This was a ridiculously fast update, but I know for a fact the other chapters won't be so speedy. It's just because I got this chapter finished and really wanted to get it posted. Anyway, (hopefully) enjoy!

Sitting at my favourite corner in the Bannered Mare, I can see everything. I also know nobody will come over to this place because Hulda told me someone was shanked in this exact spot once, and now all the Nords think it's haunted. It seems disappointingly not-haunted to me.

I sit here and watch most of the time, because it's been about half an era since I was able to get drunk. That's one of the other many advantages of being a vampire; immunity to toxins of any kind. However, the patrons don't know that and some of the drunker ones are convinced I'm Talos reincarnated into a dumner form because I can drink as much as I want and not die of almost-qualifies-as-alcohol poisoning.

"Virani, are you sure you don't want anything?"

Looking over I can see Erandur swirling ale around in its rusty mug and knotting his eyebrows together. It's like his eyebrows are star-crossed lovers and if he pushes them together any closer they'll be reunited. Although Beardo's (Yes, Erandur's secret nickname has stuck) reserved concern can be endearing sometimes, all the other times it just makes me paranoid. Still getting used to the attention.

"Yes, I'm sure. Let me sit here and not drink in peace."

I have no idea if auras exist, but I'm hoping mine will somehow turn into a telekinesis field and push him towards the other end of the tavern. After today's events I'm not really in the mood for anything.

"You couldn't have done anything." He pauses to place down his tankard "Do you want me to leave?"

If I didn't know better I'd assume he was patronising me, but unfortunately he's not so I don't have an excuse to snap at him. It's not his fault. It's my fault. Like it was my fault that he had a picture of a naked woman burnt into the back of his robes last week (He doesn't know that yet, though).

"Give me a few days and I'll be back to irritating you. Go on, I've given you the septims. Drink"

I can see he doesn't really want to drink but doesn't want to be the subject of my ire either. So he goes off and sits by the bar and he drinks. I'll just stay here and watch the faint outline of a bare-breasted female on the back of his clothing.

I prefer this inn to the one in Riften, maybe even Markarth. Smells more of sweat and mead than overpriced swill and destitution. If I shut my eyes and pretend that the Nordic accents have an all too enthusiastic 'For the Emperor!' twang to them, the Bannered Mare reminds me of Cyrodiil. Never thought I'd miss Cyrodiil's holier-than-thou inflection.

Hm, I'll take out a book. I know whenever I do something abhorrent such as reading in a tavern I'll get a few looks of utter disgust, but it's only a few and the majority don't notice me anyway. Most of the looks are because Nords aren't interested in pastimes or objects if you can't kill something with it, but I just tell them if you can't kill someone with a book you're not trying hard enough.

Reading is the next best thing to wallowing in my angst, I think.

"Well, if it isn't the Companions!"

Oh, fantastic. Mostly this lot don't migrate to places that they see as not glorious enough for them, but apparently their own mead supply running short outweighs the sense of self-righteous honour.

They're all here tonight. Well, most of them; there's the redheaded woman who's probably more bloodthirsty then I am, the two twins who humorously share similar appearances and nothing more, an older man with a bald patch who still looks like he could crush a giant's head between his buttocks, a dumner with a stupid haircut (who's scowling, unsurprisingly) and another Nord woman who looks like she's going to try and tear the dumner's head from his body at any second. I've met them all today and few times before that, and don't wish to do so again.

"Get the mead flowing, Hulda!" That's the older man- Skewer or Scar (I'll stick with Skewer) or something else ridiculously Nordic- barking out orders to the inn owner. And instead of clocking him round the head with a flagon like she should have done, she's obliging him!

"Got any stories for us tonight?" Mikeal's weedy little head has suddenly appeared around the door and pretty much begging for song material. And instead of clocking him round the head with a flagon like Skewer should have done, the obliging continues.

"Vilkas?" Skewer looks to the skinnier of the twins and is regarding him with look of a man who isn't very good at telling war stories. I can see Vilkas let out a little huff but the red in his cheeks suggests the small flash mob that have just walked in have already been drinking "I'll tell you about the battle at Pelagia farm, then."

Of course. Of course it had to be the battle at Pelagia Farm. Erandur's perked up from his slightly drunken stupor and his head's swivelled round so our eyes meet.

'Do you want to go?' He's mouthing.

'No.' I signal back. I don't think they've noticed me yet and I want to hear this. It'll be interesting to see what parts they mention.

...

"It started when one of the guards burst down our door around mid-day, covered in blood and ash. Companions! He cried, Pelagia Farm is being assaulted by a dragon!"

The mead addled tavern-dwellers are collectively gasping, as if a dragon is a new threat that hasn't been plaguing the land for months. Part of me just wants to smack them all upside the head and recount Helgen, but if life has taught me anything it's that it's better to hold your tongue around drunken people.

"I summoned the other warriors, and began to sprint as we saw the blaze of fire on the horizon. A choir of the damned. When we reached the farm there were a few men fighting valiantly, but they were no match for the majestic beast…"

Yeah, a few well-trained men, battle priest Lord Beardo, a fully trained housecarl and the Dragonborn. It wasn't that hopeless you arrogant bastard. Also, fire doesn't sound like a choir of death. It sounds like fire and people screaming after being hit with said fire.

