Template of a Hero

by HelloMyNameIsEd

The Dragonborn is thought to be what every good Nord should be, but what happens when the fabled hero of Nordic legend is actually the farthest possible thing from a Nord? Archer must become the hero he believes Skyrim needs, but along the way he begins to learn about himself, love, and what being a hero is really about. Features an Argonian Dragonborn.

11. Takedown -Edited-

Underneath Kvatch, in the Dark Brotherhood's underground sanctuary, the three Speakers sat around their conference table, holding discussion. At the very center of the large round table, where the black hand insignia of the Brotherhood was imprinted into the tabletop, sat a single parchment: an assassination contract, which happened to be the subject of the debate between the three that had been going on for the last half hour.

"This one is still uncertain that taking on this contract is a good idea," Ri'Dato asserted. The Khajiit's icy blue gaze bounced between the two other Speakers. "This one is not sure if the Brotherhood is strong enough to let its presence be known."

"We have been waiting in the shadows long enough," came Galthor's retort. "The Dark Brotherhood is little more than a rumor in Cyrodiil, and that isn't helping the growth of our organization. If we want to survive, our numbers need to rise, and to do that, people need to know that the Dark Brotherhood still lives. We're been in a deep pit, my friend, but this contract—" he gestured to the parchment at the center of their table "—is our ladder out of it. If any job can grant us publicity we need, it's this one."

"But is this the right time for us to receive such attention?" Ri'Dato asked, placing his hands on the table and leaning closer. "Perhaps this job is a bit too… grand, for our purposes. If we were tasked to murder a minor lord, then I would not disagree, but this…"

The tabby grey Khajiit picked up the assassination contract and re-read it, as if making sure that he hadn't misinterpreted the message. He looked back up to meet Galthor's gaze. "We are being asked to kill the Guard Captain of the Imperial City. That will be certain to earn the wrath of many. Such publicity may end up killing us."

"You needn't tell us of the risk," Frande remarked, with his usual somber look. "We know of the dangers involved in going through with this plan, but I still believe that the benefits outweigh the risks."

"If we turn down this offer, then when do you think we'll get another one like it?" Galthor asked, raising a critical eyebrow at the Khajiit. "It isn't every day that we get a request to slay such a high-ranking authority. Besides, I don't believe we have anything to worry about — our sanctuary is completely hidden. Nobody knows where it is. If this place were easy to find, then would we not have been wiped out by now by the city watch?"

Ri'Dato stared at him, studying Galthor's expression for a long time. "Since it is apparent that there is nothing I can say that will dissuade the two of you, I will not bother. But the question remains: which of us will carry out such a high-priority mission?"

Galthor's answer was immediate. "Why, that would be Varan, of course."

Ri'Dato's tufted ears perked up upon the name's mention. "The Shadowscale? Hm… if anybody could succeed in killing the Guard Captain of the Imperial City, then it would be him."

"Indeed. I shall go fetch him now."

Galthor rose from his chair and exited the discussion chamber. A short walk later, he found himself standing before the Argonian's door. He rapped against the aged wood, hearing it echo within the room beyond. "Assassin, are you in here?"

"Yes, Speaker Galthor?"

The Bosmer's heart lurched when he heard the Argonian's voice from behind. He turned around to stare at the Shadowscale standing just a few feet away, giving him an innocent, questioning look. How in Oblivion did I not hear him approach?

Feigning nonchalance, Galthor cleared his throat and spoke. "Assassin. Follow me."

He walked past the Argonian and led him back to the discussion chamber. Once he was there, Galthor beckoned Varan to sit at one side of the table while he went to sit with the Speakers on the other side, across from him.

"Speakers," the Shadowscale greeted, bowing his head once in deference. When he looked back up, his golden eyes began darting back and forth as he studied the scene before him. Galthor had the feeling that those quick, perceptive eyes never missed even the smallest detail. It must've been his Shadowscale training. At length, the Argonian spoke. "May I ask as to why I've been summoned here?"

"I'm glad you asked," Galthor replied, taking the assassination contract from Ri'Dato's hands. He held up the white slip of paper. "Assassin, we have a very important job for you. The stakes are high, but we are confident that you have the skill necessary to succeed. This contract calls for the blood of Ultim Vigilem, Guard Captain of the Imperial City."

Galthor reached across the table to hand the contract to Varan. The Shadowscale accepted the parchment and began reading it. His horned brows drew closer together as he read, but otherwise he gave no indication of his thoughts. At last, he looked up at the Speakers. "Consider it done."

"Excellent," Galthor replied. He then reached into his pocket and drew out a small piece of parchment with the Black Hand insignia of the Dark Brotherhood printed on it. "Take this with you as well. When you slay Ultim, place this on his corpse to serve as a calling card."

At this, the Shadowscale shot him a look of utter confusion. "A calling card? May I ask why?"

"We intend to use this assassination to make the Brotherhood known," the Bosmer answered. "That calling card will let everyone in Cyrodiil know that the Dark Brotherhood is no mere rumor. They'll know that we exist, and we're strong."

"And with that, we'll be getting more assassination contracts, and new members," Frande added, his lips curling up into a pleased grin. "This is our first step to returning to our former glory."

Varan looked at the parchment one last time, before nodding. "Very well. It shall be done, sirs."

The door opened behind him. Everyone turned to regard the pair that came through the doorway. One was Nathaniel, the tall Redguard assassin. The other one was a stranger, clad in black, travel-worn leathers and bearing a loaded rucksack. A sack hood had been placed over his head, and his hands had been bound behind his back.

Frande was first to speak. "Nathaniel? What's the meaning of this?" he demanded.

"Found this one hanging by our hidden entrance," the man replied, shoving the stranger forward a step. He didn't give so much as a grunt of complaint. "Claims to be from the Dark Brotherhood, so I brought him here."

Hearing this caught the attention of every assassin in the room. "Dark Brotherhood, you say?" Galthor asked suspiciously. He looked to his fellow Speakers, only to see that they, too, had wary looks about them. Varan had already risen from his seat, a hand on his katana, but he made no further moves. At last, the Bosmer turned back to the brawny Redguard. "Take that sack off his head."

Nathaniel obliged, grabbing the sack covering the stranger's head and removing it, revealing the Argonian's face to them. Once his head was uncovered, his eyes opened, and his gaze immediately fell upon the men seated at the round table. Eyes like twin spheres of polished bronze set in a dark face flitted left and right as the newcomer studied the new faces before him. He sported onyx scales accented with blood red markings on his face, blending in well with his armor. He had the lean, strong build of an athlete, evident in spite of the leathers that covered him. A sword was sheathed at his side in a black scabbard decorated with eerie, red accents.

"Greetings, fellow assassins," said the lizard in a soft and hissing voice, his words roughened by a slight accent that usually belonged to non-native Argonian speakers of Cyrodilic. His posture was confident and relaxed as he bowed his head towards them. "I am glad to have finally met you all. It has been difficult making first contact. This cell of assassins has hidden itself well, I must say."

"Not well enough, if you managed to find it," Frande muttered loudly. There was a quiet rasp of steel against leather as the man pulled a dagger from his hip and began to idly toy with it. "Tell us why we shouldn't gut you here and now."

"Because if you did, then you would incur the wrath of our Dread Lord Sithis for killing a Dark Brother." Once again, the reptile spoke with the calm tenor of a man who was completely confident with his position. At least he behaves like an assassin: cool and levelheaded, Galthor thought.

Frande smirked at that, fingering the pommel on his dagger. "A Dark Brother, eh? What makes you think you're one of us?" the Breton asked.

"I wear the armor of a Dark Brother, do I not?" He gestured down with his head at the pitch-black leathers he wore, similar to what the Speakers were wearing.

"It takes more than wearing black leathers to be one of us," Galthor remarked. "Anybody can take a suit of leather and splash some paint on them. Do you have any concrete evidence of your history with the Dark Brotherhood?"

"Now hold on for just a moment," Ri'Dato interjected. Everybody turned their gaze on the Khajiit. He stared at the Argonian for a moment longer, before speaking. "What… is Life's surest Sanctuary?"

A few seconds of silence passed, before the lizard pulled back what little lip he had in a sharp-toothed smile. "Solitude, my Brother."

Ri'Dato blinked upon hearing those words, visibly surprised. Another moment passed, before his furry lips curled into a smile. "Welcome home, Brother."

"What, that was it?" Frande asked, surprised.

Ri'Dato shrugged. "He got the riddle correct. Only the Dark Brotherhood members know such information. It's as solid evidence as we can expect at this point."

"If that is the case, then I suppose you need not be restrained." Galthor turned back to the Redguard restraining the Argonian. "Nathaniel, if you could…"

The man undid the reptile's bonds with a grudging look about him. "It is good to find more of our Dark Family in this province," Ri'Dato commented, as the Argonian rubbed at his wrists gratefully.

The reptile nodded. "Indeed. It's good to see some fellow assassins after being in hiding for so long. Now that we've established my loyalties, I may give a proper introduction." The Argonian bowed his head in deference. "My name is Han-Zo. I expect that you've already heard of me?"

The Speakers all cocked a confused brow at him. "No, we haven't," Galthor replied. "Why should we?"

