"And the braggart named Ragnar was boastful no moooooree...when his ugly red head rolled around on the floor!"
"Hrgh?" The Dragonborn awoke from his drink-induced doze, and almost tumbled off of the bench in the Bannered Mare. This elicited a chuckle from the few off-duty guards that frequented the Bannered Mare at un-Divine times of the night.
"Maybe it's time for you to go home, Rognvald?" Rognvald Thunder-Crash glanced over at the only person in Skyrim willing to challenge him without weapons, Ysolda, the owner of the Bannered Mare. After Hulda had sold out to Ysolda last year, she had taken the habit of policing the Dragonborn's drinking. It had the negative effect of pissing off Rognvald. It had the positive effect of preventing the slayer of Alduin from sleeping on the floor.
"Maybe your right, Ysolda. But one more round, for everybody!" Rognvald threw a small bag of septims on the counter, grabbed the mead Ysolda reluctantly proffered, and staggered out of the inn with the guards sniggering quietly into their mugs. The Dragomborn drained the bottle, tossed it off the side of the path, and, after righting himself on a few market booths and walls, made it to Breezehome. He fumbled with his key, and managed to open the door after a brief struggle with the lock.
Locking the door behind him with great effort, Rognvald took off his tunic, kicked off his boots, and stumbled up the stairs, tripping over a book he had left the previous night. He finally reached his bed, and passed out without climbing beneath the blanket.
He woke up the next morning with an awful headache. He groaned, and cursed Sanguine. Then he cursed himself.
"What the Oblivion happened, Rognvald?"He asked himself that after every drunken binge. After the defeat of Alduin, the Dragonborn had found himself without a purpose. The war was, for all intents and purposes, over. After the negotiations at High Hrothgar, neither the Imperials nor the Stormcloaks had the will to continue the bloodletting. The war petered out after a few months, with both sides maintaining an uneasy state of détente.
But Rognvald had fulfilled his destiny. He had saved Skyrim from the dragon menace, and after the parties and fetes, he kind of faded from public view. Now, he was using his money to pay for drunken binges, which ended with him feeling sick, embarrassed, and angry. He stood up, and drinking a potion for hangovers, dragged himself out of his bedroom.
He paused when he passed the loft. That was where Lydia slept… except for those few nights. They had something going, until that Falmer in Darkwater Pass…
"My Thane!" Rognvald turned to see Lydia tangling with a Falmer they both thought was dead. Rognvald took the great warhammer from his back, and was rushing to help her when her shield slipped. The creature raised his blade with a growl and…
"No. I'm not reliving that." Rognvald walked down his stairs, and began to tidy up after himself. The thought of Lydia always made him want to reform himself. He dusted his collection of puzzle claws, fixed the display panel that held the axe of Whiterun, and even managed to organize his dresser. He surveyed Breezehome; it was cleaner than it had been for weeks.
Grabbing a small piece of bread and pouring himself a mug of milk, Rognvald flipped through Uncommon Taste. Lydia had bought it for him as a joke- Rognvald was terrible in the kitchen. But, while their relationship was in full tilt, he had practiced making the Potage le Magnifique, which he had heard was Lydia's favorite meal. He had it all planned out. The Potage, the showing of the Amulet of Mara, the kiss…
He shook his head. He had to get rid of those ghosts if he was to move on with his life.
A loud banging on his door broke his reverie.
"Dragonborn, we need you now!" Rognvald recognized the voice of one of the guards, and he walked to the door. Opening it, he saw the guard jump back. That was when Rognvald realized he was still shirtless, wearing the ale-stained pants he had on the previous night. Rognvald colored with embarrassment.
"What is going on, guardsman?"
"The Jarl requests your presence at once!" Rognvald gave a small grimace.
"Can it wait? I'm not exactly presentable right now."
"It cannot wait, Dragonborn! The Jarl needs you now! It is most urgent!" Rognvald frowned, and closed the door behind him, following the guard in nothing but his trousers. This drew looks and stifled sniggers from the people in the marketplace. The sight of the Dragonborn in the garb of a town drunk even interrupted the unflappable Heimskr's sermon in front of the Shrine of Talos.
The two entered Dragonsreach. The Jarl was pacing up and down in front of his throne, Irileth and Proventus standing in attendance. Balgruuf looked up at Rognvald when he heard his steps.
"Ah, Dragonborn, I… are you quite alright?" Rognvald waved a hand.
"Yes, I'm fine. What is going on, my Jarl?"
"You would never believe it, Dragonborn! I have received word that the Hold is under attack!" Rognvald was taken aback.
"By who, my Jarl? The Thalmor? Daedra?"
"No, Dragonborn! The city is under siege as we speak, by… Falmer." Rognvald gasped.
"You are sure, my Jarl?"
"Yes, Dragonborn! The surged from Shimmermist Cave to the northeast of here. They did not try to take the city, due to our walls, I guess, but they have taken several locations surrounding us; the farmers have either been slaughtered, or have fled to the city. We are trapped here!"
"Have you told the people, my Jarl?"
"No, not yet. I didn't want them to worry unless we knew the reports were true. And, they are. During the night, Severio Pelagia ran up to the gate, shouting about goblins. The guards thought he was either drunk or on skooma, so they took him into custody. But, he was not intoxicated. I ordered three men to investigate, and only one returned. Severio was telling the truth; the Falmer have invaded my Hold." Balgruuf sank into his throne with realization, looking defeated.
"All is not lost, my Jarl. You have one of the strongest city guard units in Skyrim. Jorrvaskr is even in your city, by the Gods! And the citizens will fight with you." Rognvald was thinking tactically now. They had a good chance… if there weren't that many Falmer out there.
"But no one has seen a Falmer in centuries, much less fought… one..." Balgruuf stared at Rognvald.
"By the Gods, you have fought them! You know what they are like! You know how to defeat them!" Rognvald nodded.
"I pledge my hammer to this cause, my Jarl."
"Thank you, Dragonborn. I will gather the leaders of the city together, and we will discuss our situation. The meeting shall be at midday; plenty of time for you to freshen yourself, Dragonborn." Rognvald colored.
"Yes, my Jarl."
As the Dragonborn walked out of the palace, his mind reflected on his clashes with the Falmer. They were his favorite enemy. They had killed Lydia.
They had killed Lydia.
His fists clenched in rage as he walked. Vengeance would be his, at long last.