Skyrim belongs to the geniuses at Bethesda. Any character not recognized from the game in this story strictly belongs to moi.
Isben adjusted his knapsack and continued his slow pace to Whiterun. His tailbone hurt something awful from his falls with the Thalmor, and he swore that he reopened the wound on his leg. Oh, Camilla probably would have had a chicken if she knew that he'd wasted her handiwork. He'd have to visit a temple or find an alchemist in Whiterun as soon as possible to check on his leg. If there was an alchemy store in the city, he'd make the most of it.
Isben crossed Whiterun's drawbridge and trudged up the slope leading toward the city gates. Apart from his little fiasco with the Thalmor, he kept to himself. The road remained clear, save for a giant giving a group of warriors a grand old time. Had it not been for the stranger wielding that huge axe rushing in and saving the day, he had high suspicions that that giant would have attacked more than just a farm.
And with a broken bow and his poor combat skills, there was no way in all the Planes of Oblivion that he'd be able to fend against an enraged giant.
"Whiterun is closed to travelers due to the talk of Dragons nearby. I am sorry."
Isben looked up and spotted a group of guards trying to keep a woman from entering the city. He inwardly groaned; the last thing he needed was a dilemma in entering the city. His leg was burning and starting to spasm, it hurt so much.
The woman huffed and crossed her arms. "I've told you already: Jarl Balgruuf is expecting me. I don't want to disappoint him again."
The guard shifted on his heels and looked to his comrades for help. They looked everywhere but at him. "I'm sorry, Shêzanaré, but Whiterun is not open."
She snarled and cocked an eyebrow. "Your Jarl specifically asked me to visit his city to discuss important matters, and now you're sending me back? Do you not see how classless this is?"
Isben carefully approached the bickering crowd, mindful of his injured leg. The woman, Shêzanaré, looked over her shoulder at him. He stumbled backward, putting weight on his lame leg, by the fearsome war paint covering her eye sockets and smearing down her cheeks. With just one glance, she looked like she was ready to tear his insides out!
He chuckled nervously, avoiding eye contact with the fierce looking woman.
"I said it once and I'll say it again," another guard spoke. "Whiterun is closed because of the Dragons. Please, make our lives easier by turning around."
"And how about you make my life easier by letting me in?" she huffed. "You guards are all dogs with their tails stuck between their legs. It's no surprise."
Isben, seeing the guards' offended looks, knew that his chances of entering Whiterun were dwindling with every word this 'Shêzanaré' spoke. "So I came all this way for nothing?" he quickly asked, trying to salvage the moment. "I survived Helgen only to find shelter is out of my midst?"
Shêzanaré didn't seem impressed at all with his words, but the guards did. She rolled her eyes when the guards shared a suspicious glance with each other.
"You... you were there when it was destroyed? Are you a Stormcloak spy?" They brandished their weapons, and Isben raised his hands in surrender.
"Nothing of the sort, lads. I'm only here to bring news to Jarl Balgruuf of Helgen's fate and on behalf of Riverwood."
The guards murmured to each other, keeping one eye on Isben, before coming to a mutual agreement. "Very well. Please, make haste to Dragonsreach." They stepped back and motioned toward the gate.
Shêzanaré hissed and glared at Isben. "You refuse me, a huntswoman who has been providing the Jarl with meat for years, but give access to this complete stranger?" She shook her head. "I hope you... gentlemen can think of a good enough reason to tell Balgruuf why I was refused—"
"May she come with me?" Isben interrupted with a polite grin. Shêzanaré felt her blood boil. "If the Jarl sees a familiar face with me, he might be more willing to hear me out instead of gutting me on sight," Isben reasoned.
She blinked and waited for the guards' answers. They sighed and waved them both into the city, finding wisdom in Isben's suggestion.
"You did not need to help me," Shêzanaré bit out once they passed through the gates.
"You looked like you needed the help," Isben shrugged. "I did no harm, did I?"
"Strangers who help other strangers only want something done for them in return," she snapped. She brushed past him, her long legs carrying her a good few feet in front of him. Isben shook his head before hurrying after her. Her gaze trained forward, she hissed, "Stop following me, elf."
"I'm not an elf," he countered. "Well, I'm half elf, half Nord. The ears make people assume the worst, I know."
"You are a chatty elf," she noted blandly. "And you are still following me."
"You and I are headed toward the same place, no? To the Jarl? I'm just going in the same direction as you."
She whirled around and had him pinned to the blacksmith's workshop with a dagger to his throat in the blink of an eye. "Stop. Following. Me." The wooden siding threatened to cave in with the force she exerted, and the owners of the store glanced between her and the guards.
