A/N: Since I forgot to do this last chapter, I'll do it now. I own none of the rights to the characters and other intellectual properties put on display in this work of fiction. It is written and posted for fun, not profit.
Now that my ass is semi covered, here's part one of "Heirs". Thank you again for clicking that link. This part is pretty short by my standards (around 15-20k words usually), and maybe not the most thrilling piece of litterature you'll read today, let alone in your life, but as the title says, every journey starts with a single step. Astlyr has to get introduced and get on her way, before she can start her adventure, and meet the lady you probably came here to see. :) I hope you enjoy.
Part one: A journey begins with a single step
Dawn found me several hours later when I awoke with a start and a quiet gasp, just as the sun finished peeking over the horizon, lighting the coastline of Solitude and the dull grey sky ablaze in a spectacular tribute to Kyne's glory. My breathing was erratic from the last dissipating figment of the dream I could scarcely recall with any lucidity, beyond incredibly vivid flashes of sensations, and an unparalleled feeling of freedom. Swallowing thickly, I took a quick, instinctive glance around the growingly familiar room, just in case it was not the dream but something else that had woken me. Noting nothing out of the ordinary, I let myself back onto the feather mattress, sighing with longing to be back into oblivious simplicity of the dream world, and out of the morass of my near future. I had not been awake for a minute, and already Celann's plea for aid was worrying at my heart and mind.
I could simply walk away... I mused, staring blankly at the ceiling. To Oblivion with Isran and his lot. The tempting thought floated fetchingly in my head, but I did not need to search deep within my soul to know I was being petty to consider it. If I did pick up the mantle of the Dawnguard again, it would not be for his benefit, but that of Skyrim. And perhaps for the three members of the order who had nearly argued Isran's ears off on that final day I spent in fort Dawnguard years ago. I may not have remained in contact with them, but their loyalty to me had been the only boon in one of the darkest moments of my life, when all I had striven to achieve came crashing down around me.
And I have a chance to earn it back...
A shiver and a low groan coming from my left cut my considerations short, drawing my eyes to the lovely bared back of the woman who had shared my bed last night. My abrupt awakening may not have roused Lyna from her sleep, but it had dislodged the blankets we had drawn around ourselves once the fiery passion of our earlier embrace had subsided. While the morning chill hardly bothered me, the fierce sun of the great Alik'r desert of her homeland, so very far away, was as much a part of her as the long winters and the abundant snowfalls of Skyrim were of me. Already she missed the heat of my body. A melancholy sigh parted my lips as I scooted back over to her, moulding my body against her back, and drew the blankets back to our chins. Even in the dim light, my very light complexion positively shun against her exotic, dusky one, a contrast I took the time to appreciate as I cocooned the young woman's slender frame with my more muscular body, sharing with her a warmth and safety I doubted she had felt in a long time. As soon as she stopped shivering, my eyes lightly shut. I pushed the nagging guilt I felt at using her away and savoured the liquid satisfaction coursing through my limbs. Lyna might not have had experience with a woman before meeting me, but she had proven herself to be a quick study, her mind as nimble, once it was unburdened from anxiety, as her body. The fire in my blood had subsided, for now, leaving behind a pleasant, lingering energy in my relaxed muscles. Lying there, idly listening to the quiet hiss of the alchemy laboratory and the deep, restful breathing of my young Redguard lover, I felt very little inclination to move, an unusual occurrence for someone suffering from quasi-constant bouts of wanderlust.
"Hmm..." Nearly a half-hour passed like this before Lyna shifted in my arms and began to mumble. "Are you awake?" She asked, quietly enough not to wake me, if I had not been, and I replied with a smoothing stroke of her thick, luscious hair.
"It's early yet." She said, noticing the way the sun had just barely begun streaming in through the room's window. "Did I wake you?"
"No." There was little nervousness in her voice when she inquired, but I was quick to reassure her nonetheless, her fear of disappointing the expectations of her protector all too fresh in my mind.
"I always was an early riser." I declared, making a small mental addendum of the years I spent first as Isran's apprentice and then as the second in command of the Dawnguard, once we reformed the order. I had become mostly nocturnal by then. As a popular book said, 'when tracking your prey, you adopt their habits.' An appropriate quote pulled from 'Immortal Blood', author unknown, a two-bit novel about vampire hunting, and one that fell quite far off the mark, as was to be expected. Still, that part was true. "How are you? Slept well?"
