AN: Another chapter down! This one took a bit, but I'm pleased with its end result.

In response to Eromancer's anonymous review(Thanks for reviewing by the way) and to anyone else wondering, when I said I'd reduce mages, I didn't mean make them less powerful. Contrary, I think mages in my story may end up being more powerful than in vanilla Skyrim. What I meant was, I intended to reduce the number of people capable of using magic, like Irlieth, as magic is a rare and wonderful gift.

With that out of the way, onto the chapter!

Chapter 14

Re-knitting Bones

"Damn broken bones. Never heal right."- Vegnar, Nord mercenary. Circa 1E 1206 The saying has since widely become a common utterance by injured soldiers, both of king and coin.

"It was the most foolish thing I've ever seen. Damn near bravest as well." Skjor muttered to Kodlak around the stem of his pipe. The two Companions sat by Jorrvaskr's blazing fire in comfortable armchairs, each old warrior with pipe in hand. The fall of the dragon had been not even a day old and already word was spreading across Whiterun like wildfire. Not only had a dragon appeared, but had been slain!

That wasn't all. The rumors of a Dragonborn continued to circulate, each more bold and embellished than the last. Until the man, himself, spoke up and proved his mettle, they would remain that way.

"I didn't think you cared much for him," Kodlak observed, wizened eyes squinting slightly behind his beard, "Or for reckless acts of bravado."

"I don't," Skjor ground out, voice sharp as flint. "But there wasn't much choice. The dragon was roasting those poor bastards from up high; I only caught glimpses of it."

Kodlak gestured with his pipe. "The Khajiit send their regards, and payment, for a job done well." He placed the pipe back in his mouth, blowing a smoke ring, "Pity you couldn't get a good look at the battle from where you were."

"I saw well enough," the response was simple, without intonation. The scarred veteran gazed into the fire, momentarily lost in thought. "I saw him leap from the tower unto the dragon's back, and the beast fall. I saw the dragon's bones myself." He shook his head, "Still, doesn't mean I have to agree with you."

Kodlak's beard danced as the old man shook his head, "My opinion is unchanged, I want Greymist among the inner circle. He is not an old man, nor is he an unshaven youth. Whether or not the Dragonborn rumblings are true, I believe he is a man of honor and would gain just as much as he would add."

"You like this young man," Skjor noted, stating the observation as fact, rather than opinion.

"Yes."

"He reminds you of Brogan."

Kodlak's tone became icy. "Any resemblance to my son, imagined or actual, has no bareing on his worthiness or my opinion of him. Is that clear?"

The other Companion didn't take offense to the harshness of his old friend's response, nor did it completely alter his thoughts on the matter. "Crystal," he answered in response. Dumping the now utterly burned tobacco into the fireplace, Skjor got to the business at hand. "I've arranged a trial for our newest potential. If he is up for the challenge, and responsibility, he can make an attempt." The veteran Companion paused a moment, leaning back in his chair. "I wonder," he mused, chin rested in a gauntleted hand, "What he will think of our...condition."

Kodlak didn't respond at first. The weathered Harbinger's eyes lost focus, as if looking at nothing, gazing into the very past itself. "I still wonder that myself."

Skjor snorted, "I know full well the strength of our blessing, and you should be more grateful for it. The glory we've won because of the power granted is almost beyond counting. We are fortunate men." The two friends and Companions sat silently for a moment, simply sitting together.

"Aela has agreed to lend her aid with providing certain materials, once she returns from her trip to Falkreath. She's leaving this afternoon, in case you want to wish her well."

The old Nord shook his head. "Unnecessary, Aela knows what she is doing, I trust she'll sort this matter out in good time. Whatever is occurring in Falkreath must be important."

Skjor grumbled, "Well, whatever it was, she wouldn't tell me. I hope your assessment is truer than mine. Lass is headstrong."

"But not foolish; very much like her mother."

The other man snorted, "Remember how that tale ended, old man." His tone was full of black humor, his scarred hands fiddling with the empty pipe. Its bowl was still warm to the touch even though the clay cooled rapidly.

"Fear not brother," Kodlak encouraged, clasping his dear friend on the shoulder. "Aela also has her father's sense. She won't do anything too rash."

"I certainly hope so."

Hammel wasn't expecting Farengar's face to be the first thing he saw when he came to. In fact, if given a choice, the Court Wizard would be near the very bottom of his list. Somewhere above Hermaeus Mora but below Mehrunes Dagon. Unfortunately, when Hammel finally snapped his eyes open, recovering from his stupor, there the mage stood. The tall, gangly man was muttering indignantly under his breath, mashing some kind of plant into a fine paste using his mortar and pestle.

The Nord was unbelievably thirsty. "Water," he croaked voice like sandpaper, vision blurry. His head hammered with the force of a dozen hangovers and his body was wracked with dull pain. He was laying on a cot in a structure he didn't recognize, a fine wool blanket pulled up to his chin.

Farengar glanced up casually from his work. "Welcome back to the land of the living," he responded unpleasantly. The mage squinted from behind his tiny beard, taking in the other man's condition. "Might I say, you look frightfully atrocious."