Han-Zo merely smiled, further stirring their confusion. The Argonian slowly turned his head until he was looking directly at Varan, who had remained completely silent throughout the entire encounter. "Well, I'd just assumed you had, since it seems that you've already recruited my single most skilled pupil."

As realization slowly dawned, all three Speakers' eyes widened in shock. There was a clang as Frande dropped the dagger he'd been toying with. Han-Zo turned back to the three and smiled. "What, are you telling me Varan has not told you of who I am? I was one of his teachers in Shadowscale training."

"You?" was all that Galthor was able to manage, still coming to terms with what he'd just learned. "You taught Varan? So you're a Shadowscale too?"

He nodded. "Indeed, one of the last of my breed. I'd thought that I was the last Shadowscale… until I entered this room, and saw one of my pupils in here."

"Varan, is this true?" Ri'Dato asked, making the mentioned Argonian the new center of attention.

The Shadowscale matched his gaze with that of each of the Speakers in turn. Galthor thought he could detect the slightest trace of rigidity in the Argonian's posture, before he bowed his head in answer. "Yes."

"You keep mentioning that he was one of your pupils," Frande commented, now leaning forward onto the table. "Elaborate on this."

Han-Zo shot Varan an amused look. "I can't believe you neglected to tell them of your upbringing…"

He turned back to the Speakers. "As you may know, Black Marsh discontinued the tradition of giving up Argonian children born under the sign of the Shadow to become Shadowscales. But I, as well as several other former Shadowscales, did not agree with this decree. We tried to resurrect our order, training our recruits in a hidden facility in Cyrodiil, safe from the jurisdiction of the authorities in Black Marsh."

"So there are more Shadowscales?" asked Galthor, hopeful.

The reptile shook his head. "No. Our hidden facility was discovered, and one day we found ourselves under attack by Imperial Legion forces. After repelling the initial assault, what remained of us made for Black Marsh, fleeing while the Legion's hounds pursued us. Unfortunately, just when we were about to reach the border, a second Legionary force intercepted us. Cornered as we were, we were forced to try and fight our way out. I managed to slip across the border to Black Marsh in the confusion, but the others were not so fortunate. I watched them surrender to the Legion forces from a hiding spot. After that, I'd presumed that I was the very last of my kind… until today."

Han-Zo turned to Varan and pulled back what little lip he had in a sharp-toothed smile. "It fills me with great pleasure to see there was one more survivor after all."

He turned back to the Speakers. "Now I come to you, fellow Brothers. I may not have been able to resurrect my order, but I remain loyal to this organization. With that said, I would formally like to request to join this Sanctuary. I'm an experienced Shadowscale, skilled with a blade and efficient at assassination."

Galthor looked at his fellow Speakers. Ri'Dato gave him a nod of assent. "This one thinks he should be allowed into our ranks. An experienced assassin like him is an extremely valuable asset."

"And he can train any new recruits like he did with Varan," Frande remarked with a slight grin. "Sounds like a good deal to me."

The Bosmer regarded Han-Zo and nodded. "Very well. We will allow you to join our Sanctuary, Han-Zo… under one condition."

Han-Zo gave him an intrigued look. "What might that be?"

Galthor gestured towards Varan. "We've sent Varan here to the Imperial City to murder its Guard Captain. For your first assignment as a member of this Sanctuary, I would like you to join him in his task. If you truly are as skilled as you say, both of you should come back alive."

A pause stretched out in the chamber as the Speakers waited to see how he would react. The veteran Shadowscale looked sidelong at his former pupil, before turning back and flashing the Bosmer a confident smile. "It shall be done. You have my word. But first, I'd appreciate it if you could tell me were I could leave my belongings," he remarked as he hefted the rucksack he carried. "I'd rather not be weighed down by it all."

"Nathaniel will show you to an empty room," Galthor replied, gesturing to the Redguard standing behind Han-Zo.

"Follow me," the husky man grunted, before turning and walking down the hall.

Han-Zo turned back to Varan once more. "Gather your things. I'll be waiting for you."

With that, Han-Zo turned and left without another word. Galthor noticed the way Varan stared at the other Argonian's departure, still gripping his katana's hilt — but not once did he perceive anything in Varan's body language that betrayed his true feelings. It was as pointless as trying to read the emotions of a granite statue.

"You heard him, Varan. You should get going as well," the Bosmer said. "The sooner you two kill Ultim, the better."

Varan stared at him for another moment, as impassive as any Argonian, before bowing his head. "As you say, Speakers. Farewell."

---

The journey from Kvatch to the Imperial City had taken them four days. It was the longest four days that Varan had ever experienced.

With Han-Zo as a traveling partner, the Argonian had taken to sleeping lightly and with a dagger nearby, as he had during Shadowscale training. He did not trust Han-Zo. The veteran Shadowscale had been a ruthless teacher during his days of training; he might just decide to test his former pupil's reflexes in a myriad of painful ways on the pretense of "ensuring he hadn't gone soft".

As it happened, however, Han-Zo barely spoke a word to him. For the most part, he seemed to almost ignore him entirely. Varan tried to read him a few times to gauge his state of mind, but he'd failed each time. The other Argonian showed no expression at all, ever. It was like trying to read a wall of stone; it was the way reading a Shadowscale was supposed to be. Despite this, he kept his guard up during the whole duration of their trip, until they finally reached their destination.

It was late afternoon when the pair entered the Imperial City. Both Argonians were garbed in long, drab gray hooded cloaks that concealed their armor. While the Brotherhood wasn't well known, much less the typical appearance of their members, guards tended to be more suspicious of strangers clad in suits of pitch-black leather. Their disguises worked well; none of the guards spared the two more than a passing glance as they began to walk the streets.

"What do we know about this man?" Han-Zo hissed lowly as they made their way down the curving street. At this time, most citizens had already retired for the day. A fair number of people still walked the streets with them, just enough for the guards' attention to not linger on any one person for long. "Do you know his schedule? Would he be in his office at this time?"

"I wasn't given any such information, but I doubt he's the type to stay in an office for long," Varan answered lowly. "The contract said that he used to be an Imperial Centurion not long ago, so he's still in good fighting shape. He may be inspecting his men out in the streets. Keep an eye out."

The two of them walked down the streets, working their way towards the center of the city after they'd cleared a complete circuit. Everywhere they went, Varan remained aware of everything happening in his surroundings at every moment, allowing no detail to escape him, no matter how small. Tall concrete walls formed concentric circles around the city. Scaling them would be difficult given the lack of footholds. City guards clad in steel plate patrolled the streets and stood at the corners, scanning their surroundings. Their posture was a bit slouched, and their eyes wandered. Must be waiting for their shift to end, Varan thought. That's good; they'll take longer to react to threats.

They'd nearly reached the very center of the Imperial City when Han-Zo nudged Varan's shoulder. "I saw him. He went back to the street we just came from. Market District."

Moving quickly, the pair passed under the archway and stopped at the corner. Varan's gaze immediately fell upon the bright red crest in the distance, decorating the helmet of the Imperial City's guard captain. Ultim strolled down the street, flanked by two of his guardsmen clad in Imperial steel plate. He was clad in ornate white steel plate armor, featuring two crimson dragons on the breastplate and embossed with golden designs.

Han-Zo spoke in a hissing whisper. "There he is. Looks like your judgment was right after all."

Varan looked at him in annoyance. "I expect you already have a plan in mind to kill him?"

Sharp white teeth shined out of a jet-black face from underneath the gray hood as Han-Zo smiled. He wasn't even looking at Varan; his focus was entirely on the guard they were going to kill. "No. I'll play nice this time, since this technically is your contract. So what's the plan?"

Varan thought for a long moment, watching the Guard Captain as he walked the streets, his stark white armor flitting in and out of sight as he passed by civilians on their way home. "Make a commotion that'll draw the attention of Ultim and his guards," he told him. "While they're distracted, I'll kill Ultim from behind, we take care of the two guards, and we'll flee after I've left the calling card."

The other Argonian smiled at him again, in a way that told Varan he had a much better plan than his in mind, but he remained true to his word. "As you wish," the Shadowscale veteran rasped, before setting off towards a street vendor. Varan chose to make his way over to a traveling bard playing on the street. He pretended to listen as he played a tune on his lute, waiting for Han-Zo's distraction to come into effect. It did not take long.

"Ten septims for a putrid cut of beef?!" he heard the Argonian snarl, so loud that it made the bard Varan was watching pluck a lute string too hard. "You tring to swindle me, Breton? This meat is rotten!"

The Argonian kept his eyes on the bard, but in his peripheral vision he could see Ultim and his guards looking this way. A few seconds of silence passed, where the salesman was probably trying to reason with the irate reptile, before Han-Zo snarled again, "Herbal seasoning? Herbs don't have green fuzz in them, you scheming weasel!"

Varan watched as Ultim gestured towards his guards to follow him, before setting off towards the angry Argonian. The trio made their way over to the market stall where Han-Zo was standing, who now had a hand resting threateningly on a dagger at his side as he stared down the paling Breton.

"Stand down, Argonian!" Ultim shouted as he came to a stop a few feet in front of Han-Zo. Beside him, his two guards had already drawn their weapons. "Step away from the salesman, right now."

"Oh, as if I'm the one committing the crime here," the reptile bit back, "when the real criminal is standing across from me, wearing a bloodstained apron and currently pissing his pants."

