Instead of wandering directly to Candlehearth Hall as the sun set, Sottë decided to not take her usual path, instead weaving in small back alleys to the blacksmith quarter. A familiar sense of excitement and trepidation fluttered in her stomach as did so. She hadn't realized it at the time, but, as a little girl, she had loved the forge. The blacksmith at her home village had been a tremendously kind and newly-greying man. He would always warn the children, her friends, if they ran too close to the hot metal in their games of tag, yet he had always had a soft spot for her. She had been a quiet child, always so amazed by the sparking and breathing of the forge that he would occasionally allow her to watch the hammering of a horseshoe from a distance. Sottë no longer knew if he had survived what had happened to their village all those years ago.

The blacksmith quarter was still teeming with life: the forge breathed heavily, the castle blacksmith tapped at metal plating on the workbench, his apprentice watching with a close scrutiny. The stalls at the back of the quarter were all beginning to pack up their goods for the night, rolling up their goods in cloth wraps.

She tried to seem the browsing customer, generically wandering to the forge to glimpse at it nonchalantly. She really wanted to stare into its depths as if still that young girl amazed by forge fire. She wanted, most childishly, to pump the bellows and feel the air rush out of it and into the tuyere. She did not, though, fearing ruining the smith's work.

"'Help you, miss?"
Sottë looked up sharply from the forge.
"Oh, no, thank you." She paused, offering a small smile. The apprentice returned it politely, quickly returning to finishing the day's work.
"Well, actually, you wouldn't happen to have any heavy armor in stock, would you?"
The apprentice turned to her again.
"Aye," the castle blacksmith spoke instead, abandoning his work at the workbench. "No point asking the apprentice. Best come with me."

He led her to the tanning rack, hauling out a tied brown sack.
"Fresh made iron and steel, plate or not, good price an' all. Hammered to perfection." He grunted, tossing aside his hammer from the workbench.

"I'll take just the iron, please."
He unstrung the bag and piled the chosen plate upon itself, gauntlets and boots. It was a hefty sum of three hundred septims, but she found it rather quickly. She thanked the Nine for the small fraction of inheritance she still claimed even after the couple of years had passed. She suspected that was why she had inherited it. Out of the three Andrel children, she had been the sensible one. Always had. It would be worth the coin to be able to feel safe, not to mention warm. Taking carriages would have to be considered a luxury, and she may have to even eventually find a cheaper lodging than Candlehearth Hall. Inns outside of town were cheaper, yet less...officious.

"Thank you for your custom." The blacksmith growled it almost angrily, handing her the armor blankly. She grunted a thanks as she stumbled her way back to Candlehearth Hall, almost tripping over the icy steps with her blocked vision and laden arms. Sottë used her back to open the door precariously, going to close it with the ankle of her left leg as she passed through it. Instead of doing so, she found herself colliding with someone and her new armor clattering to the ground and herself awkwardly staggering after it. Panic hit her.

"Oh, gods, I'm sorry!"
"It's quite alright," she breathed, slightly winded. Sottë blinked up at the man who had bumped her. He had a gruff look to him, as if he hadn't slept properly in a while. He had a bow strapped to his back, one she assumed to be for hunting.

"I don't think I've bent it," he said, passing the armor from the floor to her. "New armor, huh?"
"Yes." She stated shortly. The man let out an "aah" at that, attempting to prolong the conversation.
"You off anywhere fancy?"
Sottë blinked at him, confused.
"No..." She replied, unsure. He nodded enthusiastically regardless.
"I just thought because of the..." he gestured to his own forehead in a circular motion. She first thought he was trying to imply her to be insane. After a moment, she brought a hand up to her own. Oh, the circlet.
"Mmh." Sottë said. "No, nowhere fancy. Thanks for helping me."
She brushed passed him to her room.
"Well, I could take you somewhere fancy, if you like."
"That's quite alright, thank you." She tried to make it sincere as she placed her armor quickly on her bed, handing the landlady ten septims before retiring.

Sottë quickly washed her face when she awoke with a bowl of water left by the serving girl in the middle of the night. She dressed in her new Stormcloak garb, reveling in its warmth. She quietly padded out of her room, closing the door softly behind her. Sottë sensed that it was before sensible waking hours, the light from the windows suggesting a small sunrise.
"'Morning, miss." The same ageing woman who welcomed her was pinning up a festive wreath behind the counter, her brow furrowed in concentration.
"New Life Festival decorations in Last Seed?" Sottë asked.
"Oh, no," the woman grimaced. "It's Nils', that's our cook, birthday. I always like to decorate the place to seem a bit more festive."

She emphasized her hard work by dusting her hands as soon as she finished pinning up the wreath. Sottë bid goodbye to her landlady and made her way to the cart by the Windhelm Stables. Perhaps Gerdur in Riverwood would be so kind to help her get on her feet properly. Ralof would want to know if they were to fight side by side again, too, she supposed. At least this time the journey in a cart was somewhat comforting, perhaps due to the pre-sunrise state they existed in. She at least welcomed a warm bed in between the road, taking a cart had been an added luxury compared to walking, too.