"Nothing... hurts. That's new." Relieved I was not upset at her, Lyna rolled around to lie on her back so she could face me, her body wedging itself more than halfway under mine in the process. The shy young Redguard gave me a hesitant look before licking her lips and reaching up for me, her fingers gliding in my hair and lightly gripping a few locks so she could pull me down for a kiss. My eyebrows rose, the initiative surprising me, but I nevertheless returned the kiss; I consider myself a giving lover, and despite the less-than-ideal circumstances of our night together, I had a growing suspicion I was the only one she ever shared herself with who gave more than a passing consideration to her enjoyment.
I shared a questioning look with her between two kisses, frowning at what I saw. She nodded in reply, and with a breathy moan, anxiously resumed her exploration of my mouth. While one hand held my mouth close to hers, her other one began to roam my side, tracing the curve of my hip, drifting to the hard panes of my stomach where her fingers lingered, their final destination obvious.
"Lyna..." I stopped her just as her fingers brushed the dark curls nestled at the apex of my thighs. It was my turn to sound winded; I would have gladly agreed to one last tangle in the sheets, were it not for the motivations I suspected the young Redguard to harbour towards me. "Lyna, that's enough." I reluctantly reached between us and pulled her hand away before she could explore my body further. "You have fulfilled your side of our arrangement. There is no need for this."
"But I... I want to." The young Redguard whined, incomprehension and confusion emerging in her lust-clouded eyes. And therein lies the problem, I thought. There was passion in her eyes now, true passion, as well as the first glimmers of something genuine. It was a childish response, to grow sweet on the first person she had shared a taste of true intimacy with, but it was also precious, a sign that there was some remnant of wonder the world had not yet pounded out of her. A woman who paid her for sex had no rights to these feelings. "I will do it for free. I don't care about the coin... Please? Make an exception and sleep in late?"
"I can't. There are matters that require my attention." This was not a lie, nor an excuse, at least. "I need to be on my way. Soon."
"Stay with me, just for a little while." She pleaded in near desperation, her tone betraying how very lonely this young woman really was.
"You deserve better than this." I apologised as I pulled away from her, despite her attempt at pinning me down with a wounded stare. I was sorely tempted to remain, to let her cling to the illusion for a little while longer, I truly was, but my conscience was now firmly back in control of my actions, not my aching loins. I felt guilty enough using her to last me a long time already. There was no need to add to this burden further. Disentangling myself from the bed sheets, I stood up and walked to the room's dresser, where I had hung the innermost layer of my armour, a pair of leather pants and a sturdy, simple cotton shirt. I needed to get outfitted and on the road. Dressing this way, I would not need to change again after I ate breakfast.
"You're the first one, you know. The first one who gave a skeever's rear end about me." She whispered, the pain in her eyes tugging at my heart, making me look over my shoulder back at the warm bed I had just left. Lyna had sat herself up against the headboard, the sheets drawn tight around her chest to cover a modesty I personally did not feel. "Don't tell me I deserve better than this, when 'this' is the best I have ever had!"
"Lyna..." I sighed her name, mentally cursing the fate that would make her hold a night spent whoring herself out up as anything desirable. I walked back to her side of the bed, holding her gaze unyieldingly so she knew I was not coming to join her. Facing her, I sat down with a quiet shuffle of fabric and a soft creak of wood, and placed one arm across her waist, the hand of the other gripping the edge of the bed, pinning her in place. It was a dominating posture I adopted, but I held back enough to make sure not to overtly frighten her; there was a part of myself that would simply never take well to being challenged, whether it be physical altercations, or accusations born of heartache. "I will not pretend to know what your heart longs for." I told her softly. "But I do know this, me, is not it."
"How? How would you know that!?" She tried to snap at me, but like her patron the night prior, there was something in my eyes that made her shrink away from me as I leaned closer. "You don't know what it's like to let some drunk pound you like a slab of meat, just so you won't starve or freeze to death. You were not like that..."
"I know, because I have not even come close to offering you anything that would warrant affection. Taking the time and care to pleasure you does not make me any nobler than any other man who has taken you to bed." I murmured in her ear, letting my breath spill over her cheek and her throat, just barely reining in the desire to press my teeth down around her jugular. "You are confusing the satisfaction of your needs as a woman with love. If I believed that satisfaction to be all you were after, I would not dream of rejecting you, but taking advantage of your confusion would be worse than paying you for your body. Do you understand?"
"No..." She said, her eyes downcast, and beginning to brim with tears.
"Someday, you will." I replied, two fingers of my right hand tucking beneath her chin to bring her gaze back to mine. "You will fall in love, and look back on this moment, wondering how you could mistake something so base for true feelings." It was a bit wistful on my part, to declare with any assurance she would find her way out of the life she was forced to live now, but that was another issue altogether, and a battle I could not fight for her. With a final kiss to her forehead, I left Lyna to mull my words over, and this time she did not protest my pulling away. I felt her eyes tracking my every move as I planted my feet on the floor and strolled back to where I had left my clothes, a quick glance over my shoulders confirming that it was not exactly the fall of my hair that had the young Redguard captivated. Perhaps she had at least gained a new appreciation for her own preferences out of this...
