A/N: Second installment tonight. This one's alittle long, almost 11k, but I was getting tired of taking out every insignifigant detail in an attempt to shorten it. I like how it turned out.

If you haven't already, go check out my other Skyrim fic, The Damned and the Fallen, a collab with Neckee777. Dark Brotherhood fans escpecially will like it.

Enjoy!

Chapter 10: Protector of the Reach

Our entrance into Understone Keep is neither as flashy nor as low-key as one would think. It's noticeable, seven people flanking a Khajiit who carries a Redguard toddler and keeps one hand near the shoulder of a young Argonian.

As a group, we've cleaned up well. Most of the men and a good number of the women- including me- wear fine jackets of varying color belted closed over dark shirts, with pants a color to match; the only noticeable difference is the womens' coats are of a lighter material, more form-fitting and less bulky. Ren alone wears a dress, the sleeves coming to just above her elbows, dark grey with a wide strip of gentle red down the middle. The dark color, paired with red, brings out the color of her Dunmer eyes- of all of us, she probably looks the best. The irony is that mutes can't do much talking to potential suitors, and the only ones who know the sign language we've developed are inside the pack.

Once inside the doors, sound tells me that the people are gathered in the Jarl's throneroom and the hallway leading to it, so I come to a stop after a few steps to stay far, far out of their range of hearing.

"Alright, guys, lets get a few things straight real quick. Raen, I assume you're taking the kids home after a while?"

"Who else?" she asks sarcastically.

"Anyone other than the hellcat of an Imperial might be a good start." Esmond puts in.

"I've done just fine so far, pretty boy."

"Honey, the kids are fighting again." Elrohir says to me, rolling his eyes.

"Guys!" Kjor snaps, nearly shouting, and the others quiet.

I continue on as though there were never any interruptions. "Okay, Raen's got the kids. The rest of you have ground rules. Rule one: you get drunk, you're out of the party. We don't need one of you doing something we'll all regret."

"She means you, light-weight." Nekesh rumbles, nudging Esmond with his elbow.

"Rule two." I say, slightly louder, before the Breton can reply, "For gods' sakes, behave yourselves. We're here because I'm becoming a Thane, not so you can get laid."

"Esmond." Uvela adds, to the snickers of others.

"Oh, ha ha, you lot are so funny. I'll remember this when you want me to drag your asses home later tonight."

I roll my eyes, starting forward again. "You get the idea."

We pass down the last hallway before the Jarl's throne room, and, as per usual, Thongvor is leaning against the wall- still in his steel armor, though it's been polished to a nice shine.

"Finally bothered to show up, cat?" He asks as we past. My ears lay back, mouth opening to reply, but a certain Bosmer puts one hand on my shoulder, a certain Nord on the other, and they steer me forward before I can say a word.

"What was that about doing something we'll all regret?" Elrohir says lowly, half warning and half amused.

I shake them both off, grumbling incoherently to myself for a few seconds so I don't say aloud things I shouldn't around impressionable children. We mount the stairs emerge as a group into the chamber at the landing below the Jarl's throne room, the others fanning out alittle more once we don't have the hallway to restrict us. Heads turn in our direction in the seconds before I can note who they belong to; my eyes skim around the ten or so people gathered, recognizing Thonar Silver-Blood and his wife, the guard captain, Raerek and Calcelmo (and the latter's nephew), Faleen, the Legate stationed in Markarth, and Ondolemar, the Justicar's guards for once not present. Igmund, of course, reclines on his Mournful Throne, talking to Faleen, ever at his side.

The Jarl's eyes are the last to come to me, and I hand Fayla off to Kjor and stroll forward a few steps.

"A nice little party you've assembled here, my Jarl, but I'm afraid it's much ado about nothing. A Thanehood isn't much more than an honorary title, after all." I open, keeping my voice pleasant, giving him a small nod to ensure that I mean no disrespect or ungratefulness.

"Oh, I'll hear none of that, Ri'Shima. We haven't had a new Thane in Markarth in almost fifteen years, and I'll be damned if we don't celebrate."

I smile, placing a fist over my heart and inclining my head, a soldier's bow. "It's an honour, then."

"Hmmf." Igmund huffs, smiling slightly, amused by all the added formality from a usually-non-formal Khajiit. "I believe, Dragonrider, that you still lack a badge of office."

"Yes. I assume a Blade of the Reach is what you've been having Nekesh working on?"

Now he grins, broad and outright. "Not exactly. When I noticed your limp, and heard the story behind it, I thought of something that could serve you much better." Raerek steps up next to the throne then, having come from the other side of the room, holding a plain wooden box about three feet long. "Nekesh, if you would."

The towering Orc strolls forward, opening the wooden box and withdrawing the item from inside, turning to present it to me.

It's a cane, the thickest one I've ever seen; if I clenched my fist and wrapped my other hand around it, that would be about the same size around. The shaft is a black metal- ebony, if I had a guess. The cane topper is colored silver, though its probably actually hardened steel with a silver varnish, (actual silver wouldn't be as durable). It's forged in the shape of a wolf's head, the ears erect and the muzzle protruding out about four inches. I take it gingerly, setting the cane's tip on the ground to rest my hand on the topper; there's just enough space on it's head (between the wolf's ears) for me to lay my palm, and allows me to curl my fingers around either side of the wolf's muzzle and my thumb around it's left ear.

"It's beautiful." I say, meaning it. I use my grip on the cane head, flicking my wrist upward and lightly tossing the rod into the air, catching it again right below where the wolf's five-inch silver neck meets the black of the shaft, the motion causing the slightest rattling sound. "And, by the weight, I'm guessing there's something special about it."

Nekesh grins, broad and proud, and holds his hand out. I place the cane in it without hesitation, and he wraps one hand around the middle of the shaft and the other around the wolf's neck, tilting it towards me so I can a small, rectangular button built along the slight curve where neck and chin meet. I find out that it must operate a latch that keeps the cane in one piece, because he presses his pinky to that button, hand still around the wolf's neck, and slowly draws a blade from the depths of the shaft.

