[A/N]: Around the time of this update I succeeded in uploading my first YouTube video, huzzah! It is Elder Scrolls related, and just the beginning of what I hope will be a consistent stream of similar videos. A while ago I scored an orchestral arrangement of some of Skyrim's atmospheric and beautiful in-game music and now I've finally posted it online. Search for Skyrim, An Orchestral Medley by The ShoutStream if you want to watch/hear it!

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-Nurrkha'jay-

The thunderstorm eased as the river wound into view—swollen from the night and morning's heavy downpour.

Nurr, who was very much soaked and disgruntled enough, looked upon the Karth with a surly sigh. He checked his horse at the sight of water running over the road, turning the dirt track into mud. "Have I ever told you I'm not an Argonian?" he said dryly.

"Nor am I." Lio gave a rueful grin. "Hence why I wanted to return sooner."

"Return to what—cold and black and Brothers wasted in the drunken glory of their own success?" Nurr gave a snort. "I preferred Eagle's Rest for just this reason."

"It wouldn't have made a difference; you can't control the weather." Lio spurred his horse into the sludge. Nurr followed, resigned to the world that was his life. His shoulder was really playing up under his armour, which desperately needed airing.

They trudged in silence for a while, the overflown river lapping at their mounts' bellies, until they came into the sheltered chasm, cliffs of rock and earth rising up around them. It was especially misty here, dampness clinging to Nurr's face. That was good. He checked over his shoulder for stalkers, just in case. Even in the fog and the beginnings of a hangover on their way, his naturally enhanced senses of sight, sound and smell were not to be questioned.

Dragonsong rumbled off the cliffs of stone. Nurr's ears twitched. "Miles off," he muttered, "hunting, as they always are."

Lio nodded. "I think we've had enough dragonslaying for one day."

They swam the horses through the river, which helped remove some of their acquired mud, before kicking them up the steep pebbly slope. Nurr had trodden this path more times than he cared to count. His horse had probably done so even more. They climbed the rise and the mist swallowed them, sheathing them from any unfriendly eyes below.

At the top of the rise Lio slid from his mount, heavy boots soundless in the thick, dew-laced grass. Nurr slid after him, relieved to stretch his legs. "No sentry," Lio muttered, scanning the cave mouth. "Of course. I bet they're going to dump that happy task on the last one back."

Nurr curled his lip. "It's not going to be me. I'm going to bed."

"Oh, no you're not," said Lio, smiling. "You have to go and report to Emilyn about the ruckus we stirred up in Eagle's Rest."

Nurr lashed his tail. The headache was progressively growing worse, perhaps from the revelation of having to face his Grandmaster. "Come on, she likes you better," he tried.

"What, the average Imperial swordsman to the Khajiiti miracle archer who likes his drink just a little too much?" Lio shook his head and was the first to step into the cave. "Come on, we're late enough as it is. I'd kill for some sleep."

"You did, and will again," Nurr muttered after him. He cast his senses through the mist a final time before following Lionus into the Karthspire.

For a while, as they progressed through the dark, narrow passages of stone, all they heard was the clattering hooves of their weary horses, blackness pressing all around them. The walk always made Nurr think back to his days as an initiate; when the older had played pranks on the younger in this underground night—pretending the mountain was collapsing on them, tripping them up in the gloom, or simply running through the tunnel screaming, "THE DRAGONMEN! THEY'VE FOUND US!"

Nurr smirked. Ah, those good old days.

Light filled the world ahead, soft and silvery, shining through the natural fissure in the ceiling. Nurr spared a glance around the old ruins embodying this cave. They looked neglected and empty of life at first glance, so abandoned it was as if there was nothing here whatsoever but gathering dust. The walls didn't even seem to go anywhere.

Of course, Nurr had been with the Blades for far too long to appreciate concealment was the key to survival.

"Phew." Lio rolled his shoulders and looked around. "Who would've thought—that beast will be well and truly rotting by now. Thanks to you of course. This—" With an exaggerated air of disgust, Lio raised the sodden, stained ends of his cloak. "—is also thanks to you."

Nurr grinned. "Ah, you love me."

"Unfortunately, it appears I do." Lio raised his voice. "I suppose we have to see our own mounts to the stalls, then?"

The initiate hurried from the shadows, treading far too noisily. The lad was big, almost with eye level at Nurr, but then again size was natural in an Orsimer. He was meek, however, muttering an apology to them both as he grabbed at the reins.