While the Guard Captain and his men were shooting disgusted looks at the salesman shifting nervously in place, Varan began his approach. Gripping the dagger hidden in his sleeve, the Shadowscale shouldered his way past bystanders as they tried to see the source of commotion.

"Whatever the case may be, you cannot threaten merchants with bodily harm for what price they charge for meat," Ultim snapped, scowling at the lizard. "Now back away, or I'll have you thrown into a cell for the night. Maybe longer, if you don't cooperate."

"Such threatening words," Han-Zo commented equably. "I hope you enjoyed saying them, because it seems that they're going to be your last ones."

Any possible retort Ultim had for that was cut off by the man's choked cry of pain as Varan's dagger sunk into his neck and severed his artery. Cries of "Assassin!" went up from the crowd as Varan let the Guard Captain fall to his knees, clawing at the dagger in his neck.

Both guards turned to face Varan. Before either one could unsheathe their weapons, Han-Zo grabbed his dagger and kicked out one of the guards' knees and drove the needle-like tip of his stiletto into the base of the man's skull, killing him. The second guard managed to draw his sword and swing at Varan. The Shadowscale deftly moved away from the strike to avoid the slash and closed the distance between them. His hand darted towards the man's exposed throat in a quick, vicious strike. Sharp talons ripped the man's vulnerable flesh apart and left him gurgling on his own blood.

As the guard fell with his throat laid open, Varan grabbed the Dark Brotherhood calling card in his pocket and tossed it at Ultim's writhing form on the ground. When he bent down and quickly tore his dagger free, a dark rush of blood came pouring out of the wound. He then slammed his heel down on the back of Ultim's neck as a final blow, shattering the man's spinal disk and rendering him limp.

"We've got incoming!" Han-Zo hissed, drawing Varan's attention to the group of guardsmen rushing towards their position. Varan turned around and saw that there were guardsmen coming from the other end of the street as well.

"Featherweight spell on yourself! Follow my lead!" Varan snapped at the other Argonian, casting the spell on himself. Once the other Shadowscale had done the same, Varan turned and leapt ten feet into the air, landed on top of some supply crates, and then leapt again to land on the nearest building. Han-Zo quickly did the same, jumping off the supply crates to land on the same building. Once he'd landed, the pair began racing across the rooftops, listening to the oaths of angry guards on the street below as they tried to give chase.

"Where to now?" Han-Zo asked as they leapt over a gap between two buildings.

"To the outer city wall. From there we can jump off with our featherweight spells," Varan replied. "Hope you don't mind taking a swim in Lake Rumare."

Arrows shot past them as they ran. While the archers on the ground level had poor visibility on the two assassins on the rooftops, the ones on an inner city wall had line of sight on them. At this distance, however, they had a hard time hitting two fast-moving targets that were using the sloping on the rooftops to their best advantage.

Before long, unfortunately, a few Imperial battlemages began leaping onto the roofs of nearby buildings as well. One of them took a shot at them, sending an ice spike the size of a ballista bolt close enough for Varan to feel the rushing wind left in its wake. Han-Zo didn't even stop running as he replied with a single bolt of lightning. The offending battlemage crumpled with a smoldering hole in his chest.

More of his ilk followed closely behind. Before long, there were four battlemages on the rooftops with them, casting their spells at long range. Han-Zo and Varan attempted to keep them at bay by launching their own spells at the Imperials, forcing them back into cover. It was not enough; the men doggedly pursued them, raising wards in defense as they rushed to catch them.

Persistent buggers, Varan thought as a fireball sailed through the air a few feet to his right. Still running, he turned around to launch another bolt of lightning at the offending battlemage, only for the projectile to be stopped by the man's shimmering ward. Before Varan could turn back, Han-Zo's hand gripped his arm hard and forced him to stop. When he turned around, he saw why: they'd reached the edge of the city, and were standing on the edge of the wall overlooking Lake Rumare.

"Watch where you step," Han-Zo remarked wryly, before taking off at a run and leaping forward, descending gently due to his featherweight spell. Varan took one last look at the Imperials chasing them, saw one of them shoot a fireball directly at him, and turned to jump off the city wall as well.

The deep blue water of Lake Rumare came rushing up to meet him. Just before he hit the water, Varan folded his arms against his body. He shut his eyes as he splashed into the lake and was entirely submerged. The Argonian opened his eyes, caught sight of Han-Zo's black form shooting through the dark waters, and moved to follow. Both Argonians managed to reach the edge of the lake and run into cover behind some bushes before their pursuers finally reached the city wall. The battlemages began firing their destruction spells at the lake, sending fireballs and lightning bolts into the water, unaware that they'd already missed their targets.

"That could have gone better," Han-Zo remarked, as he watched the battlemages finally give up and turn back. "Were you so impatient that you could not wait till nightfall to follow Ultim back to his private quarters?"

"Would you like to scale the sheer side of a guard tower in the dead of night?" Varan bit back. "This way was better, and had less risk of us falling to our deaths."

"A strong featherweight spell coupled with a fortification of strength could have gotten you up there," the veteran Shadowscale replied.

"I don't know fortification magic."

Han-Zo shook his head. "That's a shame. It's very useful. But I suppose it doesn't matter anymore, does it? We killed the target and escaped with our lives. It's good enough… though I would have loved to see the look on that Guard Captain's face as we pulled him through his chamber window and threw him out his tower." He smiled in amusement at the thought.

Varan didn't deign to give him a reply. He simply stared at the other Argonian, making his distaste perfectly evident.

Seeing the look on his face, Han-Zo merely chuckled in amusement. "Not in a talking mood, are you? I understand. Come on, let's get our horses. Maybe we'll reach Kvatch with the news before the Black Horse courier does, eh?"

---

The first thing that Archer became aware of upon awakening was a pounding headache. It felt as if someone had left a meat axe embedded in his skull. He groaned lowly as consciousness returned to him, allowing the pain to register more intensely. His throat was so dry that he could barely swallow. It didn't take him long to realize that he was hung-over, and badly.

You were careless last night, he thought. Externally, he was unable to utter anything more than a pathetic groan. With a wince of discomfort, Archer forced himself to sit on the edge of his bed. A wave of nausea hit him, and the Argonian swallowed roughly to fight against his stomach's reflexes. He sat there for a few moments, rubbing his eyes and waiting for the feeling of sickness to pass, before opening his eyes.

He was surprised to find that he was back in his room in Jorrvaskr's living quarters, in his own bed. A look around the room revealed that Balamus' bed, along with all the others, was empty. They all must've either awoken already or fallen asleep somewhere in the mead hall. At least I woke up in my own bed, and I wasn't sharing it with a stranger… so far, so good.

The Argonian slowly traced his gaze along the rest of the room, taking the time to adjust to his surroundings, before it finally fell upon the nightstand by his bed. To his surprise, he found a pewter mug sitting on it. When he looked inside, he saw that it was filled with water.

Thank the Gods, the Argonian thought gratefully as he grabbed the mug and began draining it. He nearly choked on the water in his haste to drink, but it felt amazing as it went down his parched throat. Once the mug was empty, Archer set it down with a sigh and lifted a hand to rub at a sore spot on his jaw. A flare of pain blossomed when his fingers brushed the tender skin. A bruise? How on Nirn did I get that?

Archer's horned brows furrowed slightly as he realized that he could not remember the incident. In fact, he could barely recall anything. How could he have allowed himself to get so inebriated? He was usually more mindful of his limits than this. I knew I shouldn't have drunk with Torvar. That Nord could down enough pints by himself to put a bull to sleep…

A new voice brought Archer out of his thoughts. "Feeling better, my Thane?"

He looked up at the sound and saw Lydia standing at the doorway, clad in her usual armor. With a rueful smile, he said, "I've had better mornings than this, but I'll live."

"Did you drink the water I left you?"

He looked back at the empty mug on the nightstand, before nodding back at her. "Yes, I did. Thank you for that, by the way."

Archer winced as the bruise on his jaw throbbed slightly. "Though as if the headache wasn't enough, it also feels like I got kicked in the jaw by a horse," he muttered, rubbing the bruised flesh for a moment before casting a healing spell on himself. "I can't believe I drank myself into such a stupor. I don't even remember getting into bed… How much did I drink, anyhow?"

"A lot," he just barely heard Lydia say, in a tone much quieter than he was used to hearing from her.

I made a fool of myself, didn't I? He winced when the thought crossed his mind. After bracing himself with a sigh, the Argonian rubbed his face with his hands and asked, "Alright, Lydia… tell me what I did while I was drunk."

A few seconds passed without a response. Finally, he heard her respond with, "You tried to play a lute. Broke a string in the process."

Archer furrowed his horned brows. "Really? That's it?" he asked, removing his hands and looking back up at her. He was surprised to see that the woman was averting her gaze, looking away from him. Her behavior, and the distant look in her eyes, set off alarms in his head. She's not telling me something.

"Lydia?" he asked quietly. "Are you sure I didn't do anything… particularly stupid?"

He saw her mouth grow taut, as if she was heavily considering what her next words should be. Concerned by his Housecarl's reluctance to speak, the Argonian focused on attempting to remember the events from the previous night. Through a good deal of effort, he actually managed something. Hazy flashes of memory began to return to him. Drinking with some Companions; getting a noogie from a buzzed Farkas; laughing at a mead-stained Torvar, sitting on the floor; Lydia taking him down the stairs, leading him by the arm, and… his hands grabbing her wrists, his lips pressed against hers — without resistance.