Surprise ripples across the room as people take in the sword and sheath Nekesh now holds in his hands, the wolf's neck the handle. He offers said handle to me, and I take it, gaging the weight, looking over the actual blade. It's double-edged and black- ebony, like its sheath; at its base, it's about as wide as my hand, maybe a quarter inch thinner, as wide as it could be while still fitting inside it's cane-sheath. It narrows to half that width by the time it comes to a sharpened point at the end of it's nearly-three-foot length.

All this I take in before I've even noticed what's painted onto the widest part of the blade, and when I do see it, I hold the sword up to the firelight. With the light's help, I can see that that it's not a painted design, but an etching- an etching inlaid with gold, so that it's completely smooth while still showing off the design in beautiful color. On this side, it's the ram of Markarth, and a thin gold line going down the blood trough; I twirl it around, and find my emblem, a flaming moon with a wolf's pawprint, on the other.

This isn't the only personalization of the sword, though it's the only one the court can see. The others are things you have to hold it to feel; the perfect balance, the handle that perfectly fits my right hand, the weight, the slender blade made of a strong material. Now I see why they needed Nekesh even though Igmund already has a blacksmith; he's made three swords for me in the four years I've known him, and no one knows my preferences or measurements the way he does.

I let out a low whistle. "You really outdid yourself this time, Nekesh. What's its name? Surely a piece like this has one."

He puffs out his chest again, grinning broadly. "Wolfsfang." he announces, as much to everyone gathered as to me, though I'm the only one to whom he offers a conspiratorial smile. I wink back, a grin tugging at my lips.

"Wolfsfang." I repeat, holding the sword up to the light. "Maybe the finest blade I've ever seen." I hold out my left hand to Nekesh, and he places the cane shaft in my hand. I press my pinky to the button on the wolf's neck, as he did, and slide it back into its sheath. "And more than I can accept."

I've already added up the cost in my head; the materials alone are probably almost five hundred septims, and the craftsmanship and complicated, rare design- I doubt there's even a hundred cane-swords in Tamriel- probably doubles that price. Whatever favor Igmund wants, it's a big one, and I don't know if I should allow myself be backed into it.

Igmund rises then, making his way slowly and deliberately down the steps to stand before me. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Kjor shift, tension entering his muscles. I flick my ears, just a small unnoticeable gesture, but the type wolves use when they hunt, and my beta doesn't so much as move a muscle.

At 5'10, I'm on the tall side for a Khajiit, but the over-six-foot Nord still towers over me. There's nothing aggressive at all in his stance or posture- his body is relaxed, his face friendly- but his sheer height, and the way he walked down the stairs, makes him just slightly more imposing.

"None of that, Ri'Shima. You can and you will. Skyrim has not seen a dragon in millennia, and you vanquished it. You have more than earned a sword that will serve you as well as you have served the Reach."

There's no polite way out of this, not with that little speech, so I smile and incline my head. "As you wish, my Jarl."

Igmund claps a hand on my shoulders, though he talks to the people gathered. "We have our new Thane, then!"

The formality over the small crowd dispels then, what's left of it extending only enough for the members of court to come up and congratulate me. For their part, my pack scatters to the tables that have been set up on either side of the room, both lined with food and drink, offering only quick pats on the back before they do. Kjor and Igmund are the only two to stay by my side as I speak to one court official after another.

When everyone has offered compliments and congratulations- minus Ondolemar, who doesn't move from his place near the doors- Kjor glances questioningly between Igmund and I, and I give him a small nod.

"Well, I'm starvin'." he says. He looks to me. "If you need me, just call." Then he strolls off towards the food table.

"He's very loyal." Igmund comments, eyes tracking the dark-haired Nord through the room. "I've always wondered what you did to earn it."

"You're going to have to wonder for a while longer, my friend."

"Hmmf. Very well, Dragonrider."

I lean on my new cane slightly, taking the weight off my injured knee; it hasn't bothered me much today, just this morning when I was freerunning, but now the ache has returned in full force.

"It is a very excellent blade, Igmund." I say, looking down at what has instantly become one of my most valuable possession- and easily the most expensive one. "I have to wonder if there's something you would like in return for it."

The Jarl is silent for a moment. "Elrohir says you can speak with a silver tongue when you want to, but I've yet to see it."

"I'm your thane now, and a protector of the Reach before that. If you and I can't be blunt with each other, I wouldn't have accepted the position." In all actuality, I would have accepted the position, but I wouldn't have been happy about it.

"So I am starting to see. Do you remember when I asked you to retrieve my father's shield?"

"It was a personal favor, I remember. You offered it to me because none of your men had taken it on and lived. Did I ever thank you for your touching show of concern?"

He smiles slightly. "Aye, you did." He says, but the amusement fades from his face. "I must ask something of you again. Something that might be even more dangerous than a Hagraven."

Needless to say, that tidbit of information catches my attention; a Hagraven nearly tops the list on this Jarl's list of formidable foes. It's worth noting, though, that the Jarl's never faced a dragon.

"Name it, and I'll see what I can do."

Once again, the Jarl lets silence stretched between us before replying. "What do you recall about the height of the Forsworn Rebellion?"

"Lets see, that was, what, 4E 175? Somewhere around there. I don't remember much. It was fifteen years ago, I would have been five. I know the Forsworn took over the Reach for a time." I cast him a sidelong glance. "And I remember it started the Markarth Incident."

"Do you recall the name Madanach?"

Now it's my turn to be silent for a moment, starting to get a vague idea of what kind of favor this will be. "I've heard it whispered around Forsworn campfires. The king imprisoned in the Mines."

"Is that all you've heard?" he asks, not accusingly, but knowingly nonetheless.

"They also say that he gives out orders still, targets those who stand against their cause. Though now I suppose there's more to it than that. "

"Yes. Years ago, when we'd reclaimed the Reach and had Madanach in chains, it was the Silverbloods who stayed the axe from his neck. Thonar thinks himself clever, with his honeyed words, but I am not as big a fool as he thinks. I have believed for a long time that the King in Rags trades Silver-Blood favors for his life, and something has proven this to me."

"What happened?"

"Ainethach, the leader of Karthwasten, was targeted by the Forsworn."

The first thing that comes to my mind is the high number of Forsworn attacks that already plague the small town, but I banish the thought; Igmund is smart enough to not confuse an assassination attempt with a regular raid. There must of been something to set the two apart.