She nodded silently to Frodnar as she passed him, a welcome between two unlikely warriors.

Ralof was at the cooking pot when she entered. He looked over his shoulder as she entered. Gerdur looked up from her place at the table.

"We've heard about you." Gerdur rose from her seat, arms held to Sottë in a gesture of mirth.
"A proper Stormcloak now, eh, Unblooded?" Ralof smiled kindly over his shoulder. Sottë nodded enthusiastically.
"Yes. I see word travels quickly." She grinned. Ralof returned his gaze to stirring the pot.
"Fantastic." Gerdur paused.
"The name's Sottë, by the way." She added, realizing they did not even properly know her name.
"Welcome, Sottë." Gerdur smiled. "I would ask you to stay for breakfast..."
"Ah, I know when I'm not wanted, I'll be off-"
"No! You are welcome to stay here. It's just," she paused. "The Jarl of Whiterun needs to know of the dragons, if news has not reached already. I fear for Riverwood if he does not know. That dragon could be headed for Whiterun any time soon."
"Of course." Sottë said. "Anything to repay your hospitality. I shall set off this afternoon."

She felt the last sentence a half-lie, for she intended the journey to Whiterun first as a matter of urgency. It was nearer, and she would immediately follow to Korvanjund.


"Farengar! Farengar, you need to come at once; a dragon's been sighted nearby. You should come, too." The interruption of Sottë's conversation with the court mage came in the form of a dark elf female.

By the time they reached Jarl Balgruff, he was already in conversation with a young guard.

"Tell him what you told me, about the dragon." The woman from before interrupted again.
"Uh, yeah, that's right. We saw it coming from the south. It was fast. Faster than anything I've ever seen. It seemed to be circling overhead; I've never ran so fast in my life."
"Good work son, we'll take it from here." Jarl Balgruff nodded to the guard. "Irileth, gather some guardsmen and get down there."
Irileth nodded. "You there, with us; you're the only one here with previous experience with these things."

The air around the West Keep was no different to that of any other keep in any other hold. The Last Seed air was brisk, but no different to any other hold's. Flames dotted the landscape in a way that did not bring normality into the situation.
"No, get back! It's still here somewhere. Shor's bones, Kynareth save us; here he comes again!"
She barely had to time to register the words when she saw the beast appear. It was different to the one of Helgen: it was smoother in both roar and form, more juvenile and unknowing. The weak arrows of the men failed to hit the fast-moving object, not piercing its thick skin when they did. It roared in indignation, angry at the attempt on its life, expressing such by spewing a fiery breath.

Its flapping wings caused a mighty gale as it attempted to land to pick them off, throwing her hair back. Arrows had a small yet better affect on it now. Sottë sped to its back, plunging one of her two swords into the beast as she attempted to get closer to i, making sure to properly drive through its innards. Its head flew upwards a flashes of dragon mythology flew through her head. The heart of a dragon lies on its right side. Regardless of the truth, she thrust her second sword into the beast's left side, its crying growing more violent. It would fight her off with all of it possessed. It thrashed, panicked, against the sword, only serving to drive the wound deeper. She herself was completely vulnerable, face shielded from the blood that had spattered her in the gory attempt. Despite herself, she dragged the two swords to meet. Her biceps began to quiver with the force of it, her teeth tightly together. Sottë could feel its sapping strength in a previously unfelt manner, its very lifeforce dropping away like shed skin. Numerous arrows still followed, and she prayed for them to miss her. She heard Irileth's shouting voice above the fire and destruction. The dragon roared, enraged, as the blood followed, a certain sign of a sapped lifeforce.

In exhaustion, what could have been both of theirs, the dragon began to fall. She looked up only long enough to see the terrified look on an unhelmeted guard's face as he quickly drove himself out of the way of the bloodied mess and heap of gore and death.

Sottë gathered her breath, not quite realizing the extent of the situation. Silence amongst the crackling of flames finally hit them. The dead dragon rested at her feet, her swords now as bloody as the dragon.

"Look at that!"
The scales of the dragon, they were shedding? Sottë squinted in confusion.
"Everybody! Get back!"
Its very skin, hide and scales were rapidly melting. What Sottë had presumed as its life force drained away, gravitating towards her. She blinked, bewildered. A skeleton rested in the same position as the newly-dead dragon. Irileth came out of her cover.
"I can't believe it you're...Dragonborn!" The same guard who had managed to move out of the way of the falling dragon was addressing her.
"What? No, I-no! I simply..." Sottë stumbled out from the wreckage, noting her own limp mentally. "No..."
"You slayed the dragon...took its power. That's what you did, isn't it?"
"I...don't know what happened to me."
"There's only one way to find out; try to Shout."

Sottë's mind instantly flashed back to Helgen. The one she followed, Ulfric, had killed the High King with his Voice had he not?
She summoned the power she had received from the dragon attempting to articulate it through her own obsolete vocal cords.
"That's it! That's a Shout!"
"Hmhf." Irileth voiced herself for the first time in a while. "Some of you would be better off keeping quiet. Someone who can put down a dragon is more than enough for me."
"That really was shouting; she truly must be Dragonborn."