Isben gulped. "You're none too pleasant to strangers, are you?" He hoped that the guards of Whiterun would sprint toward them and restrain this woman, but they seemed content to watch the tall Nordic Dragon-lady bully around the half elf. They snickered and shook their heads, waving the owners back to their business.
She narrowed her eyes at him, the dark paint on her face emphasizing the fury burning in her grey eyes. "You don't know whose toes you're stepping on, little elf," she whispered.
He glanced down at her feet. "Judging by your lack of shoes, it's rather easy to step on your toes. How can you stand the cobbles?"
Shêzanaré was about to bear her teeth and rip his tongue out, but she noticed the fascinated gleam in his eyes, as if he was genuinely curious. Still, there was a touch of mischief that didn't pass her scrutinizing glare. She pulled the dagger away from him and was already making her way through the Plains District by the time he registered what had just happened. He rubbed his neck and followed after her, but at a distance, choosing to ogle over the city.
Whiterun reminded him a bit of home. There were districts, each distinguished by layers of land. Smokestacks from forges filled the air, and traders crowded about the townsquare to lure customers to their stalls. He smelled cured meats and freshly baked bread, heard the tinkling of jewelry, and saw coin pass from customer to businessperson. There was the familiar hustle and bustle of people hurrying to and fro, of course, but never in the University did he see so many people in ragged clothing! Even he blended in well with the common rabble, for his comfortable yet costly robes were long gone, probably confiscated by the Imperials. Perhaps it is the fashion, he thought with a bob of his head.
He sighed, wishing more than ever that he was back at his workbench. So long was he in his little reverie that he almost walked right into Shêzanaré. She had her hands on her hips, another glare fixed into her brow. He was starting to think it was the only expression the woman knew how to give.
"You're following me," she said, as if it was a normal observation.
Isben stared at his boots. "I don't know where I'm going," he confessed. "This is my first time in Whiterun." He shook his hand when a trader motioned him over to his stall and ducked his head when the man started walking toward him.
"You've never been to Whiterun before, and yet you came from Riverwood? What, have you been sitting on your arse for your entire life? Eugh, what a man-child."
Isben looked her in the eye, refusing to let her vicious gaze be a deterrent. "Man-child?" he repeated. "I'll have you know that I've brewed potions that have saved men's lives from the brink of death. I've made salves that have healed even the ugliest of wounds."
"And I can bite your hands off before you even have a chance to lift up a pestle and mortar," she said with a mocking, toothy grin. She rolled her eyes, her expression falling, and hurried up the steps to Dragonsreach.
Ignoring his leg, he matched her long strides. "You are miserable," he said casually.
She stiffened and tried to beat him at their little race. "You are a man-child, used to having people hold your hand and guide you through life step by step."
"And you make this conclusion based on what?"
"And you think me miserable because..?" She didn't wait for him to answer and pushed open the large double doors into Dragonsreach. She slammed the doors closed, and he had to jump back to avoid having his nose flattened.
Shaking his head, Isben opened the doors and followed her in. They were stopped again by a small company of guards wanting to know their business with the Jarl. Isben let Shêzanaré state her purpose first and had to bite his lip to hide a smirk when they still blocked her way.
"And what of the elf?" They gave him uneasy looks, their hands resting on the pommels of their swords. "Is he with you, too?"
Shêzanaré's glower was enough to answer their question. Isben snorted and kept his distance from the guards as he replied, "I'm a survivor from Helgen with information on the Dragons that the Jarl may find useful—"
The words were hardly out of his mouth before the guards ushered him, their weapons drawn and a blade pressed against his back in warning. Up stairs and toward the Jarl's throne, they went. Isben looked over his shoulder to see Shêzanaré hissing and figuratively chewing off a guard's ear.
But from the looks of it, he wouldn't be surprised if she actually chewed it off.
A Dunmer woman, with her sword unsheathed, approached him with the caution of a cat on the prowl. "Guardsmen, are you out of your spirits for bringing a stranger to the Jarl?"
Two guards grabbed Isben by the arms as the woman came closer to him. She grabbed Isben's chin in one hand and turned his face to and fro, examining him as if he was property for sale.
"I'm here to—" Isben was interrupted as the Dunmer smacked the side of his head with a fist encased in a gauntlet. He blinked as stars swam across his vision.