"How big was the dragon?" Sinmir- who I didn't think was into this kind of thing- is draining the rest of his tankard and trying not to fall off the back of the bench he's sitting on. With a bit of luck maybe he'll fall forwards instead and into the grate.

"Huge. As big as this tavern and much more dangerous!" Farkas has decided to put his two septims in, and I must say I appreciate his simple vocabulary a lot more.

Apparently Sinmir thought that was the most hilarious thing he'd ever heard; because he's actually managed to fall backwards off his seat and land conveniently under Saadia's skirt. You're going to get roasted by her more than any dragon could manage, buddy.

"Carry on with the story!" I think Mikeal's suddenly realised if Vilkas keeps getting distracted and drinking, he'll be too besotted to finish to finish off the largely inaccurate story, and the bard's only hope of getting laid in the future.

"Ah, yes. We came down to the farm and drew the creature's attention from the brave soldiers. The flames from the previous attack licked at our armour but not one of us relented. It cursed our names in a language we could not hope to understand" (Wait, how did you know it was cursing you if you couldn't understand it?) "Arrows and fire flew across the razed fields, and the dragon's wings were beating against the sun. From down where we standing, it looked like a God."

The tavern is practically on the edge of its combined seat. Uthgerd, who usually looks like she'd punch the Companions to death if it was legal, is leaning forwards like a kid at bedtime.

The juxtaposition from Erandur is hilarious though; he's looking at me and I can practically hear him saying 'This guy really has a flair for the dramatic'.

"But that has never put us off before! We charged forwards as one, swords gleaming under the swell of the day, and a well-placed shot from Aela crippled the fiend and brought it to heel." A cheer from the crowd has shut Vilkas up for a moment, and Farkas still looks like he's trying to figure out all the fancy words his brother is using "When the dragon stood before us, it was a bloody and desperate battle. Many of the men I mentioned before stood beside us but perished. We- mere men- battled this immortal being until our arms ached and our bodies were drenched in the liquid of battle."

I'm assuming the 'liquid of battle' is blood. You could have just said blood. Still- as aforementioned- I'm not going to argue with a man who is utterly sloshed, especially if he looks like he could kill me and tell his absurdly worded story at the same time.

"Farkas delivered the killing blow"

Farkas has taken a moment from his frazzled thoughts to beam and guffaw at the mention of his name. Good to see he's able to understand that, then.

"He took his blade and cleaved the monstrosity's skull in two. It let out a fearsome bellow, and eventually gave into an eternal rest"

You could have just said it died. Eternal rest could mean anything. Like a dramatic coma. Typically cleaving something's head in two doesn't just put it into a coma.

According to the Bannered Mare, however, this doesn't matter. They're all standing up and screaming about something or other, with one of the men- Ulfberth, I think?- clapping Farkas round the head and pulling him into some mockery of a hug.

Aela and Skewer are sitting together on the chairs right next to Erandur, and if they weren't in public I'd assume they'd be ripping each other's clothes off right about now. The dumner with the stupid haircut and the angry Nord are still glowering, but now they're drinking and lost the ability to contain themselves like a not-drunk person, I'm giving it five minutes before the fisticuffs start.

That's not important, though. Skinny twin Vilkas didn't even mention Lydia. You know, the reason I wanted to come to this tavern in the first place. It isn't fair-

"We fight for the honour of the Companions!"

It would be naïve to wonder why they didn't care, but I can't help feeling like they should-

"A round on the house for the Companions!"

Oh, invisibility be damned, Companions be damned, and I curse my ancestor's chronic tendency to be misanthropes.

"Vilkas missed out some rather important parts of the story."

Erandur's looking at me like I'm a different person, and everyone else is staring like I'd just materialised in the middle of the room out of thin air using elf magic. Deathly silence, save the sound of Adrianne choking on her mead out of shock.

"Dragonborn."

That hostility is clearly from Vilkas, then. I don't really like a lot of people, but especially not him. He's like a horker- a conduit of frustration and resentment at his situation. Around me, anyway.

"Don't 'dragonborn' me. I'd like to add to your story, if that's alright with you…" I hope he interpreted that as a challenge, because it was. Beardo's looking a little restless.

"Of course. You didn't really do anything, but tell me what I missed."

Luckily there's still an intoxicated haze in the room, and only the sober or the smart ones can figure out that we don't really like each other. Then again, even if Farkas was sober, the pugnacity would probably just bounce off his thick head. I kind of like him, actually.

"Vilkas-"

"No, Skjor. I'll let her speak."

Oh, so 'Skewer' is actually 'Skjor'. Still going to stick with Skewer.

I'm by the fire now and taking in a deep breath. I haven't had so many people focused on me in months. I'll shield my eyes, and hope that poetry class I took about 25 years ago helps me articulate myself in front of my inebriated audience.