So instead I say, "I'm guessing this Ainethach pissed of the Silver-Bloods somehow?"

"Aye. He refuses to sell the silver mines, and all the surrounding land. His most recent refusal was very… colorful, and after that came the attempt on his life."

I take a minute, running the situation through my head: a Forsworn 'King' working as the puppet for the Silver-Bloods. One snake is enough; a snake being controlled by another snake is asking for someone to get bitten.

"So what, exactly, do you want me to do?"

"I cannot risk opposing the Silver-Bloods directly, not when they control so much of Markarth's trade and have bought the loyalty of half my guards." Not to mention owning your prison. "But if there is ever a day where Thonar can't control Madanach, where the King in Rags endangers my city, I will need someone who can... deal with him, subtly."

"And I'm a better option than the Dark Brotherhood." I deadpan.

"I understand if you decline."

The decision is made within seconds. "Igmund, if this King ever got off his leash, he wouldn't just be endangering your hold. He'd be endangering my-" I almost say pack, "Family. If and when the day comes, I'll do what has to be done."

"Thank you, Dragonrider. You're doing me a great service."

It's an understatement; I'd be simultaneously pissing off the Silver-Bloods and the Forsworn alot more than usual. But a 'king' the Forsworn can organize under would be worse, so it would be a necessity. If the Silver-Bloods don't like it, to bad for them.

I smile. "I know. Now, if you'll excuse me, old friend, I'd like to enjoy the party."

He laughs. "Go, have fun. You've earned it."

Kjor is back by my side the instant I reach the nearest table of food. "What'd Igmund have ta' say?"

"I'll tell you later. What're the other ups to? Anybody drinking yet?"

"Not much. El and Ren had a few together."

I look around for them, curious about what they're doing. The Bosmer and Dunmer have had a casual flirtation going for a while, one that really comes out on the rare occasions when the pair drink. The fact that Kjor specified that they had a few drinks together gives me high hopes.

I see them across the room, next to the other table of food, talking (and in Ren's case, signing) animatedly. I smile at their expressions, their stances; they're alittle too close, faces alittle more attentive than is normal.

"You think that that's finally going to happen?" I ask, nodding in their direction.

"Maybe, with the help of Mara an' Sanguine." Kjor says, souding skeptical. "I think it'd be good for 'em. Everyone needs a mate."

"Yeah. They'd be good together, I think."

"Aye. You talked to Uvela yet?"

"Have I gone up to my friend at the Jarl's party and started describing the symptoms of my possible insanity? No, Kjor, I haven't. It's not the time or place."

"It's never gonna be the time or place with you, Shima. Suck it up and go."

It is very, very tempting to reply with something both sarcastic and a resounding no, but this is one thing that Kjor will literally never let me forget about, and I'm already tired of hearing about it. I grumble to myself as I stalk off to find the Altmer.

I find her talking to Aicantar about some project or other they're doing, waiting until there's a natural break in the conversation to clear my throat.

"Give us a minute, Aicantar." Uvela says, and he frowns, looking annoyed at the dismissal, before he nods and spins on his heels, stalking back to his uncle. "Yes, Ri'Shima?"

I waver for a minute, not knowing how exactly to start this conversation, before diving right in, explaining what happened in Solitude in the best detail I can, and doing the same for the little nightmare incident two nights ago. She cuts in every now and then to ask questions- mostly to re-describe what happened when Septim touched me and I nearly passed out, or other circumstances where I felt a loss of energy around him.

When I'm done, I say, "Look, I know how this all sounds, but you mentioned at some point that you studies lore about the Divines and early magic. I don't really have anyone else to tell me whether or not this is even possible."

"I know." She says. "And I have news that is both good and bad."

"Great. That's not foreboding or anything."

"It would be good news because it isn't impossible, outlandish though it might seem. But it is my belief that it would be possible only for the Dragonborn."

Annoyance sparks in my chest in the same instant my stomach coils into a knot. "Fantastic. My options are crazy or Dragonborn, and I don't know which is worse."

"Insanity likely has the higher survival rate."

"Is that suppose to be helpful?"

"It isn't suppose to be unhelpful."

I pinch the bridge of my nose, feeling a headache coming on. "How the hell is any of this possible? Nightmares feel real and dead men are trying to manipulate me. It's straight out of a child's folk tale."

"The Dragonborn also comes from child's folk tales. With dragons returning, it is possible both are true."

"Don't let the Nords hear you say that. They take their legendes pretty seriously." Apparently. '"Why is any of this happening?"

"From what you've told me, you already know the answer to that."

"Because I won't go fight some gods-damned dragon? Really?"

Uvela is trying not to grin. "It seems to me that Akatosh doesn't take well to his blessed ignoring the fact that she absorbed a dragon soul. If Martin Septim wasn't there to try and convince you, would you have even considered that destiny?"

"Okay, I get it. What about the rest of it? Why can he drain my energy like that?"

"There are many theories in lore that say the Aedra expended much of their energy to create what they did. Akatosh, especially, has been active in our history since then. It is possible he wants to conserve his energy, by letting this… guide appear at the expense of your own life force."

"Oh, great. So the God of Time is willing to potentially kill me to get me to listen to him."

"He won't kill you. I believe it's why Septim has only appeared to you twice- you're still to weak. But it is likely that will change as you absorb more dragon souls, and grow in power."

Good thing my plans to do that are minimal.

"So this is all possible?"

"Unlikely, but possible."

"And I'm not crazy."

"Of course you are. Just not solely for this."

"Alright. Thanks for all the help. I'll let you enjoy the party." I say, turning to leave, both relieved and angered by the result. On one hand, it's possible Martin is real, and I'm not crazy. On the other hand, it's possible Martin is real, but only if I'm Dragonborn. I turn back as a thought comes to mind.

"Yes?" Uvela asks, seeing I have another question.

"This… Martin Septim. Is it his actual spirit, or just the form Akatosh chose for my guide to take?"

"That is the million dollar question, isn't it?"

"So you don't know?"

"It could go either way."

I sigh. "Fine. Great. Look, I'm not really in the party mood anymore. I think I'll take the kids back home."

"That's your decision, but I'd advise you stay. At least eat when the food's free."