"You will speak when asked to. Until then, you will remain quiet as I assess the situation—"
"And you, Irileth," a man spoke from his spot at his throne, "will remain a loyal soldier and remember your place as I, Jarl Balgruuf the Greater of Whiterun, assess the situation." And Greater he was, Isben noted; like most Nords, the Jarl was a head or two taller than the average Imperial, and though he must have been in his middle years, power was still evident in muscles still honed and ready for battle.
Irileth's claw-like grip on Isben's face vanished as she took her place beside the throne. "Of course, my Jarl."
Jarl Balgruuf nodded and gestured for the guards. "Leave the lad. I'm sure he will prove himself to be friend instead of foe."
The guards bowed their heads before taking a few steps away from Isben, though not without giving him wary looks. Isben swallowed and rubbed his jaw. He caught himself as a sword pommel dug into his back.
"Don't keep the Jarl waiting, elf," a guard murmured in his ear. Isben scurried around the roaring fire pit in the center of Dragonsreach to the Jarl's throne. He kept his head inclined as he told Jarl Balgruuf everything he knew: his predicament in Helgen, the beheading of Stormcloaks, and how the black Dragon destroyed everything in sight. The Jarl listened, reclined leisurely in his throne, the only telltale sign that he was concerned was his brow furrowing with every new detail Isben told.
Even Irileth looked mortified, but she tried to keep it hidden with her suspicion of Isben.
"My Jarl," she said when Isben was through with his tale, "what he speaks of is nigh on the verge of a nightmare. Surely you mustn't believe everything he speaks of?"
Jarl Balgruuf frowned and stood from his throne. "It is hard to tell what is truth and what is lie, Irileth, given that Dragons were thought of as a myth—a children's bedtime story—just almost a week ago." He held his hand up when Irileth tried to argue again. "That is for another time, Irileth. As for you," he turned toward Isben, "come. We shall speak with my court wizard, Farengar. If there is anything to be made with this information, he'll be our right-hand man."
Isben followed the Jarl as they entered a side room just off the throne room. Glancing to the side, Isben caught another glimpse of Shêzanaré still being denied access. Inside, a robed man—a familiar sight, given Isben's profession—stood near a desk cluttered with scrolls and maps. He didn't even look up, too busy with his musings and parchments, as the Jarl entered the room.
"This is Farengar, Whiterun's court wizard," the Jarl introduced. "Farengar, I've brought you someone who might be of assistance in your research."
Farengar looked up from his work only for a second. He continued to browse through his papers, occasionally jotting down notes, as he replied, "With all due respect, Jarl Balgruuf, you have been sending me men who have supposed 'knowledge' on Dragons, when in reality, they are either drunk off of Black Briar mead, or have no sense whatsoever. What makes you think this man is any different?"
Isben frowned, not at all liking Farengar's dismissive tone. He shouldn't have been surprised; mages in the University absolutely loved to look down their snooty noses at novices or scholars who weren't particularly gifted in the art of magicka.
Mages in Skyrim seemed to be cut from the same cloth.
As the Jarl persuaded Farengar with Isben's story, Isben stole the chance to wander away from the two men. Farengar's office was a bit shabby, but still filled with scrolls and writings that were familiar to Isben. He smiled widely when he saw a cabinet filled to bursting with ingredients. Frost salts, fire salts, snowberries, a giant's toe—
This particular ingredient was a rare find in the University, given the ferocity of the giants. He'd only had a few opportunities to test the ingredient out, but they had been successful brews.
"And so you will go to Bleak Falls Barrow to retrieve the Dragonstone, yes?"
"Pardon?" Isben looked between the two men, aware that they had caught him day-dreaming. He mentally scolded himself and had the decency to look guilty before them.
Farengar inhaled to calm his nerves before repeating his question.
"Yes," Jarl Balgruuf nodded. "He will do well to retrieve it. It'd be a good chance to show Whiterun that you are a friend of the people."
Isben opened his mouth to voice his objections, but Shêzanaré stormed into the room, a Whiterun guard dangling from her arm as she practically dragged him with her.
"Jarl Balgruuf, I believe I have been kept waiting long enough," she growled. "You asked me to meet with you—"
"And you will accompany him, Shêza," the Jarl interrupted. She blinked in confusion and shot Isben an accusing glare.
"To Bleak Falls Barrow," Farengar clarified, "to retrieve the Dragonstone. Now, I think we've said it enough for you to understand, yes? Be off with you already!"
Shêza shook her head and stood her ground. "You cannot just order me around like a servant—"
"Shêzanaré, it would be most unwise of someone in your position to question the Jarl's command," Farengar offered with a smug grin. "Personally, I think this mission will have a slightly greater chance of being a success—not that that actually means anything, mind you—if you joined him."