Nurr was terrible with names; Lio, however, went and clapped the boy on the shoulder, greeting him like an old friend. "How goes the training, Slag? Did we miss much in our extended leave?"

Slag, Nurr remembered, the orphan Orc they'd rescued from the stables on a visit to Markarth, or whatever it was the dragons called it now. That had been four years ago. Slag proved inept at any sort of weaponry and shied at the sight of blood, but he made an adept smith and was the best to work with the horses.

Slag grinned, his tusks stretching his massive mouth. "Some of the Brothers had a fest. A couple chucked. The Grand-lady had a time trying to get them to clean it up."

Nurr had quite forgotten Slag's informality.

"And where is Emilyn now?" Lio wondered.

Slag shrugged. "Be in the book-hold, I think, talking with old one-leg."

"Mind what you call our dear master-of-arms," Lio tutted lightly.

"Let him off, that's quite good," Nurr smirked, "I might use it at some point. And what is Jor doing in the library? He can't even read."

"Maps, he can," Slag replied, and led the horses away.

Nurr exchanged a glance with Lio. "Well," said the latter briskly, "we know where to go, then. At least, you do."

"I'd rather my chambers first," Nurr murmured, thinking wistfully of his comfortable cot.

"If you so much as take one step in that direction, I'm going to set fire to your pillow," Lio promised solemnly. "Now come on. It's not my fault you've gone and drunk yourself dead again."

"If I wanted to be dead I'd have let that dragon do it," Nurr grumbled, wearily following Lio to the upper levels of the Temple. The climb passed with surprising swiftness, until at last they were on the landing that led into the Temple itself. In previous times, Nurr would have glanced at the dais on the floor and thought of how over one hundred years ago the Dragonborn had knelt and offered a sample of his blood to the ancient stone, providing sanctuary to the near-forgotten Order; today Nurr hardly thought about it. He'd had enough of dragons for one day.

Then he and Lio were in the main entrance hall. Nurr rolled his shoulders, hissing through his whiskers as the sore one gave a painful twinge, and sighed. "We're finally home."

"A pity we missed all the fun," Lio observed mournfully.

Qualified and sober Blades moved through the Temple, either on guard duty (the worst) or wandering from idle boredom. The ones freed from duty moved about in their comforts, usually an old tunic complete with breeches and boots. The long table was empty and scrubbed, the chairs containing studying initiates instead of feasting warriors. Nurr spared them a nostalgic glance; it hadn't been too long ago when he'd been seated and doing the very same, poring over old tomes and texts, deciphering the dragons' complicated written language, memorizing dates and noted Blade heroes and events from the Dragon Wars past. He'd forgotten half the academic stuff, but Nurr had never been a bookish fellow. There was a thick hush in the great hall, broken only by the scratches of quills and accursed mutters and the gentle turning of yellowed pages.

Nurr and Lio quietly sauntered by the studying initiates, nodded to fellow Blades as they passed, and traversed the hall into the archives. Sure enough, they heard Grandmaster Emilyn's voice resonating from within.

Lio smirked. "Good luck."

"Aren't you coming?" Nurr protested.

Lio winked. "I'm going to bed!"

Nurr gaped. "No fair!"

"Of course there's not." Lio clapped Nurr's bad shoulder and grinned. "Better go see the healer before bed, too."

Nurr muttered darkly after Lio's retreating back, then turned bad-temperedly into the library.

He found Emilyn quickly amid the maze of shelves, each book being tended to by archivist acolytes and initiates on chores. She was leaning over a table that had a large sheet of yellowed, crinkled-edge parchment folded over it, pinned down in the corners. Jor stood beside her, as did the Temple's Archivist, Rendal. The aged Altmer looked troubled, stroking the silver in his beard while wizened brown eyes scanned the map. Jor looked just as solemn—though then again, he only ever was solemn or surly. Still, there seemed something different about the way he furrowed his brow today.

Emilyn was the first to notice Nurr's return. Instantly she wore a disapproving frown and straightened. Nurr took a preparing breath. And here we go…

"I suppose I can expect either an apology or an excuse as to why you didn't accompany the rest of us home, again," she said in clipped tones.

Nurr used to quail under those sharp blue-gray eyes of hers. Now he was too tired or too used to such reactions to care. He held up his hands in a gesture of peace. "I like to celebrate on my own terms," he defended.

"Mhm." Emilyn folded her arms. "I had to send Lionus after you again. Don't you think he has better things to do than chase you up like some disobedient dog?"