I scoffed a quiet laugh and indulged in a private half-smile for a moment before slipping on my smallclothes and shirt, hiding skin as well as my assortment of scars, from view, but before I could lace the garment up, I was interrupted by three quick raps at the door. With a precautionary glance at the longsword leaning against the nearby wall, next to the table I had laid my gear over, I moved to answer it. A young man stood on the other side, one I recognised by now from the many times he had knocked at my door during my stay.
"Good morning, my la-la-la... dy..." His cheerful, if a bit slumbering, greeting dissolved into an inarticulate sputter at the sight of my semi-nakedness, and the fully nude young Redguard still brooding in my cooling bed.
"Breakfast?" I cleared my throat and mildly asked the young man. Quickly, he averted his eyes from my cleavage, an embarrassed blush reddening his youthful features, despite the fact I clearly was not cross with him. Like I said, modesty was not something I overly burdened myself with; had I been ashamed of my state of undress, I would have slipped on my trousers and laced up my shirt before answering. Besides, a small eyeful was not entirely undeserved, considering the hour he had to wake to see to my morning meal.
"Y-yes." He answered, clearly using up some of his willpower to make eye-contact with me. "Will you b-be having the usual?"
"For two, please." I acknowledged with a nod.
"Of course. Right away." His answer was rushed, and so was his step as soon as the words were out of his mouth; seeing him nearly running down the hallway, you would have thought he was trying to outrun a rabid wolf, not fulfilling a meal order.
I ate my hearty breakfast with a distracted mind, a fair share of my attention on the maps I had once more pulled out. I was giving rejoining the Dawnguard some more consideration, but before I committed to tearing this old wound open again, I needed both proof and a motive for this supposed vampire uprising. There was clearly something out there that required addressing, but I needed to know if I could best do my part for my homeland as a full-fledged vampire hunter, or by remaining an unaffiliated mercenary. I had to track down whatever it was that had those vampires riled up. That particular trail began at the Hall of the Vigilant, or so my gut told me. The simple truth was that the Vigil of Stendarr was not a big enough threat to warrant being singled out and purposefully stamped out, as Celann claimed it had been. There had to be something there, some other reason why vampires would mount what certainly sounded like a full-scale assault against a relatively minor nuisance. Perhaps something that would shed some light on their reasoning. It was worth investigating.
Plus, the Hall is not exactly out of the way... I mused as I took a bite out of an apple, chewing the fruit thoughtfully while my eyes traced a route from Solitude to the city of Riften, on the other side of Skyrim. It would take at least a week, more likely closer to two, to make my way to fort Dawnguard, but at least investigating the Hall would not require much of a detour on my part. Even if I found nothing there, I could at least take a moment and pay my respect to the fallen. There was a core of genuine righteousness and caring under the Vigil's pompous and self-important discourses. The warrior in me simply had trouble taking a group seriously when they, for example, refused to use blades so they would not shed the blood of their Daedric preys, claiming it tainted the very ground of Nirn. Fanatical zeal and religious devotion were no substitute for rigorous discipline and exhaustive training.
My mind made up, I stole a glance at my companion. The promise of food had finally drawn Lyna from the lingering warmth of the covers, and once she was dressed she had dug into her meal with great aplomb, wolfing down eggs, ham and toast. Filling her empty stomach had cheered her up somewhat from my earlier refusal, and though I would hazard a guess she was not strictly happy, she looked composed and none the worse for wear, for which I was grateful. In fact, she seemed quite fascinated with the assortment of weapons and armour pieces laid down in precise order a few feet away. Particularly captivating was the unusual, highly compact crossbow I, and the Dawnguard, favoured over more traditional ranged weapons. While a skilled archer could knock and loose arrows quicker than even my practiced hands could load and arm a bolt in a crossbow, the weapon had advantages, especially in more crowded or claustrophobic environments such as caves or tombs, haunts vampires tend to favour. For one, it was far less cumbersome than a bow for its range and power, and unlike a bow, it could remain cocked and ready to fire at a moment's notice. The sturdy wooden stock was also quite handy in a pinch, as evidenced by the several cracks that splintered the surface of the weapon, scars left over by a great many skulls I had used it to cave in. It was well worn, and to be perfectly honest nearing the end of its life; it had served me well over the years, but I lacked the know-how to properly maintain it. No matter what I attempted, it pulled to the right now, and although it remained almost comically reliable in its inaccuracy, I knew the day was drawing near when I would have to retire the crossbow from my arsenal and find a replacement.