It started in Breezehome. I consider my formal home to be the College of Winterhold, but had bought this house out of a need to store the more interesting crap I found on the road that wasn't really worth selling…

Sorry, not the point, I'm not as adapted to telling stories as the great and mighty Vilkas over there. It was Erandur, Lydia and I; all sitting around eating bread and not really saying much. I didn't travel with my housecarl, but I respected her anyway. Afterwards I actually liked her when one Tirdas we sat up all night gossiping about Jarl Balgruuf. Then we heard the fire. Not the choir of death, just plain old fire and the shrieking of most likely innocent bystanders.

Since death is usually my cue to get to work, all three of us ran outside and Lydia slapped one of the guardsmen who was running back until he blubbered out where the dragon was attacking, and whether there were any people still alive. "N-No-one has" He took a second to sob "Come back fr-from there y-yet". We left the poor guy to wet his drawers in peace and got down to the farm.

I've seen destruction before, but I'll never get used to it. It stank of burning bodies, burning cabbages and just burning in general. You can tell how powerful a dragon is by the tint of its scales. This one was red, and so I knew it meant business.

When the guards who were trying to fend it off from their oversized lawn noticed who I was, one of them ran over and begged me for help. I didn't know what to do; I'm no warrior… just someone who knew a few spells. I told the man I'd help anyway because I assume that's what you're meant to do when you're the good guy, and that was that. Me, the priest and the housecarl all jumped into the madness.

There wasn't anything heroic about this fight; it was just a bunch of people trying to survive. Lydia was the most impressive one, she shot arrows and slashed at the monster and screamed orders at the men we had left.

Then we noticed the burning house. It was on the outskirts of Pelagia farm, and yet still managed to get caught in the backlash from one of the dragon's attacks. The door had been barred by debris, and it was burning. And there was a family inside.

It was kind of obvious what we had to do, at that point. The guard- brave sods to the very last man- agreed that they would distract the beast with Erandur while Lydia and I tried to save the people in the house. We scampered off, and by using my telekinesis and Lydia's strength we moved the bar blocking the way. We didn't have much time left, because the flames were spreading down like… um… flames.

Both of us barrelled into the main hall and dragged the retching captives out from where they had been huddled. Lydia went back upstairs to look for more survivors and one of them- this guy with a fantastic looking beard- was bleeding profusely, with the sobbing of his wife almost drowning out the sound of soldiers dying in the background. I didn't want to tell them there was no hope for the father, so instead I told them to pull him and themselves away behind that small hill over there and pray to their Nord Gods the dragon didn't find them.

The dragon didn't find the family, but it did find me. And the house that Lydia was still in. I tried to warn her, I remember. I was screaming her name at the window but was too scared to go in because the thing was circling around and I could feel its gaze.

The fat bastard landed on the house, and the entire building was crushed. I'm glad I didn't hear her die, and even right now I'm praying it was quick. But I knew she was dead. And she…

"… And that was just it, really. Wasn't able to recover anything."

Is it normal to feel like vomiting even though you're dead? Because I feel like bending over and just spewing all over the fire in the tavern. That fire is the only sound I can hear.

But I'm meant to be on a tirade, damn it, and despite my common sense telling me to get the Oblivion out of there I'm going to finish.

"So you sit there, Companions and resident drunks, and you drink that… whatever that piss is meant to be, and I hope you enjoy it. I also hope you sit down and remember you fetchers- for all your talk of glory- weren't the real heroes today. The real hero is smouldering under a pile of wood"

The fire continues making that mocking crackling sound, and although I don't think it's normal for a hearth to make fun of you, it reminds of the burning farmlands I witnessed earlier. So yeah, it's definitely telling me that I messed up. Again.

Farkas is the first one to step forwards "She… We didn't know she was…"

"Something tells me you probably wouldn't have cared. Death by collapsing house doesn't make a very good war story."

Whew, I think I'm done now. The inn-goers aren't finished gawking though and all of a sudden it's making me feel uncomfortable again.

"Erandur, are you done here?"

"Absolutely."

"Then let's go."

Beardo's breathing is heavier than usual and I can tell he's feeling almost as uneasy as I am. My hand is on the door and, Gods, am I ready to-

"To Lydia." Was that Aela's voice?

No, wait, I've got to go back in.

"To Lydia!" Sinmir's picked his ass back up off the floor- sporting a new red slap mark- and is waving his tankard around like a man possessed.

"Tonight, we drink to Lydia and the guard!" Vilkas, with all his animosity for me, is lifting up his drink too and gives me a surprisingly sober nod.

And with Vilkas' silent approval, the Bannered Mare erupts into celebration again. Drink and Gods-knows-what is flying across the room, silly-hair dumner and his Nord adversary have finally settled the tension by simultaneously whacking each other in the face, Mikeal is trying to get this literary goldmine down and all of a sudden I don't feel so bad.

"Want to go home, Virani?" I think he already knows the answer, but is asking out of courtesy.

"I'm unbearably thirsty all of a sudden"

I hope that Shor fellow gives you a pat on the back when you reach Sovngarde, Lydia. You've bloody earned it.