"Yeah, fine. You're right. But I'm not staying long."

"Your decision." she says again, shrugging.

I do end up staying alittle longer; childhood habits mean I don't often pass up meals, especially free ones. Because of this, I'm more or less forced to engage in acouple conversations with people I wouldn't like to; Thongvor Silver-Blood congratulates me on my new position and asks to see Wolfsfang, which I draw and hand to him, watching him like a hawk. He gages the weight, takes a few practice swings, then hands it back, complaining about the hilt- too small for his hands- and the lack of weight that throws off his swing.

Kjor swoops in just before I strangle him, politely asking the Silver-Blood patriarch for a minute, and Thongvor hands me my blade back before going in search of his little brother. I slide Fang back into it's sheath, leaning heavily on the cane.

"Play nice, yeah?" My beta reminds me.

"Haven't thrown down with anyone yet, have I?"

"Hmmf." he says, the sound amused. "You looked pretty close to it." He glances to the cane, and how much weight I'm putting on it. "Hows the knee?"

"It's starting to hurt. This cane is a godsend. It helps more than I thought it would."

"Maybe ya should head home." he says, and I know he's picking up on more than just physical pain. His next words confirm that. "How'd the talk with Uvela go?"

"Not as good as I hoped."

"Ah. So are ya insane?"

"No more than usual."

"So what's the bad part?"

"Well, I'm either insane, or I'm not and I'm the Dragonborn."

"Oh, no. Who woulda ever thought you're Dragonborn? All ya did was absorb a dragon soul and Shout." He says sarcastically.

"Yeah, yeah, I get it. Doesn't mean I'm happy about it."

"I know." he says gently. There's silence for a moment. "If you wanna take the pups and go home, I can keep a eye on everyone here."

"I think I'll take you up on that, Kjor." I say, shifting more of my weight to my uninjured leg. I glance around one last time, both to locate Raen and the pups and to see how everyone appears to be doing.

They seem to be enjoying themselves; Nekesh is with Faleen and Thongvor, probably talking weapons and preferences for those weapons, Esmond is chatting up a kitchen assistant, and Raen and the kids are eating on the opposite side of the room and not talking to anyone. (The Imperial isn't one for socializing with people she doesn't know).

I nod to Ren and Elrohir, the pair still deep in conversation, eyes for no one but eachother. "Twenty septims says something finally happens tonight."

Kjor snorts. "I'll take that bet. El's silver tongue ain't gonna do much for him with Ren. I'd bet double or nothin' that he's sleepin' alone tonight."

"We'll see." I say with a grin. "Well, I'm headed home. See you in a bit."

The kids don't make any argument to stay; once they've eaten, Fayla is ready for a nap, and Bal is bored. I ask Raen if she's coming home as well, but she declines, opting to stay for a bit longer- to see if Esmond does anything stupid, I'd bet, though she doesn't say it.

By the time the pups and I arrive back at the Den, Fayla is asleep on my shoulder. I lay her in bed and grab her stuffed bear from her nightstand, holding it to her chest until she reflexively wraps her arms around it (she doesn't sleep well without it). Then I pull the covers up to her chin and go back out to the living room/awning area, where a bored Balamar is poking the wood piled in the firepit with a stick, trying to coax a fire to life.

I conjure a fireball in my hand and shoot it into the pile of wood, making Bal jump, but within seconds we have a roaring fire.

"Aren't you tired? I heard you guys did a lot of walking today when you were helping Ren find ingredients." I say as I settle down next to him.

"No, I'm wide awake!" he shoots back defensively. I hold my hands up in surrender.

"Alright, I believe you. So what'd you plan on doing until you're tired?"

"Uh, I dunno'." he says, thinking for a moment. "Hey, can ya teach me that magic fire thing you did?"

"Well, I don't know if I can, but I think I have a book around here somewhere that can." I stand and cross to the chest at the foot of my bed, digging through my things to find and old destruction-type spell tome. I looted it from somewhere- a Forsworn camp, I think- and never got around to selling it. I sit back down, setting the book on my lap. I hold it out to Balamar, and he takes it, but I don't let go. He looks up questioningly. "This is not a toy, Bal. You only use this spell to light fires or in life-or-death self defense. Got it?"

"Yeah, got it. Promise."

"Good." I say, letting go and leaning back. The Argonian sets the tome on his lap and flips it open, reading. After acouple minutes, the book glows gold, the color swirling through the air as it consumes the book. In seconds, the destruction tome is gone, all that's left of it is the gold light that also fades away.

Bal puts his elbow on his knee, palm face-up, and squints at it. First there's a spark, then a small flame springs to life, crackling in his hand. He turns his palm out, towards the fire already blazing in front of us, and a thin torrent of flame shoots out, weak but constant. It hits the wood and merges with fire already going, making it's flames shoot up a good foot. After a few moments, Bal can't hold the spell anymore, and the torrent stops. He cracks a wide grin.

He practices more as the night goes on, resting as I tell one of my Wulfe and Fray tales- the exaggerated stories of my wildest times with Mercer and the guild. I've gotten through two stories, and Bal has gotten through four rounds of practice, before the pack starts to arrive back.

Kjor is back first, slightly tipsy but otherwise good. He settles down across the fire from me, and I send Balamar to bed; it's almost ten by now anyway, and time for him to be asleep. I fill my beta in on Igmund's task for me, and my plans for the Whiterun territory- and, specifically, Vilkas. We talk strategy for awhile, along with relocation plans. Everyone's pretty well settled in here, and though all their skills are easily transferable from one hold to another, there's still the prospect of getting everyone new jobs. Kjor, for one, would make a nice addition to Whiterun's guards once we have the plains, and I bet with alittle convincing I could get Balgruuf to give him a position as an officer of some kind. I say as much, and it's about then that the next Wolves arrive back.

Raen and Nekesh walk in, the latter dragging an unconscious Esmond; I don't smell blood, so he's just passed out, which doesn't do much to help my initial worry. "He didn't do anything stupid at Igmond's, did he?" I ask.

"No." Nekesh answers. "He slipped out with a girl 'bout a hour ago. We caught him coming back in as we were leaving and took 'em with us."

