A Bard's Tale – II

The sky visibly lightened, though not in any way that could be construed as comforting. A hostile red possessed the clouds as fire and stone began to rain down upon the world. Blasting flame scorched both rock and men, whose bloodcurdling screams echoed for short periods in the air as something out of all knowledge and time circled overhead in a manner not unlike a bird of prey. Its roars shook the foundations of the place until heavily it landed atop one of the stone towers, which buckled beneath the immensity of its weight as though the building was crafted of wet clay. Fear filled the hearts of even the stoutest men present, "Dragon!" One of the rebels yelled in a voice laced with despair. There was no time for the noise of human voices after that single declaration as the beast roared mightily, unleashing a gale of boiling flame from deep within itself that washed over the courtyard in a wave of light and heat. As in the next second, bodies went in every possible direction conceivable, including up, as the over pressure from the sudden heating of the air disturbed the local atmosphere, albeit on an incredibly small level. The end result being several dozen people were flung around like rag-dolls and more than one had a gruesome ending. The smell of ash and burnt flesh became apparent as people finally began to run.

The crowd, already disorganized, became a stampede in short order as the dragon bellowed fire once more, this time from the sky above the fortress. The rebels and their leader barreled through the Imperials who themselves had been thrown into disarray by the suddenness of events and with a few exceptions, it was a scene of near total chaos. Freya for her part, quailed. Something out of a children's story was overhead, burning and clawing at the world as real as she was. Fire did not burn her, for whatever reason the Divines had devised the sweltering heat of the dragonfire did not touch her, though that did not stop the sudden uplifting motion that the super-heated air was from tossing her a foot or so into the air before dropping her back down along with others. Unlike the others, there was at least something to cushion her fall, and she wept internally, even subconsciously, as her ears heard through all the sounds of death the splintering sound of wood as her beloved lute was smashed into firewood. The bard had little time to consider the loss of her friend and livelihood however, as in her lungs was forcibly shoved out by the force of impact against the ground, lessened only slightly by her equipment and spare clothing, those articles themselves more than likely now ruined.

Gasping for breath in the suddenly hot air was a task she was unprepared for as the Nord pulled herself back up to her feet shakily. A little voice in her mind was screaming at her to run, but such was not in her nature to do so. A few scant feet away there was, equally unharmed though for a different reason, the Lady she'd lied for blatantly, wreathed in a soft white aura of light, the thrum of magicka filling the air around her and for several feet. "We should go." While the voice of the Breton remained soft, it had taken to it a hardness born of battle, and left no room for argument, and considering the circumstances, Freya was in no mood to argue.

Like thieves in the night, the two women clung to what remained of the strong stone walls of Helgen as fire consumed all around them without discrimination. The Legion fought admirably, or rather they attempted to fight admirably, as archers, crossbowmen and battle-mages did everything in their power to drive away the primordial beast that hunted them liberally. It was sadly of little use, however. Between the dragon's fire and its dread presence, most simply ran while from atop his tall horse, General Tullius led a bold defense, attempting to save what remained of the town's people and garrison. Those who did not run suffered the fate of being burnt to death. "What do we do, my lady?" Freya hissed in Gwynnifer's ear as they ducked low behind a wall behind a crumbling facade of what were once buildings. Black fate was not done with them quite yet however as the dragon landed upon that very stretch of wall, its great claws digging into the stone with the same ease as paper torn under a strong grip as simultaneously the structure sagged under its weight. Gwynnifer shook her head frantically to cue silence, and not desiring to die, Freya obeyed. Another blast of fire came from the dragon's maw, incinerating a large part of the buildings in front of them, jettisoning out into the square where what remained of the Legion continued to fight, the creature having long since scoured the walls of archers or magi.

The great beast again took wing, and perhaps realizing the hopelessness of their situation, the Imperials began a hasty, if not ordered, retreat. "We need to get out of here." Gwynnifer said quickly after the dragon had gone on, already moving again the duo made their way towards one of the great wooden gates of the settlement, across the broken flagstone of former courtyards and what were once roads rendered unto Oblivion by the dragon's fire as with a triumphant roar of victory, the creature went onward, southward. In its wake it left naught but the stench of fire, ash and death as burned flesh and wood crackled softly in a nauseating symphony to the event that could hardly be believed. Against their better judgment and owing to the heavy oaken bar on the gate that led to possibly friendlier lands in Cyrodiil, the two headed southward as well, with all possible speed to leave the ruined fortress and its dead behind them as others had.