"Or cat," Jor remarked.

Nurr was sober enough to shoot him a direct glare, then turned back to Emilyn. "You know me," he rasped. "Ale has an irresistible draw. Like a moth to a candle."

"Fly too close and you'll be burned," Emilyn frowned. "So you were in Eagle's Rest. Again. Drinking." The anger had faded from her voice. It was now blunt with exasperation.

"Again drinking," Nurr affirmed. He struggled not to let his growing headache show. "It helps dull the pain."

"So does medicine," Jor grunted.

Nurr stoically ignored him. "There was a disturbance while I was in the Tankard," he went on. "Dragonmen."

Emilyn's eyes narrowed. "Brilliant. And?"

"Lio and I took care of them."

"Well, obviously that was necessary, but what else?" Emilyn straightened a little more. "What were they doing in Eagle's Rest? Alduin's supporters don't travel that sparsely into the stonehold, and Eagle's Rest is not so far away from Sky Haven." She furrowed her brow. "Maybe they're catching on at last. Were they looking for Blades?"

"They found two and sorely regretted it," Nurr offered.

"Answer her question, cat," Jor snapped.

Nurr refrained from pressing two fingers into his throbbing temple, with difficulty. "Lio didn't have too much time to interrogate them. They were onto us pretty fast, and then, of course, they were put down and we left."

Emilyn sighed. "Damn it. You could have kept one alive and brought him back for questioning." She didn't brood on it for too long. She turned back to the map. "In any case, other dragonmen are going to hear about the public slaughter of three of their fellows, and Eagle's Rest will be swarming with them soon enough. I presume you're already aware that you will never return to that town as long as the World-Eater reigns?"

For the rest of my life? Yes I do. Nurr gave a curt, frustrated nod.

"That might be a good thing," Jor remarked. "Now you might actually start coming back with us on time."

"Hush, Jor," Emilyn murmured distractedly. Her eyes were trained on the map once more. "In any case, treacherous mortals aside, we need to return to what we were discussing previously. We've killed another dragon in the stonehold, and a minor—others of its kind won't hear of this for months, probably, and by that time the flesh will have rotted and our scent will have faded." There was a new cross on her map, marking another extinguished dragon lair. "We'll have to arrange monitors to ensure other dragons don't get an idea and move in."

This was all familiar stuff to Nurr. He fidgeted, thinking of his cot. The healer could wait a few hours. "Can I go?"

"You'll leave when Grandmaster Emilyn dismisses you herself," Jor growled.

Nurr subsided with a resigned nod. He'd forgotten how frustrating Jor was, really. Acting like he was deputy. Sure, the man was wise in the ways of war, combat and dragonslaying, but he was well out of action. Nurr's eyes locked onto the Nord's wooden left leg and armless left sleeve, the crutch he leaned heavily upon, and the fire scars disfiguring his throat and face. Eighteen years ago he'd been hit full-on with a surge of dragonfire during a lair raid, and was lucky to escape with the loss of two limbs and his pride, in the preservation of his life. Since then, he'd taken over as mentor to initiates training in the art of weaponry. Nurr remembered training under the unsatisfied Nord who had an inane gift of finding something wrong with everyone's battle stance.

"Enough, Jor," Emilyn told him patiently. "Nurrkha'jay, you'll stay for a few moments more. We need you on this next lair raid."

Nurr lashed his tail. "Do not tell me we're heading off right now."

"Of course not," Emilyn answered. "We never go lair raiding two days in a row. It is, however, planned." She tapped a spot on the map, southwest of the Karthspire, and said, "We've discovered one of Alduin's active loyalists, Lotjoorkriid, has taken up residence two days' ride from here."

Nurr pricked his ears. So that was why everyone had been solemn-faced when he'd entered. He recounted what he knew of Lotjoorkriid from his studies; a Red whose Thu'um, according to the few rare survivors of his attacks, consisted of no less than fire, ice, ice form, ethereal and dismay. There was a good chance that he'd learned a numerous others; his history book had been long outdated. He was a dangerous heartless creature who delighted in razing mortal villages and devouring anything that couldn't fly.

"And let me guess," Nurr said dryly, "you want me to go along with you."

Emilyn nodded. "Your skills are needed again, Nurrkha'jay. You have a habit of killing our enemies with one well-placed shot. Well, that might be just what we need to even our chances against him."

"I can't promise any good results from this," said Nurr. "I haven't had any experience with Reds before."

"I believe I can help with that," Rendal inputted softly.