I relax somewhat. "Good. Thanks, by the way."

Nekesh dips his head in a nod. "Any time, chief." Then he disappears behind me as he drags Esmond over and dumps him on the Breton's bed.

"Little Breton bastard passed out when we were walkin' and nearly fell off a cliff. Shouldn't have tried to grab him, he nearly took us both down." Raen grumbles.

"Yeah, Markarth wasn't really planned with the safety of drunks in mind.

Raen grunts. "It's one way to keep the streets clean, though. Anyone being stupid'll fall to their deaths."

"Well ain't you just a ray o' sunshine?" Kjor says sarcastically.

"Bite me, Nord." she snarls back- then adds, to me, "I'm going to bed. Try to keep the noise down."

"'Night." I say, before Kjor can get a word in. His snark-and-sarcasm level goes up about ten notches when he's had a few.

They're the last people to arrive for quite a while; Elrohir and Ren are still pointedly missing, something that makes me smug and Kjor irritated with his prospects. As the night wears on, we trade a few more words, but by midnight the Nord has dozed off, and the fire has died down to embers.

When the Dunmer and Bosmer finally show up, I'm moved across the firepit from Kjor, leaning against one of the awning's support poles, starting to drift off. A soft footfall, barely detectable, jerks me to full awakeness, and to my left the pair freeze. In the dark, it'd be impossible for a man or mer to make out their faces, but my night visions and sense of smell confirm who it is- and what they've been doing. They stand close together, hands intertwined, clothes rumpled and hastily thrown on. Ren's short black hair is in tangles, and El's usual-neatly-combed bronze locks are in a tousled mess.

Both are now staring at me the way a deer stares at an unmoving hunter that just twitched.

"You two are back late." I comment offhandedly, voice quiet so as not to wake the others.

There are certain benefits to being a Khajiit. The racism and stereotyping aren't great, but being able to see Elrohir's cheeks go flaming red in nearly pitch-black darkness is definitely a perk.

"It's not what you think." he hisses back.

"I think it's none of my business what two adults do in their free time."

I see him relax instantly at the lack of teasing or sly comments. He can't see my ear-to-ear grin; a few years of wondering if anything would ever develop between them has finally resulted in a one-hundred-percent real- and adorable- couple.

"Look, we don't know- we haven't-" Talked about what kind of relationship you're in? Apparently you haven't learned to talk in complete sentences either. "Hold off on telling the others. Please."

"What the others get told is your problem. I didn't see anything."

Elrohir sighs in relief. "Thank you."

"Yeah, yeah. Whether you two are going to be together or not, just get it worked out fast. I don't need angsty love drama on top of dragons and Forsworn."

"You can stop talking now, Ri'Shima." I practically hear the eye roll.

"Go to bed and leave me alone, elf." I growl good-naturedly.

Elrohir grunts and picks his way around Kjor, slipping inside and to his bed.

"Thanks." Ren signs.

"'Welcome." I say, because she can't see for me to sign back. Then she, too, heads in for bed.

It's not long until everyone's breathing has evened out, telling me that they've fallen asleep, and once again I start to doze off.

I'm somewhere high, because the air is thinner than it should be, and the wind is whipping snow around, bringing visibility down. Some of the others are with me, I can smell, Kjor and Nekesh and Elrohir, and together we're fighting a dragon; the reptile's massive tail swings around out of nowhere, clipping my shoulder and sending me stumbling to the ground. As I push myself up, there's the sound of the dragon's jaws clamping down on armor and flesh, a sound that carves itself distinctly into my mind.

Kjor screams, an ear-piercing sound of animal pain.

I jerk awake, breathe coming in ragged gasps, heart thundering in my chest. Across from me, Martin Septim's silverish outline glows softly, alerting me to his presence almost instantly.

"Bad dream?" he asks. I rub my eyes with the heel of my hand, the energy the movement takes highlighting the leaden feeling that usually accompanies the dead man's presence.

"Something like that."

"So. You've talked to your expert. Am I real yet?"

"Kiss my furry ass, you undead prick. Can't I get a night of peace?"

"Not exactly an answer to my question, Ri'Shima."

"You want an answer to your question? How about answering one of mine. Are you actually Septim, or just- how did Uvela put it?- the form my guide happened to take?"

"No matter how long you refuse to believe me, I am who I've always said I was." He sees the look on my face, I guess, because he adds, "What?"

"If you weren't Septim, you wouldn't tell me, would you?"

The spirit's hands clench and unclench before he has enough control over himself to speak. "If I am to help you, it's going to require you putting some trust in me."

"Good thing I don't want your help."

He sighs deeply, as frustrated as he is tired. "It's late. We can try this again later." Then he's gone.

I let my head fall back against the support beam, waiting for my energy to return. When it does, I rise and stumble to my bed, plopping down on top of the covers. Too many things whirl around my head; a King in Cidna Mines and a ebony dragon and a Companion thorn in my side. Kjor's gut-wrenching scream.

Tomorrow will be a reprieve, at least. I can get back to what I'm best at: killing Forsworn, and eliminating threats.

I rise at dawn, and the others not long after, much to Esmond's displeasure. There's much to be done today before we can clear out Karthspire Camp at dusk tonight. If I were going alone, I wouldn't need all the preparations; I would just grab acouple healing potions (and possibly Kjor) and barge right in. Granted, I usually end up with at least one serious wound, but it's almost always nothing that a weak restoration spell and a few healing potions can't temporarily fix until I get back to Ren.

This time, though, it's not a mercenary job for the Jarl. It's a threat against the pack, that needs to be handled by the pack, and as such I want us all to be as prepared as possible. That starts with Kjor and I unrolling some paper and trying to draw an accurate map of the camp.

"So about El and Ren. Anythin' happen last night?" my beta asks as I'm using arrows to represent sentry patterns.

"Not sure." I say, not a complete lie; I didn't see them do anything, so I really have no way of definitively saying if they spent the earlier part of the night together. I'd bet my life they did, but still, it's not one hundred percent.

"What are you two talking about?" Elrohir asks, coming over to inspect my map.

"Yeah, Kjor, why don't you tell Elrohir what we're talking about?" I say with a devilish grin.

"Nothin' of importance, El." Kjor says quickly, shooting a glare at me.