"I thought you were just a mercenary. Are you a vampire hunter as well?" Lyna finally asked me in between spoonfuls of oatmeal and snowberries, surprising me. Again, someone who recognised the tools of my former trade by sight. Had the vampire situation deteriorated to the point where ordinary citizens would know and welcome the sight of a member of the order? How could I have missed it?
"I used to be." I replied, feeling curious. "How did you know? Do you recognise anything?"
"Yes." The Redguard said, her eyes still locked on the crossbow, which she pointed out of my assortment.
"Here?" I asked and picked up the weapon from the table, handing it to her so she could satisfy her own curiosity. "You saw a crossbow in Solitude?" Whatever Dawnguard member she had seen would have been a long way from home, but it was not impossible by any stretch of the imagination; such a large urban center is sure to house any number of the fiends at once. Cities are rich hunting grounds, both for them, and for those hunting the hunters.
"Yes. Maybe two or three winters ago, there was a rash of murders in the more rundown parts of the city. The victims were mostly foreign beggars and whores, so of course, the watch didn't give a skeever's rear end about it." Lyna replied a bit distractedly, looking captivated by the intricate mechanism she was holding. I hear that once upon a time crossbows saw fairly wide use, but these days, they were rare, exotic weapons few people bothered with, not when a bow provided a much simpler option for ranged combat. Plus, despite her current occupation, she was still a Redguard, a people rightfully renowned to be the most naturally gifted warriors in Tamriel. It is said any weapon would find its home in their hands. "Three men carrying bows like this one approached me and a few other girls about it, though. They said the ones guilty of those murders were vampires, and they needed our help to find them and put them out of our misery."
"What happened?" I asked. "Did you know something?"
"I didn't. Neither did any of my friends at the time, but I do recall hearing about a well-to-do merchant found floating in the bay with a few of those little arrows sticking out of his back not long after." Lyna said, looking grimly pleased by this fact. "There should have been an inquiry, but the court wizard intervened. She declared he was a vampire, and that whoever killed him had done Solitude a favour."
Sybille Stentor... I thought with a slight narrowing of my eyes, remembering the frightened, hushed whispers clinging to the court wizard's every step. Yes, if the rumours about you are true, you would not object to a competing predator being put to death, especially in your own city. Magic can only lengthen a life for so long before longevity begins to look suspicious, and the woman had all but whelped the former King, to say nothing of the odd prisoner vanishing from the castle dungeon from time to time...
Lyna handed me back the crossbow, and I in turn laid it back down amongst my arsenal, in between the quiver of bolts and the plastron of my armour. The young woman's gaze scoured every gleaming surface and every sharp edge, taking in every scratch and every small tear of my well-traveled gear, the few remnants of her breakfast all but forgotten. The corner of my mouth quirking indulgently, I asked her if she wanted to help me get outfitted. Morning was slowly but surely getting away from me, after all.
Surprisingly, Lyna made for a competent assistant, her mind catching on to the logic and workings of my armour as swiftly as it had learned those of my body. In minutes she was helping me strap down the russet arming coat I wore under the vest of plated mail protecting my chest, and making sure every strap and buckle was securely tied. Then came the pauldrons, both of them adorned with the sigil of a different deity, one of the few embellishments the armour featured. The left one, worn over the shield arm, was emblazoned with the symbol of Stendarr, all members of the Dawnguard pledging their shield to the defence of the meek, the weak and innocent unable to protect themselves from the nightmares the night spewed forth. The right one, covering the shoulder of the sword arm, bore the sigil of Arkay, god of the dead, to whom vampires and undeads were aberrations; just like the shield arm was pledged to Stendarr, the sword arm carried out the sworn duty of the Dawnguard, to return vampires to Arkay's cycle of life and death.
Lyna looked quizzical when she finished securing the pauldrons over my shoulders. "Those are not Nordic deities." She pointed out astutely. "They're Cyrodiilic, are they not?"
"Good eye." I congratulated her as I gave the leather straps a tug. "You are correct. The Dawnguard is not a Nordic organisation, or rather the current incarnation is not." There was a sordid story behind the original Nordic order of vampire hunters, one dating back an era or two, and I was none too proud of it. The current one was largely mirroring the Cyrodiilic Order of Virtuous Blood, at least when it came to the ritualistic and spiritual aspect of hunting vampires. "The head of the order is actually one of your kinsmen. They were influenced by a number of similar societies and orders all across Tamriel."
"Ah." She nodded, her gaze still on the sigil of Arkay adorning my right shoulder. "Which one do you consider your patron deity? Arkay, or Stendarr?"
"Kyne." I replied without hesitation. Yes, once upon a time, I did serve these two gods on a practically daily, or rather nightly, basis, but my heart has always belonged to Kyne, the mistress of storms and ruler of the sky.