The Argonian stopped breathing when that memory arose. Slowly, Archer turned to face his Housecarl, who still seemed unable to face him. After swallowing roughly, he mustered his courage and spoke again. "Lydia… did I… do something to you last night?"

He saw her go rigid from shock, before finally turning her head to meet his gaze. Archer maintained it, hoping against hope that she wouldn't say what he feared. After a few seconds of staring, her eyes turned downcast. "You kissed me."

The room was left in silence. Stupefied, Archer was unable to do anything but stare at his Housecarl with numb shock, unable to believe what he had just heard. As the memory played itself over and over in his mind, however, the truth became undeniably clear. I kissed her. I kissed my Housecarl… and she didn't resist…

A wild panic seized him in that moment, realizing that he couldn't recall what had happened afterwards. When his next question came to mind, he was so afraid of the answer that he almost didn't voice it. In the end, the question burned so hot in his mind that his desperation overwhelmed his fear, and he blurted out, "Did it go any further?"

Lydia flinched when he spoke, surprising her into looking at him again. To his utter relief, he saw her shake her head. "No, nothing happened. Just the kiss… lips to lips."

By the Gods. Archer thought in awe as the room was once again left in silence. The Argonian scratched the back of his head, mulling over his words. At length, he could only sigh wearily. "I'm sorry about that, Lydia. It was my fault, I had been drinking too much…"

"It's fine, my Thane, I'm… not offended," the Nord replied awkwardly. She wasn't blushing, but her embarrassment leaked through in her tone clearly enough. Then, she added in a quieter voice, "It was… just as much my fault. I'd been drinking as well. I did nothing to stop you."

The Argonian was once again left speechless, unsure of how to respond to that. An awkward pause stretched out between them. After several more seconds of silence, Archer loosened his leather armor's codpiece and peered beneath it. "So I did that to you… and you didn't castrate me?"

To his relief, he could see the corner of woman's mouth twitch upward in good humor. "I suppose that at the time, I was too shocked by the realization that Argonians had lips to do that… Besides, it would not look good if word got out that Whiterun's newest Thane had been castrated by his own Housecarl. I did give you a nasty punch afterward, however."

"So that's why my jaw was bruised," he remarked, rubbing his jaw where it had once hurt. Looking back up to her, his eyes met hers again. "Lydia… I'm sorry about what I did. I truly am. I hope that this does not strain our relationship."

She shook her head. "It's fine, my Thane. I accept your apology."

"Thank you," the reptile breathed, running a hand over his face. "Now, if only this headache would go away…"

"Seeing how you're conscious again, I believe I'll take my leave now. Goodbye, my Thane."

Archer watched his Housecarl depart, before sighing. That had been a close call. He was still in shock over what he'd done to her. Kissing his Housecarl, a Nord? The fact that Lydia hadn't even stopped him only mystified him even further. She could have pushed him away at any time, but she hadn't. Neither of them had acted the way they were supposed to. How could any of that have happened? Had the alcohol really affected them so greatly?

A thought occurred to him right at that moment, one so shocking that it made the Argonian suck in a sharp breath. Was it the Histskin's fault?

Archer thought back to when they'd nearly died upon the Throat of the World, when he'd invoked his Histskin ability to heal Lydia. In summoning the Hist's power and allowing it to flow into his Housecarl, he had given up a piece of his vitality to save her — his body had been the bridge, but his soul had been the channel through which the healing waters of the Hist had flowed to reach her. Could it be that, in sharing the powers of the Histskin between them, the Hist had bonded the two of them somehow?

It made some sense. After all, the Hist was what connected all Argonians, and Lydia had been subjected to its influence through him, through his body. Could the Hist's influence have been what had drawn the two of them together last night? It was very possible that such was the case — what other reason could there have been for the two of them, even drunk, to have acted so inappropriately?

The Argonian shook his head in frustration. He was not supposed to find humans attractive, and Lydia wasn't supposed to find Argonians attractive, either. They were completely different species!

Perhaps that excuse might apply to Lydia, he thought bitterly, but you know very well it does not apply to you, Archer.

Having been raised by human parents and growing up around other humans his entire life, being completely immersed in human culture and being subjected to the human form since a young age, had done more than simply change the way Archer spoke and acted compared to other members of his kind; it had changed his very psychology. As much as he would have liked to deny it until his dying breath, he had an understanding of human attractiveness that another Argonian would not have. His preference in human women over Argonian women was a source of great personal shame, and he furiously berated himself whenever he caught himself staring at them — but deep down, he knew that no amount of berating could ever take care of his… condition.

Perhaps the Hist is still involved in some way? He thought. You've been able to rein in your… urges… in the past. Who is to say that the Hist hasn't done something to you that made Lydia suddenly seem appealing? And that made her not push you away to begin with?

Archer rubbed his eyes again, groaning. His head was starting to hurt from all this thinking. He needed some food. With breakfast in mind, the reptile got up from the bedside and made for the stairway.

The scent of smoke and cooked meat greeted him as he mounted the top of the stairs. A few of the Companions were already having their breakfast at the table. Archer spotted Balamus sitting at the far corner and moved to join him, picking up a loaf of bread and an apple along the way.

"Morning, Archer," the Dunmer greeted him once he noticed his approach. "Feelin' alright? You looked more than a bit drunk when Lydia hauled your tail to bed last night."

"I'll live." He slid into the seat next to Balamus and hungrily bit down on his loaf of bread, before looking sidelong at his companion. "You don't look hung-over."

"Because I know what my limits are, before I reach them," the elf replied with a cheeky smile. He jerked a thumb behind him. "I'd just be grateful you didn't end up like poor Torvar back there."

Archer looked over the mer's shoulder and had to stifle a laugh at what he saw. Torvar was passed out on top of a bench, with a bucket over his head, an empty bottle near his hand, and mead stains all over his leather armor. The Argonian could hear each of his snores echoing from inside the bucket.

"Well yes, that's definitely something to be grateful for," the reptile allowed, smiling in spite of his headache.

The two continued talking and eating, discussing the events from last night, with Archer being careful not to mention what had happened between him and Lydia. He also grabbed another mug and gulped down as much water as he could, hoping to relieve the headache more quickly. A few more Companions came up from the living quarters for breakfast. Before long, the mead hall was filled with the murmur of conversation from the dining Companions.

"I should mention that I managed to pick up a contract from Vilkas," Balamus told him at one point, as he chewed on some dried beef. "If you feel up to it, then you're welcome to join me."

"What sort of job is it?" Archer asked, biting into a piece of cheese he had at hand.

"Apparently there's a few bandits holed up in some encampment north of Whiterun, not terribly far from here; we might be able to make it back by afternoon if we don't take too long."

"Doesn't sound too difficult," Archer commented. "And I haven't had a contract in a couple of days. Very well, then, I'll join you. Let me just grab my things and we'll set off."

"Out to hunt bandits, are you?" asked Aela as she came up beside them. The redheaded huntress turned to Balamus. "You should be careful, Dunmer. Wouldn't want that handsome face of yours to receive a scar, would you?"

The elf gave her a cocksure grin. "It would indeed be a tragedy, for such a handsome face to be marred. But you needn't worry, milady. I wouldn't let a few of those ruffians get close enough to even spit on me, not when I have thoughts of your lovely faceto invigorate me."

She laughed at that, and flashed him a smile. "In that case, take care not to get too distracted by your thoughts. Safe travels, you two."

As the Nord was walking away, Balamus turned to Archer with a raised brow and a smug grin. The Argonian nodded appreciatively. "I'm impressed. Of all the women you've charmed, I never expected you to succeed with her."

The elf's grin widened. "Come on, now, was there really any doubt? With a handsome mug like this?" He pointed a thumb at his smiling face.

"Well, I've seen that mug get slapped a few times in the bars back in Cyrodiil…"

"Yeah, yeah. Don't you have a bow to grab or something? Why don't you go do that?"

Archer chuckled and smiled. "Will do."

A short while later, the pair exited Jorrvaskr and began making for the city entrance. The market square was busy when they arrived, so the two had to squeeze their way through the crowding throngs of people. As he was gently shouldering his way through the crowd, Archer's wandering eyes fell upon a steel-clad figure in the distance. It was Lydia, talking with a Whiterun guard at a street corner.

By some chance, the woman turned her head in his direction and looked at him. The pair locked gazes for just a moment, before the Nord turned away again, almost too quickly. She averts her gaze of me. Is she truly so ashamed of what happened? Did she truly mean it when she said she forgave me?

A morose look gained purchase on Archer's features, before a not-too gentle push from a farmer carrying a crate shook him out of his thoughts. The Argonian returned to pushing his way out of the crowd. He hoped that Lydia did not despise him again, for having acted so foolishly last night.

---

Lydia watched Archer and Balamus leave Whiterun. When they were out of sight, she turned back to the guard in front of her with a tired sigh. "He hasn't said anything about leaving yet, so I assume that this is how things are going to be for some time. I don't oppose his training, not at all, but… I'm getting restless, Hrogar."