"Alright, everyone, gather around." I call. By now, we've been up for about a half-hour, and the others are finished or finishing eating breakfast. Everyone shuffles over to the living room/awning, save Ren, who is going to be spending most of today making various potions with the help of the pups.

Once everyone's huddled around, I explain my initial plan, something that Elrohir and Kjor- though mostly the former- are quickly to offer suggestions about. The Bosmer is a brilliant strategist, admittedly, and doesn't have much more to correct or add in except in terms to who goes where.

Then we get to work getting ready, passing around a few whetstones to sharpen our blades. Everyone has at least one, from the magic-based Uvela and her small dagger to Nekesh with his twin orcish blades. I myself run it over the edge of the Blade of Whiterun, not intending to use the highly valuable Wolfsfang on lowly Forsworn; other than it being brand new, something I want to preserve, it has far more use as a concealed weapon that can be used in times of need, not as a sword for any and every everyday need.

Everyone bringing a bow re-strings them after we're done with the blades, taking a few practice shots at a tree down the slope and across the road from us. We take a long break then, acouple people making a few of their own, separate preparations. Nekesh and everyone who needs armor repaired or refitted head into Markarth. They're back just as lunch is done, Nekesh carrying something steel in his hands, judging by the gleam. When he gets closer, I can make out that it's a helmet.

"What's that?" I ask, and Nekesh tosses it to me. I catch it easily.

"Your early birthday present, chief. You need it for today."

I usually didn't wear helmets- Khajiit ears don't go comfortably with any helmet- but Nekesh has nailed down a unique design that works for me. It's a version of an old Nordic style of armor, specifically the helmet shaped like a bear's head. Nekesh's spin on this a helmet shaped like a wolf's head- the 'muzzle' overhanging alittle more, the angles of the 'face' alittle sharper, to be able to distinguish the wolf-helm from the bear one. The other thing about the wolf-helmet is the ears- actually ears, hollow and fitted to my own. It's the only style of helmet I'll wear, and I lost my last one when I was captured before Helgen.

"Thanks." I say. "Lunch is ready."

There's not much to do after we wait; I wear the helmet for a bit, to get my ears used to the confinement. Usually they're free to twitch around, and there's a small adjustment period that can be slightly distracting. After awhile, though, I always get used to it, and pretty much forget about any discomfort.

When the sun starts to dip toward the horizon, we finally move out, going first to Markarth and dropping Bal and Fayla off at the Silver-Blood Inn, tipping Kleppr fifty septims to let them stay in one of the smaller rooms for an hour or two. We set them up in the little bedroom, Bal with a small backpack full of snacks, water canteens, and books and toys for both him and Fayla.

I give both the Argonian and Redguard a hug. "I'll see you two in a bit."

My beta pats Bal on the shoulder and ruffles the toddler's black hair, then follows my out, shutting the door behind him. I hear my son lock it behind him.

As we pass the bar, as I did the few times we've done this before, I stop and say to Kleppr, "Anything happens to them while I'm gone, and the Divines themselves wouldn't be able to stop what I'd do to you."

"I know, I know." he says, waving it off, but he gulps slightly as he turns to a customer who's stepped up to the bar. I stroll out the doors, Kjor at my side.

"Do ya have to try and scare 'em to death every time?" he asks.

"I don't have to, but it's mildly comforting."

My beta snorts, but doesn't say more on it. We head back to the Den, regrouping with the others, who are now dressed in armor. For Esmond and Nekesh, whose armor have become their everyday outfits, this is no big change, nor is Uvela's usual mage's' robes, but the others look distinctly ready for battle. Raen dons the armor of an Imperial Legate, plumed helmet and all, the ensemble just slightly out of date and worn; her mother's from the Great War, she said, only worn for a few months and one battle before the war ended. Elrohir is in a dark-brown adaption of the Dark Brotherhood armor, and Ren, standing at his side, is in a full set of leather armor, at least ten potions lining her belt and another dozen on the leather, pocket-lined length of leather strapped diagonally across her torso- over the left shoulder and resting on her right hip, cinched tight so as not to move around too much.

Kjor and I, for the most part, are also always in our armor, so after I make sure all the straps are as tight as they should be and Kjor grabs his sheild, we set off in two groups: the team that will travel along and attack from the east bank, containing Esmond, Elrohir, Ren, and myself, and the one that will do the same from the west bank, Kjor leading Uvela, Raen, and Nekesh. Sunset is fast approaching, and by the time Karthspire is in the ravine below us, dusk has settled over the country.

Below us, sentries are changing shifts, and scouting parties are returning for the night; the time of day ensures we're getting all the residents of the camp in one attack. We set up, Esmond and I drawing our bows and nocking arrows. I divvy up our targets; with the bows, from this vantage point, the idea is to take out the guards and scouts with bows of their own, so that the Forsworn quickly lose their option of long-range attack. In a close-quarter fight, against even just Nekesh and I, they wouldn't last minutes.

I sign to Ren, who passes it on to Elrohir. The Bosmer shoots a single ball of fire into the air, the brightest and strongest Destruction spell he knows. The sight turns the heads of some of the bandits below, but they don't have a chance to raise the alarm, because it's then that Kjor and Raen, out of sight somewhere on the opposite bank, open fire on the camp.

Two Forsworn scouts reporting into Lund go down first, jerking everyone's attention to them and the throne dais the Briarheart has set up, and in that diversion Esmond and I dispatch another two sentries in seconds. We've reloaded and drawn the bows back for a second volley before all of the bandits have even emerge from their tents, and with our combined firepower, four more bowmen have gone down before the Forsworn even have a solid bead on us.

That's all the leeway we get, though, because Lund is up and shouting orders over the barking of his penned wolves and hounds. He's unafraid of the arrows, apparently, stupidity that only this once won't get him killed; I offered to let Raen kill him, as she and the pups were the ones he put in danger, but she passed it up, and he's mine. I made it explicit that I wanted him saved for the end unless it was absolutely necessary.

Of twenty-two residence, eight are now down, and under their leader's orders the fourteen left split up and start up the slope for us, seven towards each bank they were closest to. The few people with bows still alive seem to have been closest to our side, and arrows whiz upward in front of us, not coming nearly close enough to hit us; they have a vague idea where we are, but in the near-dark and confusion, they don't have a clear bead on us yet. I fire down at them, getting one through the neck, and Elrohir pierces another through the stomach.

