I have in mind is a little more mundane. You see, a couple of days ago there was a fire in the village - a house belonging to a man named Hroggar burned down. His wife and young daughter perished in the flame."
Jakt's gut prickled; he felt a little remorse for antagonizing the wizard. "Ah… that's... a shame."
"Aye," Jonna interjected, "A travesty, but not for Hroggar." She huffed. Jakt looked at her, then turned back to Falion when no elaboration seemed forthcoming.
"Hroggar was one of the vanished - he went missing for a few days before the fire." the wizard explained, "Talking to him about it, you wouldn't hardly know that he cared - he moved in with another woman, Alva, shortly thereafter. According to the townsfolk, he won't speak of what happened - just goes as if his wife and child never existed."
Jakt shrugged and snorted, unimpressed with Falion's musing. "Sounds to me like the bastard desired another woman and was prepared to pay the price. A tragic tale that is tragically common."
"So it would seem." Falion replied. "But we'd like to confirm that story. Do some digging, ask around. Instinct tells me that something foul lurks behind these sad transgressions, something arcane. Someone does not want the truth known, and for what purpose, I can't say."
Jakt had to try hard not to roll his eyes. "Seems like a bit of a leap to cry sorcery, even for the town sorcerer. Did the militia look into it?"
"They made a show of conducting an investigation, but concluded that the fire was an accident. Didn't take them very long to come to that conclusion, no less."
Jakt stared hard at Falion's impassive features. "Why can't you do this yourself?"
Agni spoke again. Her voice was low and quite sharp. "Surely you know, kinsman. This land of ours holds no love for those magically inclined. Morthal is no exception - if anything, it is the prime example."
"The villagers will hardly share anything with us," Falion said. He sounded resigned to this fact, unlike his apprentice; it was plain to Jakt that she harbored a bit of a grudge.
"You haven't exactly given them much cause to trust you, brother," Jonna replied to him. She turned to Jakt. "He is right, though. Morthal may be wary of strangers, but as an outsider you've a far better chance to get anywhere with the villagers than a spellslinger would."
Jakt mulled it over for a moment. Nihilistic thoughts festered in his brain: what did he care about these people, this town? It was at best a pit stop on a road that lead nowhere in particular.
"The Jarl has a stake in this, you know," Falion said, sensing his hesitation, "And she'll be willing to pay you should you see it through."
Jakt sighed. He did need the money. He'd spent far too much on frivolous pursuits as of late - especially drink.
"Very well," he said, resigning himself to the task. "But I'll have my sword back, thank you very much."
"I left it on your bed," Jonna said, "Though if the Gods are merciful you won't need it."
Jakt looked at her for a moment and shrugged. "I wouldn't count on the Gods being merciful," he muttered as he turned around and walked towards the corner room.
Right as he reached for the door handle he heard Agni speak.
"You know, I was expecting the Dragonborn to be a bit… more."
4
Jakt knelt at the snow-covered wreckage of the small cabin, rubbing his shoulders to ward off the cold. The day had grown colder as it wore on, and the fur parka he had borrowed from Jonna was ratty and worn.
The ruined cabin itself was rather bland and uninteresting. Most of the debris had evidently been picked away by the villagers: only the floor and some of the frame remained, along with the half-toppled stone chimney. There was a telltale cone scorched into the wooden floorboards that seemed to point away from the fireplace, a potential indicator that the fire had simply spilled over and gotten out of control. Jakt was hardly a forensic expert, however, and the hut was small enough such that it would be easy to escape an accidental blaze begun in that manner.
All of a sudden he heard the telltale creak of a footstep on wood. He whirled around to find the serving boy, Soren, standing bashfully in the burned-out threshold.
"Shor's bones," breathed Jakt. "Don't sneak up on me like that." He noticed Soren staring at his side uneasily; he looked down to see that his hand had grasped his sword hilt unconsciously.