"Not Kynareth?" Lyna asked, and I shook my head. No, I meant Kyne, the Nordic fierce Nordic deity, not the tamer Imperial version popular in the lands to the south. As a woman who lives by the sword, having a matron goddess, as merciless as she was breathtakingly beautiful, speaks to me on many levels. "I suppose there had to be one authentically Nord thing about you somewhere." She ruefully muttered under her breath.
"And I am quite sure I do not appreciate the implications of that last statement, girl." I told her with a mixture of amusement and reproach. I knew what she meant, but those were still my kin she was talking about. I was not fond of our newfound isolationism, but I liked to think there were some Nord values worth embracing, no matter what colour your skin or the blood in your veins.
Flustered, and looking very conscious of the foot she had just stuffed in her mouth, Lyna shuffled away from me under the guise of fetching my plated mail vest. A warning about its weight died on the tip of my tongue, her sudden, surprised grunt of effort a small revenge on my part. Smirking, I shrugged on and buckled the mail she painstakingly handed me with smug ease, feeling more comfortable with the armour on than I did without it a few moments ago. That would change after a few days' travel, but now that I was well rested, well fed and sated, I had begun looking forward to getting back out on the road. As I said, wanderlust.
The only parts of my armour I did not trust Lyna or anyone else with were my several belts, and the assortment of pouches, sheaths and quivers hanging off them. I always put them on myself, in exactly the same order and fashion. The small ritual was not performed out of any particular obsession; rather, experience taught me it would not do to fumble clumsily for a bolt on the wrong hip, or to coat its tip with an ointment meant to treat burns rather than a paralysing poison. In the middle of battle, familiarity with one's own gear could mean the difference between life and death. For the same reason, I still used the armour, weapons and most of the methods and techniques of the Dawnguard, despite the constant reminder of what I had lost they represented. Sentimentality has no place in a struggle to the death, and I would rather not rearrange my tried and true fighting style to fit new equipment over a little heartache.
The first belt I put on, the broadest and sturdiest, carried my weapons, most notably my sword, dagger, as well as the quiver of bolts I used for my crossbow. From the second one hung a number of pouches and satchels, containing the alchemical concoctions that could give me the edge I needed when the odds were stacked against me; stimulants for those long nights the hunt drags on, brews that could decuple a man's strength, vision and reflex enhancers that made an archer capable of pinning a mockingbird in flight at a hundred paces (metaphorically, of course, stop looking at me like that), and perhaps most importantly draughts that could stop hemorrhages and help mend broken bones. Opposite those were the vials of poisons I frequently coated the tips of my bolts with. Most Nords eschewed the idea of employing toxins against an opponent, finding the practice dishonourable somehow, but I embraced both aspects of alchemy, the life-giving and the life-taking, equally. A poisoned bolt from a crossbow would slow anyone down.
The third and last belt I wore across my chest like a bandolier, and it was easily the strangest, the sight of it feeding Lyna's curiosity until it was all but palpable. No weapon or pouch hung from it; instead, its sole purpose was to bear a mechanism a little larger than my outstretched hand, a little marvel of engineering my old comrade, and former lover, Sorine Jurard had designed and hand-crafted. The Breton woman was a genius tinkerer, with a sometimes unhealthy obsession for the technology of the Dwemer, the long extinct race of deep elves. That obsession had served the Dawnguard well in the past, providing the order with a bleeding technological edge, one of the most useful of which was their shield. Based on the same principles as some of the 'simpler' Dwemer automatons, the shield was made up of three concentric layers of overlapping metal blades. When in use, it looked like most any other targe carried by warriors favouring a 'sword and board' approach to melee fighting, but its apparent simplicity bellied the wonders of reverse engineering that had gone into its design. With a simple flick of the wrist it would fold upon itself, allowing it to become no larger than a small buckler for an improved ease of transport, which is where the contraption on the final belt came in. Its long metal claws could fit into grooves on the back of the shield and lock it into place on my back without need for a sling, and just as easily release it in case a hasty change of tactics was required. Quite handy in a pinch, and just like the crossbow was less cumbersome than a conventional bow, when it came to raiding a vampire nest, oftentimes smaller was better.
Suffice to say that if the crossbow had fascinated Lyna, demonstrating how the shield worked positively made her swoon, at least after she gave a startled shriek when the metal wings began folding onto themselves. I hung the shield with a smooth, practiced swing of my arm, releasing the bindings with confidence once I heard the familiar click of the mechanism locking it into place.
"That is... incredible!" Lyna gushed, fascination making her deep brown eyes shimmer gleefully.