Across the bank, Lund is using his throne for cover, and someone has given him a bow, letting him fire up the slope as he urges his sword-and-mace wielding bandits up it. I focus, letting my world narrow to the tip of my arrow, aiming it first at his legs, then bringing it in a straight line up to his chest to compensate for the distance.

I relax my fingers calmly, letting the string snap forward off them, watching as the arrow sails straight, and then slightly down, piercing the Breton in the shin as he stands; I meant to get him in the hip, but he still crumples, leg unable to take his weight.

From the left of Lund's stone platform, I see a familiar, hunched figure emerge from a rocky alcove, firing gigantic blasts of fire and lightning in the general direction of Kjor and his team. The camp's Hagraven has finally come out to play, and it ends my team's part of our long-range assault. We need to get down to their level and draw the Forsworn to us so Kjor can get that thing taken care of.

"Esmond, get us down there!" I shout, dropping my bow; for a battlemage, the Breton knows little magic, really alot more battle than mage, but seconds later I'm lifted from my feet by his telekinesis spell and hurled down our slope, into the midst of the Forsworn starting to scale it below.

My feet hit a stone floor, as we're just outside of some kind of cave ruin, my blade out seconds before I ever get there. I'm literally right in the midst of the four remaining Forsworn who tried to get to us, two about five feet to my right, one directly in front of me, and one to the left of him. It's this left-most person I lunge at the moment my feet hit solid ground, the blade in my right hand going up and to the left to execute a powerful, werewolf-strength diagonal down-swing. She brings her mace up to block just barely in time, but the blow nearly rips it from her grasp, and I bring my free hand back as though to punch, flicking my claws out and driving my arm forward, jamming my left-hand claws into her neck. Her eyes widen in shock, a gurgling sound coming from her throat, not being able to produce actual words with my claws in her jugular. I twist my hand viciously and pull it free, spraying blood everywhere as the body falls.

Her companion to my right lets out an enraged battlecry and swings one of his twin blades at me, immediately followed by the other, and it's only because of years of sparring with Mercer that I'm quick enough to take a half-step back, barely out of reach of the first blade, and get my own sword up in time to block the second.

Metal clangs on metal as Esmond and Elrohir join the fight, both taking on an opponent. In the end, the three of us end up taking care of our targets at about the same time. As I turn from the new body on the ground to check on the, the Bosmer is pulling one of his twin daggers from a Pillager, and Esmond is stepping around a Forsworn with an ice spike through his chest.

We all exchange glances, taking in the state of the other; Elrohir has a deep cut along his left cheekbone, but otherwise, the pair are okay. Ren drops down next to us, not much use in combat, but as our field medic she quickly crosses to the Bosmer and gets to work with a healing spell.

This small break is interrupted by Nekesh's angry bellow of a battle cry, and before I'm even sure of what's going on I've turned and am running, sprinting across the wooden bridges as fast as I can, Esmond on my heels and the both of us bound for the opposite bank. I take in what's happening on the way; Kjor has just swung his shield hard enough into a Forsworn's head to dent the skull and deliver a killing blow, his opponent the last Reachman besides Lund, who's on the ground in front of his throne, Raen's sword at his neck.

Nekesh is hurling himself down the stairs of Lund's stone platform, meeting the Hagraven at the base of the steps. Fireballs and lightning bolts crash into the chestplate of his iron armor or scorch his arms, neither of which slow him in the least. At close range, the creature manages to rake it's claws across Nekesh's head, the only thing it has time to do in the split second before his one-edged Orcish blades severe her head from her shoulders and her hips and legs from her torso. What remains of the Hagraven hits the ground in three separate, blood-pouring parts.

I skid to a stop about five feet from the Orc and decimated body, watching him wearily. Blood oozes from the angry red burns across both his upper arms, and drips down his face from the three deep gouges that run from the right side of his head to almost the edge of his eye. His chest heaves for breath, a wild look about his face. I grab Esmond's arm when he tries to step past me, giving Nekesh some space to get a handle on the famed Orcish blood-rage. After several long seconds, his breathing comes easier, and his face loses some it's tension.

"You good?" I ask.

He nods, then winces. "Nothing I can't handle, chief."

"Esmond, get Ren. He needs those looked at as quickly as possible." I glance up the stairs, where Kjor and Raen wait with the only survivor- Lund, the young Briarheart whose men almost killed Raen and the pups a few weeks ago. My eyes' usual ember glows more vibrant, something I can't see, but know because my beast blood comes snarling to the surface.

I take the stairs up slowly, deliberately, keeping myself- and my instincts- under tight control. If they had actually harmed them, if there had been so much as a scratch on Raen or either of my children before the others got there to intervene, I would've already ripped him literally limb from limb, but at the minute I can settle for predatory and foreboding.

Raen takes a step back and sheaths her sword as I finally step onto the landing, Lund glancing from the Imperial to the Khajiit in Imperial armor. Kjor has slid his shield from his arm and sheathed his blade, for the purpose of leaving his hands free to drag the Briarheart to his feet now.

Lund cries out in pain as it jostles the arrow still in his left shin, and if it weren't for Kjor holding him up, he'd probably fall again. In tradition with most Briarhearts, his chest is bear, showing off the pit in his chest where the artificial heart sits, barely protected by some kind of unidentified organic material. It reminds me of sinew or vines, though I think it's neither. The also-traditional elk/deer helmet has been knocked from his head, his face, defiance etched across it, showing how young he really is; twenty-five or twenty-six, the youngest of his rank I've encountered so far.

"Anyone who wants to can leave now." I call to my packmates, not taking my eyes from the Breton. When it comes to my bouts of creative violence in situations like this, my Wolves are divided into three groups: the ones who don't approve of it in the least, (Esmond, Ren and Uvela), the ones who will only let me go so far before they intervene, (Kjor and Elrohir), and the ones who see it as an effective eye-for-and-eye justice system (Nekesh and Raen).

"I'm out." Esmond says automatically. I nod.