"You should be out there with your Thane, defending him," Hrogar pointed out, crossing his arms. "Such is a Housecarl's role."

"Don't you think I know that?" she retorted. "Besides, my Thane insists that I leave him to go out on his contracts alone, and who am I to defy him? He says that it'll help him grow less reliant on my help. I agree with the idea, but… well, quite frankly it's a dull prospect, watching him go out on his contracts while I stay confined behind these walls."

A long pause stretched out between the pair. Hrogar scratched his ginger-colored beard for a thoughtful moment, before speaking again. "I suppose it could be worse. At least nobody will see you walking around with an Argonian."

The Housecarl raised a brow at him. "And what, exactly, is that supposed to mean?"

"What do you think?" the guardsman replied, as if the answer were obvious. "How do you reckon people are going to take it when they see a Nord walking around with one of those lizardmen, obeying his orders as if he were her better?"

Lydia's eyes widened in shock at what she'd just heard. "What? Hrogar, that man is Whiterun's Thane, and the Dragonborn! He's slain dragons, for Shor's sake! Have you forgotten this?"

"I heard that he slew a dragon with the help of our guardsmen… several of which are no longer with us," the Nord responded pointedly.

"That was before he was Dragonborn, before he had the Voice," the Housecarl snapped. She conveniently neglected to mention that Archer's Voice wasn't particularly powerful at the moment. "You would mock the blessed hero of our legends on the grounds of his race? He is the one chosen by the Divines, anointed by Akatosh himself — you would mock their choice?"

Hrogar bristled with indignation. "You know I am a man of the Gods, Lydia. I would not mock or question them, ever. But you're missing my point; what I am trying to say is… you need to think about yourself more."

Lydia cocked a brow at him and folded her arms across her chest. "Explain."

The guard gave her a helpless shrug. "What is there for me to say that you don't already know? Most of Skyrim don't take kindly to his kind. If they see you taking orders from an Argonian, what do you think people will say of you? Most won't think 'what a good Housecarl she is.' No, they will think, 'what self-respecting Nord would ever allow one of those creatures to order her around?'"

Hrogar gave her a grim look. "For many folk, the fact that he is an Argonian is enough grounds to discredit any title of his — including that of Dragonborn — and to mistrust any who deal with him. That means you, Lydia."

Lydia's hands tightened into fists at her sides, but at length she relaxed them. He was right, after all. Argonians were not loved anywhere in Skyrim. In one city, she'd even heard that the Argonians were forbidden to live within the city walls, and were relegated to dwelling on the docks. It didn't help that his kind were seen as having a penchant for thievery and other dishonest lifestyles. So far, she had no reason to believe Archer was the same — the man was a hunter, raised in Cyrodiil, and as honest as any Nord she knew. He was no thief or bandit, that was plain for her to see… but anybody who looked at him would not know that. They would only see another Argonian, another potential thief or cutthroat.

An uncomfortable silence hung between the pair, with neither of them choosing to look the other in the eye. At length, Hrogar spoke. "I'm… sorry that I insulted your Thane."

"Our Thane."

He nodded contritely. "You're right, our Thane. I just… I wanted you to put some thought into the ramifications of serving under an Argonian Thane. You are my friend, and I worry for your wellbeing. It was not my intent to speak ill of your Thane."

The amount of genuine guilt in his tone made Lydia smile. "I take no offense, Hrogar. I was much worse than you, when my duties as his Housecarl began, but then I got to know him better. He's just as much a person as you or I, even if he isn't a Nord."

She paused in thought. "He reminds me of a Nord, in some ways. It sounds ridiculous, I know… but it's true. He may not be able to hold his drink at all, and he isn't a warrior of supreme caliber, but he's damned determined to excel in everything he does. Almost to the point of being outright obstinate, even. I think it's paying off, though. From what I've seen of him in the training yard, I dare say he learns faster than any other man I've known."

"That's quite some high praise, coming from you," Hrogar pointed out, arching a bushy eyebrow. "I might just have to stop by and see this exemplary performance for myself."

Another guard came up to Hrogar, stretching his arm. "Alright, my shift's up. Get going, Hrogar."

Her friend turned to her. "Looks like I'm off again. Have a good afternoon, Lydia."

She watched him go, before turning and making her way back through the city, towards Jorrvaskr. Hopefully, she'd find something more interesting to do there than walk around the city.

---

Archer and Balamus walked the path towards where the bounty said the bandit camp was located. As they walked, they conversed about different things to make time go by faster. Their conversation turned to the memorable experiences they'd had in the past, and Balamus ended up talking about an odd traveler he'd encountered in Morrowind.

"So I was walking down the road, and I see this Khajiit on the side of the road wearing one of those big Colovian fur helms," the Dunmer was saying, shaping out the tall conical hat in front of him with his hands in pantomime. "I walked up to him hoping to get some directions. Instead, he goes off on some wild tangents, talking about eating lich hearts, something about Mudcrab Merchants, and Weresharks… I swear the bloke had to have been on skooma."

"You know, I met a Khajiit like that here in Skyrim," Archer replied. The reptile chuckled in amusement. "He was an odd one, to be sure. Told me something about having burned his sweet roll when he used two spells at once. I wonder if perchance the two are related?"

"There's many Khajiits in Tamriel, and lots of them are skooma addicts," Balamus replied with a dismissive wave of his hand. "I doubt they're related."

Archer suddenly looked over to the side, and stopped. "Hold up. I think I see something, over that way."

Balamus turned to see what it was. Just over the crest of a nearby hill he managed to spot the top of a wooden wall. "Might be it. Let's take a gander, shall we?"

The pair dropped into a crouch as they approached the hill. Given the little amount of cover present, the two resorted to crawling on their bellies as they reached the crest. Balamus looked around, scanning the encampment. It was built against the side of some rocky hills and enclosed by a tall wooden palisade that ran around the perimeter. Aside from the walls, they had a wooden catwalk skirting along the far side of the enclosure and a guard platform overlooking the nearby prairie, closer to the entrance. In the center of the camp was a large wooden shed, underneath which Balamus could see a large pile of bones and dried bloodstains.

"I count four bandits," he heard Archer whisper beside him. "An archer on the catwalk, another in the wooden platform, and two working underneath the shed."

"I see 'em," the Dunmer reported, counting them himself. He turned to Archer. "Let's go with our usual approach: Illusion magic takedown, then move to our blades."

"Sounds good. I'll take the one on the catwalk, then. On your go."

Balamus nodded, and then cast a spell on Archer, combining the effects of a Chameleon spell and a muffling spell. Archer's figure disappeared, replaced by little more than a shimmer in the air. A moment later, the Dunmer cast the same spell on himself. He checked to see that he was fully invisible before speaking again. "All right, move out."

The Companions advanced towards the only entrance to the camp like a pair of phantoms, staying close together so that they could still see the other's shimmering figure. One of the sentries' bored gazes passed right over them without any sort of recognition as they entered the encampment. It made the Dunmer smile an invisible, proud smile. I love Illusion magic.

He barely managed to catch Archer's whisper. "I'm going for the catwalk."

"Go. Move quickly," he replied.

Balamus watched as Archer's shimmering form faded with distance until he could no longer distinguish it from the surroundings. Then he turned and began making his way up the wooden platform that looked over this side of the palisade, creeping up behind the bandit sentry. Balamus carefully unsheathed his pugio dagger as he scaled the steps, being careful to not make the wood creak. Move slowly. Steady your breath. Distribute your weight. Keep your balance…

He was behind the Redguard now; close enough to smell the sweat and ale on him. Balamus inverted his grip on the thrusting dagger and looked over to the lone bandit on the catwalk. The Bosmer was walking the span with an air of nonchalance, gazing out at the surrounding plains with an almost innocent air. It was such a peaceful scene that even Balamus was surprised when her head violently snapped to one side with an audible crack. A heartbeat later, Archer's now-visible hands were gripping the now-dead elf's skull.

The bandit in front of Balamus whipped his head around to stare in shock, but he had time for little else before the elf kicked his knee out from behind, raised his weapon and stabbed downward, driving the point of his dagger between the Redguard's clavicle and first rib to sever the subclavian artery. Ignoring the man's agonized scream, he then pulled the weapon out with a spurt of blood and stabbed him again, this time sliding the blade between two of his ribs to reach his heart.

It was then that the two remaining bandits took notice of Balamus standing on the wooden platform. Both Nords grabbed their weapons and charged at him, uttering infuriated battle cries. He vaulted over the wooden railing and tossed his dagger at one of the bandits. The ruffian batted the thrown weapon aside, but one of Archer's arrows whistled into his neck and took him down. Balamus drew his longsword and watched the second bandit approach.

"Die, greyskin!" The last Nord shouted, swinging at him with his hatchet, only for Balamus to parry the wild strike with ease. Before his could react, he delivered his riposte, slashing open the side of the man's face with enough force to spin him around. Unfortunately, a second arrow whistled into the Nord's temple and threw him to the ground before Balamus could finish him off.

"Too slow, Balamus!"

"Oi! You cheatin' bastard! That kill was mine!" Balamus snapped, turning to scowl at him in feigned annoyance.

"Really?" Archer replied, walking up to the mer with a smug grin. "Because the arrow lodged in his skull says otherwise."