"It is." I said distractedly, my gaze lost in the distance, focused on the past. How strange. In the past six years, I had outfitted myself exactly the same way hundreds of times, and yet this morning my little ritual seemed momentous, significant.
If you do rejoin the Dawnguard, you will get to see Sorine again. I told myself, finally allowing the one thought I had pushed aside all night and all morning. I sighed, momentarily lost in memories of the other woman I both dreaded and cherished.
I remembered the day we had met vividly. Sorine had been an associate of Isran long before I came into the picture, and when the idea of reforming the Dawnguard first took shape in his mind, he sent me, his apprentice, out in Skyrim, searching for the help we would need. One of them was a young Breton prodigy who had poured her people's renowned intellect into her pursuit of Dwemer technology, or so Isran had told me. When I did manage to track her down, I found Sorine on the bank of a river running close to Markarth, raging against crabs, of all things. Needless to say, hearing a future member accusing common mudcrabs of stealing her satchel had not left the best first impression on me back then, but I quickly found out, once I fetched her bag she had merely misplaced, that her quirks of personality did not change the fact she was brilliant, and actually reliable in a fight. Despite her tendency to get distracted by shiny objects, we had gotten along well enough for me to end up as her favourite test subject, whenever I returned to the fort between hunts and other assignments. Of course, Isran had wanted her expertise to craft weapons and other tools for our use, so helping her test her contraptions had resulted in one or two of the scars criss-crossing my body. It had also lead to her semi-guiltily visiting me while I recovered, a few blushes when she was present during a dressing change, and eventually many passion-filled embraces over the years. While I would not say that I was head-over-heels in love with her, she was doubtlessly the woman I cared the most deeply about in the past decade...
"I know you're upset right now, but you're not thinking this through. We do good work here. I do good work here. If I go with you, some day, we're all going to regret it."
... Or at least she was, until the day I was excommunicated from the Dawnguard, and she protested vehemently in my defense, only to refuse to leave with me when all was said and done.
"Is... something the matter?" Lyna asked me after a few seconds.
"Hmm? No." I shook my head and snapped out of my ruminations, my nose somehow filled with the sweet scent of Sorine's hair, the salty taste of her skin dancing on the tip of my tongue. "Could you hand me my gloves?"
With my crossbow slung on my back, my cloak covering my shoulder and my satchel beating rhythmically at my flank, I left Lyna in my room with a purse of gold several times larger than what she normally charged her clients. Even if the inn was not a proper brothel, if such a thing can exist, it was simply ridiculous for her patron to charge so little, his earlier greed leading me to believe he kept most if not all of the profits from his girls. Maybe it could give her an out, if she played her cards right. She had a quick mind that one, even if she was still innocent. Maybe she could find herself an apprenticeship with one of Solitude's blacksmith or another craftsman's guild.
The marketplace was my next stop, first and foremost so I could tell the local alchemist I would not be needing the laboratory in my room any longer, and he could send his assistant to fetch it. Next was the butcher shop, where I picked up what I calculated was enough rations of cured venison to get me to Riften and halfway back, and then the bakery for a loaf of bread and traveling biscuits, as well as a slice of goat cheese. The bread and cheese I could eat first before they spoiled, while the rest of the food would keep fresh for a while longer. It was better to put off eating those as long as possible; I'm not a particularly picky palate myself, but even I could grow tired of rations on long treks. More telling of their taste than the endurance of my stomach, but it beat wasting time hunting my food, even if I was an accomplished huntress of edible preys as well as undead fiends.
The sun had fully risen by the time I finished my preparations for the journey ahead, and made my way to the main Solitude gate, getting harassed by street peddlers and assorted beggars along the way, as well as a lone urchin who made a pass at my purse of gold. The young rascal got quite the fright when he found himself hoisted off the ground and nearly face-to-face with me, glaring until he lowered his gaze in shame. With a harsh huff of annoyance I dropped the teenager down and gave him a shove. The would-be pickpocket stumbled, but his scramble to get away from me before I called the guards was interrupted by a sharp whistle. He turned around, just in time to catch the septim I tossed him. I might not appreciate thieves, but I disliked starving children even more. The lone gold piece could feed him for a few days, if he was smart about spending it.
The view outside the south Solitude gate was as wearying as it was grandiose. The southern edges of the city rested upon a sheer cliff edge, ending in a massive stone arch where the Blue Palace, the former residence of Skyrim's High King, laid its foundation. The northern sea made its sinewy way inland below, irrigating acres and acres of salty marches, filled with twisted, hardy plants and gloomy shadows hiding much of Skyrim's most vicious animal life. I had gotten to know them well in recent weeks, and if there was a single solace in this whole affair I was about to plunge headfirst into, it was that at long last I would not be heading that way, and spending days at a time drenched and frozen to the bone.