"Old habits," he murmured apologetically, letting his hand fall to his side.
"Are you the one looking in to Helgi's death?"
Jakt nodded. "You knew her well?"
The boy blushed and nodded. "She was just a year younger than me - She used to tease me a lot, but I rather liked her."
Jakt felt another pang of sorrow for the boy. "Did she ever speak much about her father?"
Soren nodded again. "Yes - they loved each other very much. Hroggar was the best father in town, to hear her tell it."
There was a quiet note of envy in Soren's voice, one that Jakt could relate to: he knew what it was like to grow up without a father.
"He must be pretty torn up about it, then," Jakt mused.
Soren shrugged. "Nobody much liked Helgi's mom, though: she was from Solitude, I think, and she hated this place. Helgi would complain about her all the time. She was very rude to the rest of town, too."
Jakt rubbed his chin. "Do you think that's why no one seems to care that she's dead and gone?"
The lad recoiled slightly at that, and Jakt immediately regretted the callous nature of the question.
"Listen, Soren," he followed up quickly, "I'd like to help find out what really happened, but it seems like nobody in Morthal wants to face the truth of the matter. You knew the girl a bit: anything you can tell me helps, and maybe along the way we can put her memory to rest the way she deserved."
The boy paused, sniffed, then spoke.
"I don't know if this will help, but a few days before it all... happened, Helgi told me he'd been acting… weird."
"Weird? How?"
"Well," the boy seemed hesitant, almost skeptical. "She said that she'd heard her father calling out to someone in his sleep… kept saying the name, 'Kelpie, Kelpie.' After he went missing, she told me she thought he'd gone to find her - Kelpie, I mean."
"Anyone in Morthal by that name?" Jakt asked. Soren shook his head.
"Strange," Jakt said, thinking to himself. "First you heard of it?"
Soren nodded and shrugged.
"Not very talkative, are you?"
Soren blushed and stood there silently. When he understood Jakt wasn't going to let him go without some sort of reply, he stammered out an explanation.
"I just… I don't want to get in the way. That's what folk used to say about my brother - that he was big and stupid and that when he tried to help he'd always end up prying. Morthal doesn't like meddlers, and I think that's why he left. I don't want folk to think I'm stupid and nosy, and drive me out like they did to him."
Jakt frowned, unsure of what to say to the boy. "It's okay to want to keep your head down, but folk will think what they want regardless. If you want them to respect you, you have to earn that respect." He paused, unsure where he was going with the thought.
"In the end, though, you have to ask yourself if their respect is really worth what it takes you to get it - especially in a place such as Morthal."
Soren cocked his head to the side. Jakt was worried that he had confused the boy, but he seemed to take Jakt's words in stride. "So Benor left because he didn't want to give up helping people?"
Jakt shrugged. "He never told me much about himself, Soren. He let his deeds speak for him."
The boy nodded solemnly, then perked up a bit. "Do you think, maybe later, you might teach me to swing a sword?"
Jakt smiled. "No one around here ever bothered to teach you?"
"Well, I guess I never asked."
"Maybe some other time. Thanks for your help, kid."
5
Jakt spent the rest of the day trying to track down Hroggar, a task that ultimately proved fruitless. Nobody seemed to know where the man was, or - more likely - refused to tell him. After enduring a particularly unpleasant barrage of glares from the man's peers at the lumber mill, Jakt decided that he was fed up with the villagers of Morthal. Clearly they felt obligated to protect each other's business: though he understood why, Jakt found their attitude pointless and obstructive.
It was time to give Soren's half-baked shred of information a harder look.
He made his way over to Falion's home, a rather odd structure at the far end of town. It consisted of a stubby, two-story tower, connected to a small house with walls and a roof that were constructed mostly of large plate-glass windows. Jakt peeked inside to see several rows of troughs, each with a hodge-podge of plants and fungi growing inside. The glass was fogged, and surprisingly warm to the touch; through the misted panes, Jakt could make out a human form moving about inside, occasionally bending over to tend to the plants. He rapped sharply on the glass.