Sottë was unsure who was speaking about her now. All the men in the same uniform in such a rush of adrenalin hazed things.
"You'd better get back to Whiterun right away, Jarl Balgruff will want to know what happened here."


Sottë had purchased her own horse in the stables outside Whiterun. She could afford to. Her lockpicks would apparently go unused. She was the Dragonborn; she was the thane of Whiterun. She could afford to be a wealthy woman now, not to worry about from where her next meal would come. Life was picking up for her, it seemed, even if this Dragonborn business seemed like trouble. She rolled her sore shoulders as she powered her way to Windhelm. The Stormcloaks had been her first thought after leaving Dragonsreach. With luck, Galmar and the men would wait for her if she seemed to be late. She dug her ankles into the flank of her horse to drive it on faster.

Her lower body had begun to ache as she advanced down the hill towards to Korvanjund, heaving herself off the horse. She recognized Galmar and Ralof amongst the soldiers, grinning as she heaved herself down from her steed.
"'Bout time!" Galmar grunted. "You ready to spill some Imperial blood for Skyrim?"
Sottë panted, out of breath from the rushed journey. "I'm ready."
"That's what I like to hear." He began to walk in the direction of the higher ground.

"Keep your wits about you and watch your shield-brother's back. Ulfric Stormcloak is counting on us to bring him back that crown, and that's exactly what we're going to do. Follow me, quickly and quietly now." Galmar's pace turned to a run, and Sottë withdrew her swords in a rush of adrenalin. She would have enjoyed staying to admire the old ruins had time not been of the essence.

The inside of the place was no different to what she had expected, either. It was warmer and less treacherous due to it being inside, but the Imperial soldiers still dotted the place as they had outside. Sottë found herself to fight only, not think until they found themselves in a more gently archaic area of the ruin.
"What in the nine holds is that?" One of the soldiers seemed bemused.
"Draugr. Ain't you ever seen one before?"
"No...and I'm not sure I'm better off for it now neither."

"Steady. A few dusty bonewalkers aren't going to stop us any more than the Imperials did." Galmar growled. They all breathed heavily as their breath fell in its normal pattern. As soon as the thought passed through her mind, they began their faster pace throughout the ruin. Sottë shuddered as she looked at the twisted or calm respective faces of different draugr. They were horrid in that they did not move yet seemed so...human.

The ruin gave way to a grand yet small hall, etching carved on its walls.
"Ah! The hall of stories...we must be getting close now."
"Oh! I've heard of this!" The female soldier from before was speaking again. Sottë nodded at her in agreement to show their shared familiarity.
"They say these walls show the history of the ancients who built this place." Sottë breathed, speaking for the first time since they entered. The rest blinked at her (or she assumed the helmeted ones did) in surprise. "I think."

Sottë crossed the chamber to the grand door, allowing her hands to rest against it.
"Hmm, yes, well, one thing at a time. Any of these carvings show a crown?"
Sottë withdrew the claw she had placed in her pack minutes beforehand from her somewhat small interest in antiquities. Or an interest in septims, she was not decided. The others stared at her once more as the door clicked open, sliding lazily as if it had not been opened in this era. She grinned at their surprise and shrugged to illustrate her minimal effort.

"Good job!" Galmar half-laughed. "Alright everyone, keep your guard up. No telling what we'll find down here."

It was even more eerie than the main floor, if that was even possible. Vines crept around corners, cracked ancient stone that had not seen mortal feet in an age could be strained under their weight for all she knew. Eeriest of all was the throne situated between two coffins in the center of the room.
"Amazing!" Sottë gasped. "This draugr is so...unlike the others we've is rather odd."
No sooner had the words escaped her lips had the very draugr heaved himself from his throne weightily. Sottë's eyes widened, hands flying to her swords.
"Look out! Draugr!"

The lids of the coffins fell open, permitting two more ancient draugr to the fray. Picking off the weaker two was the easier task, allowing herself to sink her sword into flesh that felt neither spirit nor skin. Sottë shivered as the two fell, the main and kingly draugr their only opponent.

She withdrew her swords from the final, weaker draugr and rounded upon the king.
"Ro...Do!" She immediately recognized a Shout from his decayed lips as soon as it flung her backwards in pain, almost sending her to the floor. Sottë regained her footing, charging instead towards the main draugr and sending one of her swords to its one of her swords to its skeletal throat. He attempted to Shout once more as Sottë plunged the other sword into where she assumed his heart once was. A shudder shot through her once more.

When he did eventually weaken and drop it was unceremonious. Galmar was already wrenching the crown from the thing's head and handing it to her gently.
"Get to Windhelm with the crown as quickly as you can. Tell Ulfric he owes me a drink."
Sottë beamed at him, satisfied with their work. "I think I owe you all a drink." She watched him sheath his weapon. "Tell the men to bring themselves to Candlehearth Hall tonight; the rounds are on Sottë."


A/N: Woo, actual fighting. Thank you if you persevered long enough for the whole thing, I kind of feel like it was such a bore to read. Thanks to anyone who reviews or puts it on story alert, it really helps me to see where I'm going right and wrong. Reviews would be much appreciated, even if there's any particular quests you want me to include!