There was a soft slant to the road making its way down to the low valley below from the main, second and third gates, taking me to the stables set up in a decent-sized artificial clearing turned into pasture, spread out in the lowlands surrounding Solitude. Three scores of horses, of all shapes and sizes, grazed and paced the large enclosure maintained for them on the side of the stables' outbuilding, peaceful and lazy in the mid-morning sun. Confidently, I pushed the rough wooden fence open and strolled in, many pair of equine eyes settling nervously on me, a few of the horses even going as far as huffing and rearing, to the dismay of their caretakers.
"Ah, good day, Lady Eleanor." One of the stable boys, a young man of Imperial descent I recognised from prior visits approached me, breathless from his run to my side, having left the others struggling to calm down the riled beasts. In fact, it seemed that a lone palomino stallion, towering above every other horse in the enclosure, was the sole animal to keep its calm since my arrival.
"Julius." I nodded to him as he fell into step with me. "I am taking Frost out this morning. Please saddle him up."
"You are? That's... good. The poor boy has been looking anxious to stretch his legs for the past few days." He replied, trying to sound neutral and failing. His tone was rather discomfited.
"Is something wrong with him?" I asked, though the young man did not look nearly nervous enough for me to worry. "I will be quite cross with you if anything happened to my mount on your watch." I said with a sharp teasing note.
"No, no! I would never dream of letting any harm come to him, my lady! I swear on my honour! I'm just... just sad to see him go, my lady." He finally admitted, just as we reached the lone calm horse in the enclosure, the tall palomino stallion, my dearest Frost. "He's such a good horse that one. Makes the lot of them look like overgrown skittish sucklings." Julius grunted over his shoulder at a young Nord woman who just narrowly avoided a kick from a nervous mare, falling flat on her rump in the process. "By Talos, I'm sorry you have to see this. I have no idea what's gotten into them this morning."
I may have a clue what did... I thought, averting my eyes from the commotion surrounding us.
"I'll fetch your saddle right away." Julius sighed and declared, breaking off a long, wistful look at my horse, and took off at a light jog, leaving me alone with the only companion I had kept since the day I left the order all those years ago. Frost's grand sire had been a gift to my father some time before my birth, and ever since that day his bloodline had been a part of the Stormblade estate. Like his own father before him, Frost's name had been handed down from his sire, a right only the most exceptional foal we bred could earn. Nearing ten years of age, he was as solid as a stallion could be, and more disciplined than any war horse. My pride and joy, he was one of two things I had gladly kept once the estate came to me, the other being my father's sword sheathed at my hip. The rest I had left in my home city of Whiterun, a prosperous commerce hub far to the south east, on the central plains, entrusted to the care of Fjorli, a childhood friend and my current Housecarl. I seldom visited my own home these days; too many memories, and far too many failed expectations.
"Will you be gone for long, my lady?" Julius asked me once he was done saddling Frost.
"I will be leaving Solitude for a few weeks at least, yes." I answered the discomfited young man who stepped aside to let me load up the saddle bags with an assortment of provisions and camping equipment. "Thank you for taking good care of him, Julius." I gratefully patted the young man's shoulder, Frost echoing my sentiment with a friendly nudge of his massive head that nearly toppled his caretaker. Blushing, he muttered a response and reluctantly bid me farewell, before turning away and dashing to open the gate for me, casting Frost a mournful look as the steed and I passed him. He promptly snapped out of his longing stupor once I was out of the enclosure, reminding himself of his comrades' distress and diving headfirst into a fray of riled horses and colourful curses.
"Quite the charm you cast on that one." I ruefully told Frost, though I suspected he could sense the unease I felt at the scene my arrival had caused. I could only hope none of them had made any rapprochement between my presence and the horses' frightened frenzy.
Fortunately for me, a dull, distant noise shook the air just as I left, conveniently assigning blame to a wholly different scapegoat. All eyes instantly flew upwards towards the sky, just in time to see the dragon swoop in over the bay, its bone shaking roar causing a fresh wave of nervous whinnying to erupt from the stables. The wyrm was not an impressive specimen of its kind, only about thirty feet long from muzzle to tail, and with a wingspan to match. Moldy green scales covered its slithering body, while black, bony spikes protruded from the length of its spine. Rows of jagged teeth filled its gaping mouth, on obvious display for the benefit of all the mortals below. It was only posturing, of course. No dragon had dared openly attacking a human settlement since the defeat of the World-Eater, the almighty semi-god Alduin.