The elf harrumphed, planting his sword's tip into the ground. "Screw you. I had him, and you know it."

Balamus passed his gaze along the interior of the palisade until it fell upon the wooden doors built into the face of the rocky hillside. "I'm guessing that there's more of them through those doors. Let's get going."

After the elf had retrieved his dagger, the pair took up positions on either side of the doors. Balamus cast a Detect Life spell and saw a few more life signatures spring up, deeper underground. "I count four bandits down there, but only three of them are together. Should be easy."

He then looked sidelong at his companion, armored only in boiled leather, and shook his head. "We really should get you something more protective than what you're wearing now. That leather's not gonna save you from much."

"I know. That's why Eorlund has been helping me make new armor for myself, remember?" Archer asked. "It's nearly finished, actually. I won't be staying with this leather jack for long."

"Right. But while you're still wearing that, I suggest we take things slowly."

With that said, Balamus cast a muffling spell on the door to prevent their hinges from squeaking before entering. The pair crept along the narrow descending corridor, kept in the light by a few torches hanging from the walls. A rhythmic clacking sound echoed down the hall, and before long they saw a bandit garbed in animal furs picking away at a vein of iron ore in the stone. Archer's arrow struck the bandit through the heart from behind and killed him without trouble.

The two of them approached the end of the hallway and came upon an iron gate door. Balamus tugged on the handle and found it locked, so he pulled out a lock pick and got to work unlocking the door. He might have been familiar with Alteration magic, but that was mostly for the shield spells, not the unlocking spells.

Behind him, Archer grunted in disgust. "Something reeks in here."

"Hey, don't look at me. I smell like roses and lavender."

"Not you. It's coming from deeper in the cave. It smells like rot, and… blood. A lot of it."

With a final maneuver of the pick, the elf managed to undo the lock and grant them entry. "I wouldn't worry about it. These blokes are probably just poachers, if the animal bones outside are any indication. Worst case scenario? They're vampires, and this is their den. Nothing to worry about whatsoever."

"Oh, wonderful," Archer muttered, rolling his eyes.

The pair set off again, descending into the bowels of the mineshaft. Before long, Balamus began to smell the rot and blood as well, and it was enough to make him wrinkle his nose. He could only imagine how it was like for Archer, with his acute sense of smell. When he looked at him over his shoulder, the Argonian looked sick. I don't envy him.

At last, they reached the bottom of the shaft. Taking cover behind several large burlap sacks filled with food, the pair began inspecting the cavern. The entire room was shrouded in darkness; the only sources of light came from a paltry few lanterns throughout the room. One of them, placed on a tabletop at the end of the cavern, illuminated the hulking figure of an Orc clad in a wolf's fur cloak, hunching over a table as he read from some tome. Another candle, placed atop a barrel, brought to light a pair of bandits sitting by a large, shaggy corpse. It was a mammoth, with its flank cut open and its hide peeled away to reveal the underlying flesh and bone.

"A mammoth? How in Oblivion did these buggers fit an entire mammoth down here?" Archer hissed, pinching his nose.

An image of the bandits attempting to stuff the beast through the mineshaft they'd just walked through entered the Dunmer's mind. He might have sniggered, if the overwhelming scent of blood wasn't enough to make him gag if he'd tried. "Come on, Archer. Let's kill these ruffians and get out here."

"Couldn't agree more," the Argonian responded in a strained voice. Without further ado, he nocked an arrow, drew the string back, and let it fly. His arrow pierced the neck of the bandit that had been hacking away at the mammoth's flesh with a hatchet. The sound of his death drew the attention of the remaining two bandits in the room.

"Intruders!" snarled the big Orc at the end of the room, reaching for a two-handed maul at his side.

The second bandit grabbed a nearby hide-covered shield and caught Archer's second arrow with it, while his other hand grabbed his comrade's bloody hatchet before breaking out into a run. Seeing the two bandits charging at them, Balamus unsheathed Hellsting while Archer dropped his bow in favor of his blade, a shortsword that he had gotten to replace his old gladius. The two of them vaulted over the sacks of food and landed in front of the bandits, adopting combat stances.

While the big Orc moved to engage Archer, the second bandit lunged at Balamus with his hatchet. The elf dodged his first swipe and parried the second, dancing around his opponent with ease. He went for a swing, but the bandit was fast enough to block it with his shield. Scowling, the Nord spat a curse at him and swung again. Balamus sidestepped and delivered his own cut, cleaving the man's arm off at the elbow. While the Nord was crying out in agony as flames ate at the bloody stump, Balamus lunged and thrust his longsword into his chest. He heard flesh and bone give way before the ebony steel, felt the blade scrape against the man's spinal column as the tip came out the back. Bloodshot, widened eyes met the Dunmer's crimson ones. With a twist of his sword, the Nord jerked once and went limp in Balamus' grip.

The elf pulled his weapon back out and looked to see how Archer was handling the Orc. The Argonian was dancing around the large bandit, dodging the maul's wide, arcing swings with almost contemptuous ease. With a roar, the Orsimer lunged and went for another lateral swing, only for Archer to roll out of harm's way. Good, he's using his agility to his advantage, to tire him out. Looks like he has a handle on this.

"What's the matter with you? Hit me already!" the Argonian taunted, hopping away from another swing. "Come on, I've had harder battles with boogers than with you! Maybe I should fight one of those next time. They're not as green, or as angry…"

Archer hopped backwards just as the maul came crashing down a mere foot away from him, with enough force for Balamus to feel the impact through his boots. The Orc growled lowly like some fell beast. "I'm going to kill you, and then I'm going to rape your corpse."

Archer gave him a disgusted look. "…And boogers don't rape people. That's another way they're better than you."

With a frustrated scream, the Orc swung at him with all his might. Archer rolled towards the mer, allowing the maul to pass overhead, and then rose, stabbing his shortsword upwards. The cavern echoed with the Orsimer's roar of pain as half a foot of steel entered his stomach. Instead of staggering to his knees, the Orc swung a backhanded fist at Archer's jaw with enough force to spin the Argonian to the ground.

"Die, you little shit!" the Orc roared, hefting his maul and raising it for the finishing blow.

Balamus shot his hand out, sending a lightning bolt at the mer's back. The mer stumbled forward with a sizzling hole in his fur cloak, revealing the steel cuirass he wore underneath. The Dunmer cursed and attempted to power up a more powerful lightning bolt to penetrate the steel plate, but he knew he would not be able to get it out before the Orc could recover and finish Archer.

The glint of steel drew the elf's attention, and he looked to see that a dagger had appeared in the Argonian's hand, held in an icepick grip. Archer darted forward, hooked his blade around the back of the mer's closest knee, and hamstrung him. As the Orc staggered onto one knee, Archer switched to a forward grip, grabbed the mer's shoulder for stability and drove the blade up into his throat.

The Orc uttered a pained gasp, eyes flying wide open as blood began oozing out of the stab wound. With a look that was half grimace, half snarl, Archer twisted the dagger and tore it out. When he released his grip on the Orc, the body toppled to the ground and remained there.

Balamus released a tense, relieved sigh and dispelled the destruction magic in his hand. He made his way towards Archer, who was hissing in pain as he rubbed his jaw. "Urgh… I think he cracked my jaw…"

"Yeah, there's nothing quite like getting hit by a pissed-off Orc, is there?" he asked as Archer healed himself with some magic. "You should not have stayed so close after your attack. Strike and then retreat, or else your opponent will retaliate, as you just saw."

"Save the lecturing for when we're back outside, please… before I lose this battle with my stomach."

Balamus nodded vigorously. "Agreed. Let's go."

---

Lydia had spent most of the early afternoon practicing her cuts against a combat dummy with a blunted practice sword. It was not the most entertaining way to pass the time, but she supposed it was better than walking through the city for the umpteenth time. Fortunately, Vilkas had come to the training yard not long ago, and he'd asked her if she'd wanted to spar. Needless to say, she'd agreed heartily.

The Housecarl grunted as she lifted her shield to block her opponent's attack, before retaliating with a slash. Vilkas put his shield in the way and simultaneously attacked again, going for an overhead thrust. Lydia pushed the sword out of the way with her shield's rim and backed away from the larger Nord.

"You're quick. That's good," Vilkas commented, staring at her over the rim of his banded iron shield. "You're better than I'd first expected, I'll give you that."

"Shouldn't have expected anything less from me. I was one of the top warriors in our city's guard before becoming Housecarl." Lydia inspected the man's stance as she circled around to his left, looking for any weakness in his posture. She could find none that wasn't covered by the steel wall of his defense.

When the man approached her for another assault, she was ready. Lydia stepped out of the way of his attacks, sword and shield moving in perfect synchronization with the rest of her body as she parried and blocked, attacked and counterattacked. He was stronger than her, each of his strikes making a jolt travel up her arm and into her spine; but she was faster, and had the experience to keep up with him. Step and cut. Sidestep. Parry and counter. Sidestep. Watch his eyes. Wait for his attack…

Vilkas' practice broadsword came down in an overhead cleave. Lydia stepped away from the strike before lunging forward, driving her shield's rim into the corner of his shield, towards his head. Vilkas' shield was twisted in his grip, exposing his torso and allowing her to thrust her weapon straight into his abdomen and push the blunted point in-between two of his armor's steel plates.