Nurr glanced at the Archivist. He'd nearly forgotten the aged Altmer was even there.

With small, shuffling movements, Rendal advanced closer to the table, but this time he lay across the map a scroll that looked even more woebegone. When it was folded out and the corners tacked down, Nurr saw it was an anatomy paper. He'd seen and studied plenty of these during his days as an initiate, though this one he hadn't seen at all. Still, of all the paperwork he'd ever been presented with, analyzing anatomy papers was his greatest bookish strength.

"So you've found it," Emilyn muttered. "And we're absolutely certain of Lotjoorkriid's type."

"Positive," Jor growled. "I had Falen and Screema-Lei scout the dragon's den when it was out, and it has all the signs of a Red dragon lair. Massive hoarders, Reds are, and fierce defenders of their nest. There were as many bones as coins, and that bastard's wealth could have fed a city."

Nurr decided to support Jor on this one. He didn't trust Falen with successfully analyzing a dragon den—the Wood Elf's perception of such things was hazy at the best of times—but Screema-Lei knew all dragon types like the quills on his scaled head. Nurr had known the Argonian since his days as an initiate. He hadn't been the nice sort, the one who went about making friends or even comprehend a joke, but Screema-Lei was intelligent, and a quick study, both in the scrolls and books and out on the field.

"So Lotjoorkriid is certainly a Red," he said, leaning over the anatomy paper. The Red dragon was eloquently illustrated in black ink and scarlet dye, and beneath it lay coal sketches of its skeleton and muscles. Weaknesses were clearly outlined in spots of yellow. "Well, the eyes are the weakest point, as usual," he muttered.

"But a Red dragon's throat is better protected," Rendal murmured, gesturing at his own with his gnarled yellow hands. "Their crest of horns protects from jaw to brain, and guard the soft flesh around its jaw with swordpoint precision. I doubt even you could get an arrow in there while the dragon's moving."

Nurr saw what he meant, grudgingly. "The throat isn't so heavily scaled as other dragon types," he observed.

"But the flesh is thicker," Rendal answered. "Only a crossbow could hope to vitally puncture." He tapped the chest. "The collarbone is higher-set, and the heart is protected by two layers of scales beneath it."

"Figures." Nurr curled his lip. "I never go for the heart. Dragons can actually survive heart wounds from tiny things like arrows. But the brain…" He tapped the head. "You can never go wrong with the eye."

"You must be careful, then," Rendal said softly. He tapped the skull. "The optic nerve travels through a much narrower passage, and there's even a slight bend in the passage of bone between eye and brain. You would have to hit the eye on a perfect certain angle for an instant kill."

"It can't be too different from a Blood," said Nurr. "Bloods have the narrowest optic nerve passage of all the dragon types. They're an absolute pain to kill through the eye."

"But you've done it?" asked Jor sharply.

"Of course. Eyes are my style."

"Then that's the best plan to take against Lotjoorkriid," Emilyn decided. "Rendal—for our swordsmen, where are the best places to aim for?"

Rendal tapped the paper. "The wings will be tougher," he warned. "Reds are frequent fliers. Fire spells may prove effective to weaken the flesh, which can then be pierced more effectively by swords; however, if the swordsmen manage to cripple the beast in one wing, escape will be more difficult if it seeks to flee, and wing attacks will prove off-balancing. It may be at that point the Red refers to its tail and breath attacks. Shock attacks will stun and wind it. The mages should aim for the main arteries to still the flow of blood at this point in the throat—" He tapped. "—the base of the neck, and any opened wounds. Reds, like Frosts, also have a place vulnerable for shock attacks, though it proves precise to reach, and perfect timing is required: beneath the primary horns, on the underside of each foot, and the throat, when its maw opens to breathe or speak."

"I'll be sure to let those chosen to raid know," Jor rasped.

Nurr grumbled, rubbing his throbbing skull. "I don't really need to know all this…"

Emilyn's sharp glance dissolved into one of amused sympathy. "All right, Nurrkha'jay, you're dismissed. Go and lie down."

"Thank you, Grandmaster," Nurr said graciously.

"Oh, and you and Lionus are doing a demonstration to our initiates at midday today," Jor added with a nasty grin. "Did you forget?"

Nurr froze. "Shit," he swore. "I did forget."

"Best you keep your commitments," said Emilyn, eyes twinkling. "Remember what happened the last time you failed to keep one?"

"Perfectly," Nurr muttered, stalking away. "You sent me on a lair raid."

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