The Dragonborn I mentioned may be famous for turning the tide of the civil war in the Stormcloaks' favour, but it was his victory in Sovngarde, the realm awaiting most Nords in the afterlife, of that most terrible of foes, that had inscribed his name in legends. Venturing past the doors of death to enlist the aid of the heroes who had cast adrift the dragon in the currents of times millennia ago, he had finally put an end to one of the greatest threat ever to befall the whole of Mundus. Upon his return, he found every single dragon alive had gathered upon the slopes of the Throat of the world, the highest mountain in Tamriel located in the center of Skyrim, awaiting word of their king's return. To say the wyrms were surprised to see a mortal emerge from the portal to Sovngarde, in Alduin's stead, would be the understatement of the era. Fate, and its sense of humour at work.
Rather than a massive battle to end all battles, one that would have likely ended with many dead dragons and likely one human martyr, the terms of the Dragon Pact was established that day. Using the power of the Voice, the Dragonborn declared to the whole of Skyrim that the World-Eater was defeated, and the dragon crisis over. Rather forcefully, he struck a bargain with the dragons that, as long as they lived in relative peace with men and mer, their race would not be hunted back into extinction. Not the most beneficial agreement for a race of quasi-immortal predators who once ruled the whole of Mundus with a fist of iron. Still, with furious cries of "Dovahkiin", the dragons submitted to the mortal who fell their king, proving once and for all that he was the strongest, worthy of every title his exploits brought upon him. Harbinger, Dovahkiin, Ysmir, Stormblade... I had an altogether simpler name for him. Father.
"You know the law, wyrm." The world around me faded from my awareness as dragon tongue flowed quietly from my lips, its power quaking the ground, imperceptibly within the drowning roar of the dragon circling overhead. My hand came to rest on the pommel of my sword, a blade that had to be infamous amongst dragon-kind for all of their blood it had shed in my father's hands. "Do not test your boundaries. Leave." It made no sense for the dragon to hear me, but the Voice and the dragon tongue are peculiar like that. Reptilian eyes filled with scorn fixed on me with a murderous intensity, flaring with recognition. I stared back unflinchingly, my blood thrumming with the need to fight and conquer the pathetic foe that dared to challenge me, my muscles steady and relaxed with the confidence that I was the stronger of the two.
"Leave or by Kyne, I will make you understand mortality." I snapped at it, using its roar to cover up the sudden thunderclap of my own Thu'um from prying ears, a reflex I had learned brow-beating young, weak dragons like this one into leaving populated areas. The older, and actually dangerous, ones, strictly kept to remote, mountainous regions, and to themselves. Whether they were happy or not with the status quo was anyone's guess, but I had a feeling they feared the gods would once again side with man if they tried to achieve their former dominion, as they had long ago when our ancestors were enslaved by dragon-kind. It was within their power to allow the blood of Akatosh to flow freely into mortal veins, appointing other Dovahkiin the task of exterminating the wyrms once and for all. Only the younger, weaker dragons felt insecure enough in their power to flaunt it to humans and elves they terrified, rather than each other.
There was a dissonant note in my voice when I forced the word for 'mortality' in the dragon tongue, a concept that was alien to the death-defying flying lizards, and by extension the language that was utterly intrinsic to them. The dragon word for mortality had been created by men, eras ago, as a means to combat dragons. Simply hearing it assaulted a dragon's very soul, to the point where pouring my Thu'um into it could turn it into a Shout infinitely unpleasant for a wyrm to be on the receiving end of. If that particular runt thought he was the exception, he was wrong, as he quickly found out. Even without shouting it, pronouncing that word had made him flinch, and wisely break eye contact with me. With a final, half-hearted roar, a prideful attempt to get the last word in, the wyrm turned tail and flew away like a beaten dog. Only once he disappeared beyond the horizon and the last echo his presence had caused faded did a strange, hollow sense of disappointment set in. My own dragon soul had been looking forward to putting that runt in his place, namely six feet under.
And Hermaeus knows how many of these men would have died in the process? I berated myself for my eagerness to provoke the wyrm, and took a deep breath to shake off the last of my bloodlust. Letting my hand drift away from the hilt of my sword, I took a quick look around, noticing nervous and relieved guards putting away bows and arrows I had been too absorbed in my staring contest to notice. With one leather clad hand I rubbed my face to help center myself as I exhaled, long and slow. Breath and focus, I reminded myself, control the Thu'um, control the blood, do not let them control you.
With a last glance at the quieting stables, I slipped my left foot in Frost's stirrup and hoisted myself up his considerable height, settling heavily on the saddle. The stallion never buckled, taking my weight and that of my gear without as much as a blink. Absently, I gave him a rough, affectionate rub of his white mane, before steering him down the road, eastward, towards the nearby town of Dragon's Bridge, the first stop on my journey to the Hall of the Vigilants.