Shêza glared daggers at Isben, as if he was the source of all of her problems. This time, he didn't look away and met her icy stare.
"We will discuss the boundary limitations when you return, Shêza," the Jarl said. Some of Shêza's disdain melted away, but her posture was still stiff with unease and anger.
She bowed her head. "As my Jarl wishes." She turned on her heel and stormed out of Dragonsreach, the guards hurrying to move out of her way, lest they be scorched by her fury.
Farengar smiled and patted Isben on the shoulder. "It was nice meeting you. If you return in one piece, then we'll have a proper introduction over dinner."
Isben left the two men to find that grumpy woman, feeling more of a fool for letting someone else volunteer for him. Oh, what would his students think if they saw him now!
They would jeer and laugh at me, he thought miserably. He shook his head as he left Dragonsreach, doing his best to hide his limp as he climbed down the stairs back into the Wind District. Next to the giant, seemingly dead tree in the center of the courtyard stood Shêza, wearing her ever-usual scowl.
"Pick up the pace, whelp, so we can get this over and done with." She led the way to the Plains District. When she didn't hear Isben following, she huffed and looked behind her.
He was leaning against a house, a hand wrapped around his blood-soaked trousers. She frowned and stood in front of him.
"That leg won't be a problem, will it?"
He smirked and shook his head. "Let's put a gouge in your calf and see how you fare," he suggested.
She scowled and roughly grabbed his arm. "A fast mouth will not earn you any respect, whelp."
He winced as she hauled him across the city to a small building in the townsquare. He barely made out the shop's sign as "Arcadia's Cauldron" before she yanked him into the shop. "And treating someone like baggage won't make people look past your ghastly features."
She had wanted to throw him in the store, but checked herself just in time. Pursing her lips, she watched Isben lean on the counter for support, then left.
"What do you need, friend—oh, don't try to move on that leg!" A woman with a worn, friendly face carefully ushered him into a chair. "You just sit still while I take care of this, hm?" She browsed through her cabinets, selecting a potion, salve, and bandages before kneeling beside him. "Here, drink this."
He gratefully accepted the potion she gave him, gulping it down like a man dehydrated. He felt a pleasant numbness spread over his bad leg, and he sighed in relief. "You're an alchemist?" he asked.
She nodded as she rolled up the leg of his trousers. "Arcadia. I'm the only alchemist here in Whiterun. I don't have much business here; usually I have customers in the winter season. You'd be surprised how fast colds and fevers spread in cities. Although," she added, "being an Imperial isn't a favorable trait in Skyrim. These Nords can't look past my race to trust my work."
Isben nodded in sympathy. "The War has everyone stabbing their neighbor in the back, it seems."
She scoffed and rolled her eyes. "If you ask me, the War should be over and done with already. Ulfric Stormcloak has no right to raise arms against the Empire." Isben kept his mouth shut. He didn't know enough of the War to have a say in the matter. All he knew was that the Thalmor were invading every province in Tamriel, and at a fast rate.
After cleaning the wound, she spread the salve over it and wrapped it up with a bandage. "Do you need a splint?"
He shook his head. "No time, I'm afraid—"
"Then drink this, too." She forced another potion into his hands. One sniff of the foul-smelling liquid told him exactly what he was about to drink. He braced himself as he downed the disgusting drink and managed not to gag on it.
The torn flesh of his calf slowly knit itself back together, and he was thankful that the limb was still numb. He'd used the same potion on soldiers who would have lost an arm or a leg, but he himself had never experienced that awful feeling of having flesh mended back together.
Isben smiled and stood. "Thank you, Arcadia. I'll keep you in mind if I ever find myself with another injury." She grinned and shook his hand when he offered it to her. "I'm Isben, Isben of—"
Shêza unceremoniously invited herself into Arcadia's Cauldron. "Forgive me for dumping him on you, Arcadia. How much of your stock did he waste?"
"He wasted none of it," she said warmly. "A patient never misuses potions."
Isben grinned, not caring that Shêza rolled her eyes at him.
"Perhaps. The tab, though?" Isben paled. He didn't have any septims on him, and knew that the potion Arcadia gave him was an expensive one.
"No charge, Shêza." Arcadia winked at Isben's perplexed stare. "First-time customer's benefit."
Shêza snorted. "You're too kind to these outsiders, Arcadia."
Arcadia shrugged. "Perhaps."
Isben thanked her again before letting Shêza lead the way out. He would most likely return to Arcadia's Cauldron—he had a feeling that it'd be the only taste of sanity he'd have in Skyrim for a long while to come.