"Come in through the tower!" a muffled voice called out a second later.
Jakt complied - there didn't seem to be an entrance to the glass room anyways - and circled around to the front door. It was unlocked, and gave way to a partitioned room that contained a sparsely-decorated cooking space, with cupboards, counters and a brick stove. Curtains draped over one end of the room gave some illusion of privacy: they were half-drawn, and Jakt could see a poorly-made bed peeking out from behind them. For a wizard's hut, it seemed surprisingly ordinary. A spiral staircase in one corner, constructed of mahogany and carved with beautiful, flowing symbols, led Jakt to deduce that Falion's laboratory was on the second floor.
"I'm in the greenhouse!" came the voice: no longer muffled, it was sharp and feminine. Jakt padded into the strange glass-walled room, craning his neck with curiosity. The first thing he became aware of was the temperature. Soothing fires, contained in grilled metal sconces, sat at the end of every trough, heating the room; their flames glowed a faint green, a telltale hint of their magical origin. The warmth was soothing, almost sleepy, and Jakt felt a calmness drift through his body. He felt a drop of water burst on his nose, and looked up to see condensation forming on the glass. There was something strangely beautiful about the room: a bubble of warmth and greenery in the midst of a damp, desolate winter.
Agni, the wizard's apprentice, was bent over a half-empty trough, turning the thick, dark soil within with her bare hands. She was barefoot, clad in a simple sleeveless slip, forest green in color, that cut off at her knees and suited her quite well. Her forearms were black and moist with dirt. She turned to face him with a flip of her sleek dark hair, and his mouth felt a little dry all of a sudden.
"What can I do for you, Jakt?" she said with a sly smile, placing the tips of her fingers gingerly on her hips.
"What is this place?" Jakt said, casting another look around, "I've never seen anything like it."
"It was Falion's idea," Agni explained, "A greenhouse, it's called; it allows us grow plants out of season, regardless of the climate. He made an effort to try and get the Jarl to build a bigger one to really grow crops in, but ultimately the townsfolk rejected the proposal." She snorted in a derogatory fashion at that.
"Why?" Jakt asked, "Seems like it would do the town some good."
"Why do you think?" she reprimanded, "Because the idea came from him, and the fools were too stupid to see past that."
Jakt raised an eyebrow. "You really don't like Morthal much, do you?"
"That obvious, is it?" Agni sighed, rubbing her arm awkwardly and spreading the moist dirt to her bare bicep. She was silent for a moment, gathering her thoughts.
"I grew up here, believe it or not," She finally said, "Falion took me in when I was young - my parents perished during the Civil War, you see. He professed to teach me the ways of magic, and he does - when he is around, of course. I've sought to leave for some time now, but the old man refuses to take me."
"Why is that?"
"Rather inquisitive for a blunt instrument, aren't you, Jakt?" she teased, "Clearly we hired the right man for the job."
Jakt did not bother to reply. Agni turned and glided over to a nearby water basin and began to scrub her arms; he had to fight the urge to stare at her backside as she did so. After a moment she turned to face him again, frowning.
"The Drajkmyr is a curious place," she began, choosing her words carefully. "For reasons not well understood, a sort of ancient, perennial magic saturates the swamp, very powerful, but utterly unpredictable. Falion has studied it for a long time - he's become very attached - but still its greatest mysteries elude him. To leave Morthal it is to bid farewell to that obsession, and he is not yet ready to do so. Most likely he will perish here, his greatest questions unanswered."
Jakt frowned at her cynicism: it was surprising for one her age.
"Why not leave yourself, then? Go study in Winterhold?"
Agni scoffed. "At the College? And sacrifice whatever scarce autonomy I possess? No, Falion's tutelage is far more lenient than any I might find there. Not to mention, it is exclusive."