The road that led further into the province of Skyrim was clogged with life. All that walked along this road were refugees, though for another reason than that of war. People who had looks of terror etched into their faces, people who were distraught at the loss of all they had, at the deaths of all those they had known. They wept as they walked, proud and strong even in defeat, the Nords of Skyrim. As they walked Freya didn't even notice that Gwynnifer was shivering, puffs of steam coming from her breath. "Is it always so insufferably cold here!?" The Breton noble hissed, her voice stuttered from the cold of the North. Her clothing, if it could be called that, was essentially a burlap sack with holes for her head and arms and what were trousers once in a past life, now worn so thin as to be well passed ragged, held up by a length of rope and the poor woman wore no shoes, either. "It's surely not that bad my lad-" The Nord paused as she spoke, the adrenaline finally wearing off both of them brought her to recognize that Gwynnifer was actually in rather dire straits.

"Here." The Nord paused, half-shrugging half-wriggling out of her pack, glad that it hadn't been torched, and rummaged through it. Her foodstuff was completely smashed into paste, her books were stained with tomato juice, which brought tears to her eyes, but her clothing was spared. She drew out the fur-lined, downy-laced heavy cotton finery that she had brought with her from Cyrodiil, figuring it to be nicer than walking into a Jarl's court dressed in armor and under arms. "Put this on." Sadly, she had nothing to offer her for her feet. "And these." The Nord kicked off her boots, the snow beneath her now bare feet wasn't even felt.

"In the road?" The noblewoman stated ludicrously.

"There's a tree over there." The bard said in a monotonous deadpan, as though it were the most normal thing in the world to do. The crowd around them, those who could find the small joy, chuckled darkly at the dilemma, though others had looks of sympathy if they could spare them. Cursing softly in the language of the Bretons, Gwynnifer ducked behind a tree while Freya waited, her offhand idly resting on the pommel of her sword, which again brought a frown to her face, as she felt it was loose and battered, no doubt from the beating she'd taken earlier. "Going to have to replace this now..." The Nord groaned, mostly to herself as she heard the Breton lady behind her.

"Thank you." The words were simple and hardly necessary, she certainly wasn't going to let her freeze to death.

"Of course, my lady." The bard gave a small smile and bowed overly dramatically.

"Hmm, yes, we should officiate that, shouldn't we?" Gwynnifer said twirling a small bit of her hair between her fingers. "Why'd you speak out?" She was smart enough to start talking after the crowd had gotten ahead of them somewhat.

"Never let a damsel in distress stay distressed? Think nothing of it, I wasn't going to let those brutes cut your head off." Freya answered with the same easy-going attitude that allowed her her small amount of fame in other lands, and that kept her head up even when times were glum. Bards were said to fake their joy, Freya felt no such difficulty.

"I thank you, dame… I never got your name?" Gwynnifer said, reveling in the sudden warmth to envelop her form, though it was still quite cold.

"Freya, and I am no lady, my lady." The other woman answered quickly which caused the Breton to smirk just a little bit.

"If you're going to keep calling me that, I ask that you swear fealty to my service." Gwynnifer said very seriously, and Freya thought about it for a long moment, going quiet as she did so, they walked on in the wake of the people as they all slogged their way downward and out of the mountains, towards the central plains of Skyrim below them, though the vast majority turned off in the road and headed towards Falkreath and other holds. "I'm a Nord, we're not really into fealty and oaths like you Bretons are." She finally answered before continuing, "but yes, if we're going to spin this tale, and may it gods be willing a most epic one, I should. Do I kneel or something, and then you drag a sword across my shoulders?"

"That's only if you're my knight." Gwynnifer said simply. "Your word will do, and I shall hold you to it, until I release you, or death take you, or me, whichever comes first. I want you to know though, that Nord wasn't wrong. I really am running from something, and it may find me one day."

Freya shrugged, if it could be called that as she rolled her shoulders again, releasing her pack before she slid her shield down her arm, adjusting the straps and the weight of the thing to her forearm before slinging the pack once more as they approached three ancient monoliths. "Hey, I know what those are, those are guardian stones, I never thought I'd see them outside of Cyrodiil." The bard changed the subject very suddenly.

"These stand in every province in the Empire, perhaps all over the world." Gwynnifer said as she approached one, the ingrained effigy of a powerful mage, perhaps even Magnus himself, etched upon its stone surface, worn down from age uncounted. "I was born under these stars. Which were you?"

"None here." Freya said with an earnestly in her voice. "I was born under the Lover."

"Ah, so, your answer, my noble handmaiden?" The mage flexed her fingers, drawing on the ancient power of her vast pool of magicka, her hand erupting in fire, though it harmed neither flesh nor cloth.

"Yes, very well. I swear to you an oath upon my honor, I shall do all I may to protect you from the perils of this land as we explore it." The bard said, adding her conditions most easily, which caused a pause, and then a nod in Gwynnifer.

"Onward then, my handmaiden." She said before starting down the hill's final lap, and into the valley below. "There's a village up ahead, by the looks of it."

"So there is, maybe I can find some new shoes there..." Freya muttered softly, while the cold did not bother her, she didn't like the idea of cutting her feet on the sharp flagstones of the Imperial Road.