The large Nord stared down at her in surprise, before smiling in good nature. "Didn't see that coming," he commented as she stepped back, lowering his arms. "Should have minded my grip. Good bout, Housecarl."

Lydia bowed her head. "Same to you," she replied respectfully, before moving to sit in one of the chairs in the shade.

Vilkas simply leaned against a nearby support beam as he caught his breath. "You should spar with us more often. You're good. I can see why you've been chosen as Housecarl — you're better than your Thane, at any rate. But to be fair, he is still learning."

"How well has he been learning?" Lydia had a good idea of how well Archer was doing, but she wanted to hear what this veteran Companion had to say of her Thane.

Vilkas' expression smoothened. He idly scratched at his coarse, dark beard as he thought. "The lad came to us as green as grass, but he's been adapting quickly. Like the rest of his kind, one of his main strengths is his agility… but I think his strongest attribute is his heart, his willpower. The man just doesn't give up, even when I had him running with me around Whiterun. He was panting like a hound by the end of it, but instead of complaining about his sore legs or pounding heart, do you know what he said?"

When Lydia shook her head, Vilkas smiled. "He said, Good run, Vilkas. When's the next one?"

That managed to elicit a surprised laugh out of her. "Truly? Well, it seems like my Thane isn't lacking for witticisms."

"Evidently not," he chuckled, shaking his head. It made Lydia happy to see the man speaking so well of Archer; especially considering how little he'd liked the Argonian when they'd first met. Fortunately, it seemed that he'd warmed up to her Thane since then.

A war horn's resonating blast cut through the air and echoed across the entire city, making both warriors jump. There was a pause, before the horn blared a second time. Long and loud, the sound hung in the air like a death knell. Something is wrong, Lydia immediately thought.

She was up and running towards the city gates before the third horn blast began ringing throughout the city again. All around her, people exited their homes and looked around, exchanging shocked whispers and frightened looks. Guardsmen from every corner of the city joined her in the rush for the source of the horn, and before long they found it.

There was a man garbed in the armor of a Whiterun guard standing atop the barracks, but from the golden cloak that flowed from his shoulders Lydia knew it was Commander Caius, the city's Guard Captain. He was blowing on an ornate ivory horn, blasting another note that echoed throughout the city. On the street below, a crowd of people had gathered before the barracks, watching as Whiterun guards rushed out of the building and made for the nearby city gates. Lydia shouldered her way through the press of civilians and came out in the open.

"Commander Caius! What is going on here?" she shouted, waving her arms to catch his attention.

The Imperial stopped blowing on his horn to regard the Nord carefully for a moment. "There's trouble nearby, Housecarl. A dragon has been sighted. I'm dispatching a task force to take it down."

At that, Lydia's brows rose in shock. Behind her, the murmurs of shock and fear increased in volume. She heard one voice mention the Dragonborn, and within a few seconds the entire crowd was talking about him, wondering where he was and wondering if he could really save them. I can't tell them that Archer's not here. It'll cause panic.

Vilkas' voice from behind the crowd cut through the clamoring din. "Citizens, please calm down!" he shouted. As the crowd turned to regard him, he added, "Return to your homes until the problem is dealt with! I promise you, the guards will do everything in their power to protect you, and the Companions will be by their side the whole time. Now go!"

Thank the Gods for the Companions, Lydia thought, watching as the crowd began to disperse, hurriedly making their ways back home. She turned back to the Guard Captain. "Commander, where are the men being mustered? I want to help."

"Then summon your Thane, the Dragonborn," the Imperial answered, looking around. "Where is he now?"

"He went out on a contract for the Companions this morning," Vilkas put in, coming up beside Lydia. "We have no idea when he's coming back."

The Commander's features took on a somber cast. "No Dragonborn… that's a damn shame."

"We won't need the Dragonborn to slay this dragon," Lydia insisted determinedly. "Whiterun's Guard is the best in Skyrim. We can do this. We have to do this. That dragon is threatening my home, and by the Gods, I will defend it to my last breath."

Commander Caius studied her intently for a thoughtful, silent moment, before he spoke again. "It does me proud to see that even as a Housecarl, your fervor to defend Whiterun has not faded, Lydia."

The woman bowed her head to acknowledge the comment. "I'm still a guard at heart, Commander."

Commander Caius pointed off to the side. "I've sent the men around to the north of the city, on the edge of the plains. We'll have to move quickly; the dragon was only circling overhead when I got the report, but the other guards may already be in combat."

Vilkas hurried back to Jorrvaskr to muster the rest of the Companions. The Nord came back a short while later, trailed by three other Companions whose name Lydia just managed to recall: Skjor, Aela the Huntress, and Vilkas' twin brother, Farkas. "We're all that's left. The rest are indisposed."

"That'll have to do," Commander Caius grunted, walking down the wooden steps to the street level. "Let's get moving."

After exiting the city gates, the group swung around and headed north at a jog, skirting along the edge of the city. It didn't take long for them to finally see the dragon. Lydia caught sight of it as they were jogging over some rocky foothills. The massive gray-scaled beast circled overhead for a few seconds, gliding on huge leathery wings, before folding them slightly and plummeting, parting its jaws to unleash a stream of fire at the ground.

"Our men are under attack! Double-time it!" Commander Caius barked, tearing his arming sword out from it sheath. Steel rasped against leather scabbards as the rest of the party did the same, before sprinting towards the site of combat.

The dragon had attacked the dispatched force of guards in the open field that surrounded Whiterun. Flames burned all around from the dragon's strafing and dive-bombing runs. There was little cover to hide behind, so the men were forced to dive out of the way whenever the dragon came down for an attack. Unfortunately, not every man was fast enough; Lydia watched as the beast snatched up a guardsman in its ebony claws, before flinging the man out into the countryside. The body plummeted like a brick and landed on a distant rocky outcropping, where it lay broken and bleeding.

Arrows followed the massive beast as it circled overhead, riding the wind like a falcon, but the missile fire was ineffective at this range. When it dove again, Lydia braced herself to dodge, and managed to leap aside when it sent a blast of orange flame down at them. She could feel the searing heat of dragon-fire as it hit the ground ten feet behind her. The crackling of burning grass was nearly overshadowed by the agonized scream of another Whiterun guard.

As she regained her footing, she watched as the dragon entered a wide banking turn in the sky to turn back towards them. Instead of diving at them again the beast slowed to a hover just a few feet above the ground, before landing on its feet. With another roar of challenge, the wyrm began crawling towards the mortal force.

"It's landed! Now's our chance, men!" Commander Caius bellowed. The Imperial pointed his sword at the approaching beast, the steel glinting coldly in the afternoon sun. "Everyone, charge!"

Roaring out their battle cries, the assembled warriors hurtled towards the reptilian creature. Lydia and the Companions charged with them, uttering their own battle cries. The dragon roared at them in reply, before unleashing a single fireball in their direction. It sailed into the left side of the approaching mob and exploded, sending charred men and limbs flying and leaving a smoking crater in the earth. It was not enough to discourage the bloodlusted warriors from their charge.

The guards leading the charge wielded spears and polearms, so when they made contact, the dragon was greeted with a bristling mass of sharpened steel points. It screeched as spearheads of all sorts were driven into the softer flesh of its underside and neck, but it did not retreat. The behemoth blindly lunged at its attackers, catching a spearman in its steel maw and crushing the life out of him. Before the beast had even thrown the body aside the rest of the guards arrived and began surrounding it.

Sharpened steel tips and honed blades stabbed and cut at whatever they could reach, prodding the dragon's scaly hide on all sides for any weaknesses in its defenses. Weapon tips found their way in between armor plates and into the softer, plate flesh of the underbelly, tearing ragged holes and spilling draconic blood. Lydia herself managed to send a cut into its wing, tearing a hole in the leathery membrane with her broadsword.

The dragon did not allow their prodding to go unpunished, however; it thrashed and snapped, crushing men and women in its steel maw or trampling them underfoot. Its massive tail and head swung like battering rams, slamming into guards with a force to crush bone. Its maw turned red as mortal blood began coating it, and ragged flesh hung from its claws and teeth in long strips.

Yet, it was losing this battle. Its weaknesses were few, and its steel scales thwarted most blades that came at it, but it was faltering. Its own blood soon began to coat mortal blades and stain its own scales with dark red splashes. Even Lydia had draconic blood running down the filler of her blade at one point, dripping off from her sword's edge like wax from a burning candle.

Before long, it could take no more. The beast spread its massive wings and took to the air in one forceful leap, sending a tempestuous gust of wind into the ground and throwing its attackers to the ground. A number of arrows followed its ascent, but few of them did anything other than annoy it before it flew out of bow range. With a final roar, the beast turned and began flying away, towards the north.

"It's retreating! The day is ours!" one guard cheered, thrusting his sword into the air.

At the sight of the firedrake retreating, the guards began to whoop and cheer, beating their weapons against their shields and punching their fists into the air… but their shouts of triumph turned to cries of alarm when the wyrm banked around towards their group again.

Seeing the incandescent glow from its maw, Lydia shouted an alarm and threw herself to the side. Parting its jaws, the dragon unleashed massive blast of flame at the warriors. Orange dragon-fire landed amongst the guards and split the entire group down the middle. Three guards who had been too slow screamed in agony as they burned to their deaths, but their living comrades barely had any time to stare in shock before the dragon was diving at them again, spitting more flame.