Jakt shrugged, content not to discuss the College of Winterhold further.
Agni seemed to understand. "I'm quite sure you didn't come here to chat about my hopes and dreams, though," she said matter-of-factly, putting her hands on her hips once more and shifting her weight onto one foot.
"As fascinating as they are, I'm afraid not. Where is Falion?
"He'll be gone for the next couple of days. He makes semi-regular trips into the marsh this time of year."
Jakt was disappointed. "Ah. Damn it."
"A magic-related question? Something I can help you with, perhaps?" She blinked and smiled sweetly.
"Does batting your eyebrows usually get answers for you?" Jakt asked wryly.
Agni winked. "Not as much as you'd think."
He chuckled. "Alright. Since Falion isn't around, you'll have to do. I've done a bit of snooping into Hroggar's affairs and I keep hearing this name thrown around - Kelpie. Does that sound familiar to you? A woman's name, perhaps?"
Agni frowned and bit her lip. "Kelpie? Hmm. Not a name, no - the Kelpie is an old myth, I think. You've never heard of it?"
Jakt shook his head. "I wasn't exactly raised on bedtime stories."
"Well," Agni began, scratching at her chin, "In the tale, the Kelpie is a sort of spectre - a shapeshifting apparition who dwells near bodies of water, who lures unsuspecting travelers to their demise." She paused and tilted her head before continuing. "I'm sure the story is a little more complicated than I can remember though. Falion has an old book on folklore somewhere in here I can dig up if you'd like."
Jakt grunted noncommittally. "I don't know - a river ghost? That sounds a little bit farfetched to me."
Agni pursed her lips. "Not a believer in the old legends, do you?"
Jakt grinned ruefully and shook his head. "Don't get me wrong - I've seen far too many legends come to life not to believe in them. But in my experience, when it comes to personal tragedies like Hroggar's family, more often than not the simplest explanation ends up being the right one."
"So you think Hroggar set the fire?"
"Probably. Can't seem to find the son of a bitch, though."
"I can't really help you there, Jakt. I'm not the most civic minded, if you couldn't tell."
Jakt smiled. "Yes, this visit has been quite the waste of my valuable time."
"Not completely," Agni said, flashing a shy smile that was not without a hint of suggestion. She gestured at the greenhouse around her. "At least you managed to catch a glimmer of spring."
"Yes," Jakt replied quietly, looking her in the eye, "Thank you for that."
He was somewhat struck by this odd, clever girl: the way she put on airs when she spoke, used her good looks to dazzle and tease and distract. She would make a fine sorceress one day: she certainly had the temperament for it. For now, she remained the lone flower in the marsh, and seemed quite aware of it.
Agni shifted her weight onto one leg, putting one shapely hip on display, and tilted her head to one side in a demure fashion. "Now run along, before someone peeks in through the glass and gets the wrong idea." She smiled and turned away, arching her back ever so slightly as she tended to the indoor garden.
Jakt allowed himself a quick moment to admire her in profile before shaking his head and taking his leave. So Morthal was not without traces of warmth after all.
6
Jakt exited the wizard's hut to find twilight's clammy palms clutching at the village. Morthal's customary fog had returned with the dusk: a thick blanket of the stuff had descended over the town, masking it in an oppressive grey inertia. Stepping out into the fog, Jakt felt weightless, almost inconsequential; a long day had passed and he was no closer to his goal. He decided that a drink would do him some good, and headed for the Moorside Inn.
On his way over, he passed the burnt out husk of Hroggar's former household. It was a fitting embodiment of the current state of this mystery; he spared it no more than a withering glance. As he turned away, however, he caught some sort of glint, a quick flash of light, in the corner of his eye. He stopped and turned back, giving the decrepit building a long, hard stare, but it appeared as before: partially collapsed, the bare bones of a broken home.