"Fine. Check the bodies and tents for valuables first. No use letting anything go to waste."

"Aye aye, Captain." he replies, only half sarcastic, before strolling off towards the tents.

"Ren, you staying or going?" I ask, tearing my gaze away from Lund for the first time.

"If I go, he needs to come with me." Ren signs, patting Nekesh on the good side of his face to demonstrate which he she refers to. She's holding her other hand above the burns on his right arm, her palm alight with a strong healing spell that has new skin knitting together over the burnt, damaged patches.

"I'm staying, chief." Nekesh's baritone announces. Ren's hand closes on his ear, and he tries to pull away, something that only stretches his ear and makes him yelp. Both the Dunmer's hands are now occupied, so she can't sign, but the pointed glare she gives him is communication enough that his opinion has been overruled. Elrohir, having strolled over with Ren, the gash across his cheek healed, grins from ear to ear.

"Well, that's settled. Uvela, go with them, will you? Neither of them are in a shape to be wondering the Reach."

"I swear on my life, I am fine- ow!" Nekesh's sentence cuts off as Ren pinches his ear again.

"Raen, stay or go?"

The Imperial glances to Lund, a murderous look on her face. "I think I'll stay for the show." she growls.

That leaves Raen, Kjor, and Elrohir, plenty to help me light the wooden platforms and bridges on fire before we leave; you want to get rid of weeds, you tear up their roots, after all

"Why'd you stay, El?" I ask.

"Someone has to keep things from getting out of hand."

"I thought it was Kjor's job to babysit me?"

"It's my job to babysit the both of you. Your mighty beta sometimes go along with more than he should."

He's not wrong on that; Kjor's line in the sand regarding how far I can and can't go tends to vary, depending on the situation and victim. It's something I don't feel the need to talk about; the people you meet in Thalmor dungeons tend to have morals that waver, and Kjor manages to keep them steady about ninety percent of the time.

By the time everyone's either gathered with me or set off for home, I've wiped my bloody sword on a dead man's fur armor, sheathed it, and drawn a dagger that I twirl around my hand idly. Elrohir moves to Kjor's side, both of them taking one of Lund's arms so the Nord doesn't have to do it all on his own, and I stroll casually up to the Breton.

"Did you know," I tap the flat of the blade on the Breton's chest, inches away from his half-exposed heart, "That theres a rumor that says when a Briarheart gets his new, well, heart, he no longer feels emotions?" I slip the knife in between the unidentified tendrils that cross the pit his heart rests in, the tip just barely grazing the edge of organ when it expands. The Breton's face betrays no emotions, but his breath comes shakier, and his heartbeat speeds up. "I don't think that's exactly true. I've seen enough Briarheart's faces in the second before I rip this thing-" I slice the knife back towards me, slicing on of the tendrils, and Lund lets out a strangled cry, "From their chests."

The Forsworn leader's breath comes in ragged gasps, his eyes blazing with hate and pain. "Quit yer yappin' and get it over with, cat." he snarls challengingly. I smile, cold and emotionless.

"I was going to, originally." I admit, tapping his cheek with the flat of the knife, "But then I saw this grand little fighting cage you've set up." Fear enters his eyes finally, and he glances to the giant iron cage below us, and the wolf and dog pens attached to it. "Let's test it out, shall we?"

"Ri'Shima-" Elrohir cuts in, but I hold my hand up.

"Not this time, El. I want to make an example of our friend here, and what more poetic way then pitting him against wolves? If you don't want a hand in it, feel free to go. This is happening either way."

Anger flashes across the Bosmer's face, and he drops Lund's arm and steps back, Raen immediately taking his place. I turn and stroll away, making a 'come' gesture with the knife over my shoulder, and Kjor and Raen follow behind me, dragging a struggling Lund between them. He doesn't get free by the time we've turned off the main wooden bridge and stand before the iron cage. I open the door, holding it open for them, and they throw the Breton through with enough force that he hits the ground and skids to the opposite side, hitting the bars a good ten feet across from me.

I shut and lock the door before he can even attempt to rise- which he does, pulling himself up the bars until he can stand by leaning against them. I nod to my two packmates, and they start to make their ways to either river bank, one going for each animal-containing pen.

"Yer goin'na regret this, you heathen cur. The others'll get you, mark my words." he snarls, voice a mix of fear, anger, and desperation.

"The others? Hah. If the other Forsworn attack me or mine after they've found the state we leave this place in, than they'll deserve it when I destroy them."

Kjor opens his pen by leaning over the fence and hitting the smacking it with his sword, putting werewolf strength behind the blow. After the third solid hit, the wood breaks, and the gate springs open. As soon as he backs away, the wolves dart down the bridge/tunnel towards the cage, the smell of blood putting speed into their limbs. At nearly the same time, Raen gets the gate to the feral dog pen open, and they rush in from the other side.

I turn away as Lund starts shouting curses at me, strolling to Raen's side of the bank. Kjor and Elrohir group up on the opposite bank, and we start to set fire to the wooden bridges, using whatever flame-based destruction spells we know. The wood is over water, and some of it is wet, but after several minutes of throwing fireball into it and ignoring Lund's screams, it catches and starts to burn. I wave to my beta, and he and Elrohir shoot one last fire spell each into the wood and then ascend up their slope.

Raen and I start to do the same; she's above the cave roof, about where I started out, when I hear a bawling whine. The fire is starting to really get going now, but I remember an item on Bal's birthday list, so I jog back to the dog pen, sticking close to the bank's rock outcropping to avoid the heat. It takes a Khajiit's night vision to be able to see the two small lumps in the corner of the pen, and I vault in and grab them, one under each arm. Then I hurtle the fence to get back out, joining Raen above the river valley with a pair of weeks-old puppies just as the camp below is truly starting to be consumed by an inferno.

"What're those for?" she asks, motioning to the squalling pups.

"Presents for the kids. Bal was wanting a dog."

I give one to her, and she cradles it to her chest, gentler with it than a stranger would think her personality allows. The Imperial turns and starts to walk, wanting to make the trek back to the Den, but I pause to watch the flames dancing below us. Martin appears beside me, his outline faint, barely visible this time.

He, too, is watching the flames as he mumbles, "And you still doubt that you're a dragon."