Lydia found herself continuously dodging each strafing run. It was tiring, running around so much her steel plate. The Housecarl looked up at the dragon, hoping that it would have the bad sense to land again; but it seemed that the legendary beast had learned its lesson — in the air, it dominated those on the ground; to land would mean its death. So it continued hanging in the air, riding the wind and diving on the defenseless warriors below.

"That dragon has to land, or we're all dead!" a guardsman snarled, pulling back his bowstring and loosing an arrow. The missile scored a lucky hit on the dragon, but Lydia saw the projectile bounce off its scaly hide. "At this range, I can't hit a vital point!"

The dragon dove at their group again. Another blast of flame came at them, and another guardsman was instantly cooked alive. His screams of pain were like something out of a nightmare, a sound that she was afraid would revisit her in her dreams for nights to come.

Another guardsman shouted out from the side. "If we all die here, then I just want to say that it's been an honor fighting alongside you all!"

"Shut up, Hrogar! That is no way to talk!" Lydia barked, shooting her friend a glare.

When she heard the dragon roar, she turned to see it coming straight for them again. It entered a shallow dive, and even from this distance she could see the orange glow coming from deep within its maw. Lydia readied her tired body to dodge as the dragon parted its jaws to Shout again.

"FUS RO!"

A shockwave flew into the dragon's flank. The surprised beast faltered in midair, aborting its strafing run in favor of recovering from the sudden interruption. Lydia's brows rose in astonishment, and she turned to look where the shockwave had come from. She gasped when she noticed the pair of figures standing on the road leading north — it was Archer and Balamus, returned from their latest Companions contract.

"By the Gods, what was that?" asked a guard.

"The Voice! That was the Voice!" one of the Companions said — Farkas, she thought. The large man pointed at the pair of figures in the distance. "The Dragonborn's returned!"

Unfortunately, he was not the only one to realize this. Lydia saw the dragon crane its head in the direction of the two lone figures on the road. With an earsplitting roar it changed course and began heading straight for the pair. Straight for my Thane, Lydia realized with sudden dread.

---

"Uh oh. He doesn't look happy," Balamus pointed out, with a hint of concern in his voice as they watched the dragon speeding towards them.

"Yeah. I noticed." Archer was surprised at how calm he sounded, despite the intense fear boiling deep inside him.

Balamus looked sidelong at him. "Well? Aren't you gonna do something about it?"

Archer looked back at him, shocked. "Why are you asking me this?"

"You're Dragonborn. You have the Voice."

"What do you expect me to do? I only know a single Shout!"

"Wait a minute, that's the only Shout you know? The one you just used?" Balamus asked, sounding as if he could scarcely believe it.

The dragon roared again, and the two of them looked to see it almost on upon them. Both men screamed in terror before leaping to the side just in time to avoid the jet of flame that crashed into the place they used to be just a few seconds ago.

"Balamus! We've gotta take that bugger down!" Archer shouted, looking back at the dragon. It made a sharp circle in the air as it turned back towards them. "It's coming back around! If you have any good ideas, now would be the time to act on them!"

"Alright, alright! I'm on it!" the Dunmer answered, rising to his feet. Balamus put his hands together and allowed a large, ardent ball of flame to build up in them. The elf squinted up at the dragon, crimson eyes flitting back and forth as he calculated the trajectory and allowed the flames in his hand to build up even further.

Just when Archer was getting ready to dodge another gout of flame, he heard Balamus speak again. "One well-cooked dragon, coming right up!"

He extended his hands, and the fireball he'd been priming for those few seconds shot forward with blinding speed. The horse-sized fireball sailed through the air and connected with the dragon squarely on the nose. The resulting conflagration completely engulfed the airborne wyrm's form. A heartbeat later the beast shot out of the smoke cloud overhead, now charred and screaming as it plummeted to the ground. The earth shook as the massive creature crashed and slid, plowing a deep furrow into the ground before finally coming to a stop.

Archer and Balamus wasted no time in drawing their blades and charging straight for the grounded dragon. By the time they'd arrived it had regained its footing, but there were shards of bone sticking out of its left wing. Upon noticing their presence, the dragon greeted them with a blast of flame. Archer raised a ward to protect him and Balamus, blocking the attack. When the fire had died down, the two of them dove in separate directions to avoid the dragon's jaws snapping shut on them.

The dragon turned to Archer, hissing as it presented him its gaping maw bristling with sharp fangs as long as spearheads. Archer replied by sending a lightning bolt down its throat, making it screech in pain and snap at him. He rolled out of the way, narrowly avoided getting bitten in half.

Snarling, the wyrm reared its head for another attack, only for it to flinch when a lightning bolt from Balamus speared into the back of its armored head. The dragon's tail swept his legs out from underneath, but the mer rolled out of harm's way before the tail could crush him into the ground.

Seeing it momentarily distracted, Archer darted forwards and sunk his shortsword deep into the dragon's breast. The firedrake snarled in pain, and before it could snap its jaws shut on him Archer rolled backwards, leaving his sword embedded into its chest — having done so on purpose.

I hope this works, he thought desperately as he primed a lightning spell in his hands. With a mental push and a grunt of effort, Archer sent twin streams of lightning straight into the dragon's chest. His sword acted as a lightning rod, capturing the lightning and sending the current inside the dragon. The beast's piercing screech filled the air as Archer's lightning seared its insides. It attempted to retreat, only to run into the mass of guards that had come from behind.

Archer halted his arcane assault when the assembled mortal warriors began surrounding the bloodied wyrm. They plunged their blades and spearheads everywhere they could, spilling more draconic blood each time. The dragon thrashed in place, attempting to shake off its attackers, but it was for naught. After a moment that felt like an eternity, the legendary beast released a single, echoing cry of pain before it collapsed with a thunderous crash.

Once they were sure it was dead, the warriors raised their weapons in triumph. Men and women roared out their praises and shouted out in victory, congratulating one another for what they'd accomplished this day and praising the Gods. Archer's eyes weren't on the cheering guards — he only had eyes for the dragon's corpse, which had started to catch flame. Here we go again.

He was prepared for the dragon soul this time, but that did not make the process any more comfortable. When the lights shot out of the corpse and flew into him, Archer had the unsettling feeling of something forcibly entering his body against his will, squirming its way into his chest until it settled somewhere inside him, like a serpent coiling up for its slumber. He didn't fall to his knees this time, but when the whole process was done he still felt uncomfortably lightheaded. I doubt I'd feel comfortable with this even after a hundred times…

Shaking his head to try and fight his dizziness, Archer looked back up and found everyone's eyes on him. He looked around at all the men and women staring at the Dragonborn. Some of them had looks of awe on their faces, while others remained impassive.

It was then that he realized his sword was still stuck in the dragon's body. Without a word, the Argonian approached the draconic skeleton. Feeling so many pairs of eyes on him made him uneasy, so Archer simply looked ahead and focused on his path. Fortunately, the crowd dissolved to admit him, allowing Archer to reach the dragon's body and retrieve his fallen weapon without any trouble at all.

He turned and looked around, this time choosing to meet the crowd's gaze. He inspected the myriad of awed expressions directed towards him, seeing their looks of wonder and even respect, but they meant little to him. By some chance, his gaze fell upon one in particular: it was Lydia, staring at him from within the crowd. The Nord had a big, broad grin on her face, the largest smile he'd ever seen. He knew what that smile meant — she was proud of him.

Seeing the look on her face was what finally did it for him. A broad smile gained purchase on Archer's face as well, one to match his Housecarl's. That, in turn, incited a whole new round of whooping and cheering from the assembled guards and Companions. The air shook with the clamor of victorious shouts as they all shouted their triumphs for the heavens, so the Divines themselves could hear them.

Archer shouldered his way past the press to reach Lydia. She was still smiling at him when he finally made it to her. "That was quite an impressive display, my Thane," the woman remarked. "Look at you, showing up at just the right time. Aren't you a big, bold hero?"

The Argonian smirked at her. "Hero, huh? Maybe you're giving me too much credit. Balamus was the one who shot it down, after all."

"That I did," the elf agreed, coming to stand beside him. "But you, Archer… everyone saw you absorb that dragon's soul. Quite a light show you put on there. There's nothing I can do that would top that, and I know how to make bloody fireworks." To emphasize, he lifted a hand and released a small shower of golden sparks, in the fashion of a miniature firework.

Archer chuckled at that. "Well, let me tell you: it might look pretty, but it isn't as pleasurable an experience as you might think."

He paused, before looking back at the dragon's yellow skeleton in thought. After a few pensive moments of silence, he turned back to Lydia. "I think we've been here for long enough, Lydia. Get your things ready for travel; we're departing for Ustengrav at first light."

Her eyes widened in surprise, but she nodded without hesitation. "As you say, my Thane."

"Same goes for you, Balamus," Archer remarked, as the three of them began their return to the city.

The elf nodded. "I'll have everything ready in time for our departure, don't you worry."

"Good," was all Archer said in reply. The three of them had stayed in Whiterun for long enough. His quest for the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller had been left unheeded for too long — the sooner they got to Ustengrav and got that horn, the sooner he could return to the Greybeards and learn everything else he could from them.