Then he heard something: a small, low sigh, coming from all around him. Startled, he spun around in confusion, but the translucent fog masked much of his visibility; nobody was in sight. Then he heard it again. Louder this time, a soft sound that slowly warped into something far more disturbing: a scream, high in pitch, the kind a child might make out of fear.
He closed his eyes and focused his hearing; the noise seemed to be coming from the cabin. Jakt padded forward, one hand on his hilt of sheathed sword, his head on a swivel. The light in the ruin reappeared, pulsing slightly, tracing the darkened outline of the dilapidated doorway with bright blue light. The screaming rose to a fever pitch as Jakt crossed the threshold into the house. In the corner near the fireplace, a glowing orb hovered about a yard off the ground, shedding nebulous, hazy light like vapor from ice.
Just as Jakt thought his eardrums might burst, the screaming quieted, fading to a low whimper. Jakt reached out his palm towards the orb of light, but came short of touching it. A curious sensation pierced his mind: a recognition of awareness, and relief.
Jakt understood. "Helgi."
Whatever had killed the girl had evidently left something of her behind: a spectre of her consciousness, not quite corporeal, but with some modicum of self awareness. When he spoke the name, a sense of identity flooded his brain, almost like a revelation. This was followed up immediately by an unbearable sense of loss. Jakt felt himself tear up, buckle at the knees, unable to comprehend much less process the emotions accompanied by the realization of one's death.
"What happened?" Jakt whispered, closing his moistened eyes, trying to compose himself.
He felt warmth wash over him, the sting of smoke fill his nostrils. At first the heat was comfortable, almost a relief, but it steadily increased, crossing the precipice of coziness into the realm of pain. He felt his heart beat, quick and erratic, as a low scream filled his ears, accompanied by frantic pounding against wooden walls. The air vanished from his lungs, replaced with smoke; his vision blurred as he witnessed a large, familiar form stagger and fall, heaving desperately. It was his mother, her clothes and hair aflame, trembling and wailing; he ran to her arms, but her embrace was pure, searing pain, and he screamed as the fire passed to him. Fiery claws of agony raked across his tiny body, hungry for his lifeblood.
He wriggled free of his dying mother's searing grasp, but could move no further: laying there, breathless and burning, he looked up to find another familiar form hovering over him: a slender, raven-haired woman, somehow untouched by the blaze all around, swaddled in black. Distant, unimaginably tired, he could not place her face, but he recognized pain and sorrow in her eyes. She bent down and took his frail, blackened body in her arms, raising him up to plant a kiss on the crisped skin of his neck. Cold spread outwards from the kiss, a frigid, deafening cold like the dead of winter, and for a minute he thought it might envelop him and drive away all the pain... but it was too late. Fire and blackness fought it back, and he felt himself drifting away into inky depths…
Jakt opened his eyes to find himself curled up on his side on the floor of the cabin, tears streaming down his face. He forced himself to take long, deep breaths, getting his bearings. He put his hands to his bare face, relieved to feel the touch of smooth, whole skin against his trembling fingers.
Calmed somewhat, he looked up to see that the orb's light had faded slightly.
"Who was that?" Jakt asked it, rubbing his eyes and rising to his knees. The spectre could only communicate uncertainty. It appeared to be fading, having exhausted much of its resolve by sharing the vision of Helgi's demise. Jakt wondered how long it had lingered there, night after night, trying hopelessly to get ahold of someone, anyone.
"What can I do?" Jakt said, rubbing his forehead, watching apprehensively as Helgi's revenant faded further and further. He felt it reach out and touch his mind one final time. A sense of claustrophobia took over as he felt frosted ground envelop him, and his only channel between the dark, enclosed space and the world above was a cold slab of stone.
Then the light vanished, leaving Jakt completely alone in the fog.
A/N: This began as a short story about my Dragonborn and became quite involved. I had originally sought to release it all at once but I think it flows better in parts. It is mostly finished - hopefully I will have a chance to update frequently!