"Water," he growled again, breaking off in a fit of coughing. His lungs felt like they were burning, each heave of his chest causing more pain.

The Court Wizard snatched up a pewter mug, resting on a small table at the end of Hammel's bed, filling it with water from a small cask, also on the end table. "Calm down," Farengar responded tersely, passing Hammel the mug of water. "You think you're the only one recovering in this infirmary?"

After taking a long draught of the delicious, sweet, cold water, which soothed his ravaged throat, he glanced around. Sure enough, there were other beds in the room, each occupied by a Whiterun guard. Many had suffered horrifying burn marks or other injuries. Few were conscious.

"Where... where am I?" He mumbled, taking another greedy drink from the mug, water dribbling down his goatee onto his chest.

"Dragonsreach infirmary," Farengar responded nonchalantly. "You've been here since you passed out following that scrap with the dragon." He retrieved his notebook and a small hunk of bone, before sitting down in a chair next to the bed. "I understand congratulations are in order, Dragonborn."

Hammel nearly choked on his water. "Dragonborn? I doubt that." The very notion of being Dragonborn seemed pretentious. No matter what had happened or how he felt the previous evening or what he'd seen, there was no way he was Dovahkiin.

"Well you're certainly no Martin Septim," the Court Wizard said icily, "But you do seem to have the blood of dragons." Tossing the chunk of bone onto the bed, Farengar continued. "I saw the skeleton myself. Flesh doesn't rot away that fast. However, what I know of ripping a dragon's soul from its body suggests catastrophic destruction of all non-skeletal materials." He nodded at the bone hunk, "That particular specimen came from the late dragon, most of which is still sitting near the tower; the rest in my study. Fascinating material, dragon bone…"

"How can I be Dragonborn?" Hammel asked again, drilling the mage with questions, in hopes of answering his own.

Farengar shrugged his scrawny shoulders. "I've read several theories. One suggests that the power is in the blood that is, inherited from your father and mother. Another suggests that all Dragonborn are touched by Akatosh, blessed with their gifts when the need is dire enough." He snorted, chuckling to himself, "I also heard a philosopher once suggest that all men are Dragonborn, we just have to believe in ourselves." The Court Wizard's derisive laughter continued, "I don't put much stock in that particular theory." He held up his hands in a "stop talking" gesture before Hammel could butt in. "Look, before you go on, needing more proof that you have the dragon blood, I'll just end this. You shouted, without training. Everyone saw it, the effects were felt and, moreover, you know it too." He paused, letting the words sink in. "You are Dragonborn."

The Nord looked down at the empty mug in his hands. A thousand questions raced through his mind, about his past, present, future. "What do I do now?" He asked the mage quietly, not sure why he bothered.

"Do I look like an oracle to you?" He responded derisively, "Figure it out." He turned away from the Nord, and moved towards the door. "The Jarl wished to be informed when you awoke, I'll tell him you're recovering."

The Court Wizard hadn't finished leaving the room before a woman entered. She was middle-aged, clearly Imperial, with wrinkled olive skin and stringy hair. Her eyes darted to and fro frantically, taking in every occupant in the room. In her hands was a large wood bowl, a horrifyingly foul stench rose from it.

She looked Hammel up and down; giving him the same attention another would give a prized cow. "Glad to see you're awake," she approached his bed side, hands fiddling with the paste inside her bowl. Without a word, she reached under his blanket and grabbed his right leg, where the tear had been made.

Hissing in pain, the Nord attempted to smack her hand away. He winced as the sudden movement sent a burst of pain through his chest. "Stop your fretting," she ordered, slapping his hand to the side, "I'm checking to see if the poultice held."

"I don't normally let a woman grab me under the sheets without giving me her name," he joked through gritted teeth, letting the healer do her job.

She snorted, "Is that supposed to amuse me?" She went back to examining his leg before clicking her teeth. "My name is Arcadia, I run the Caldron here in Whiterun. I'm pleased to see you didn't rub my concoction away during the night."

"I thought Farengar…"

"You thought he did this?" She raised a solitary eyebrow. "My dear lad, Farengar is absolutely useless with healing magic, and unwilling besides. You'll have to settle for a lowly herbalist." Dipping a small brush into her bowl, the woman began lathering it with her herbal remedy. "Now," she commanded, moving the brush towards his leg, "Hold still, this will sting a bit."

That proved to be an understatement.

A hiss rattled his lungs, once again filling his chest with pain. "My chest hurts," he growled, trying not sound like a whiny child.

Arcadia snorted. "That's to be expected when one breaks half a dozen ribs." She slapped him across the face, "I said hold still!" He was trying not to squirm as the poultice worked its way through the injury; it was a burning sensation, killing the multitude of infections that had already seeped into the wound. "We force fed you a potion, don't worry," she drawled on, slathering her brush with more of the disgusting mixture. "They're re-knitting. It'll take a bit of time, so avoid conflict, and walking." She tapped his injured leg gently with the brush, "This limb won't take much more punishment." She jerked her head in the direction of a sturdily constructed and comfortable enough looking pair of crutches. "Unfortunately, knowing you fighter types, you'll want to be up and about. If you insist on tearing open your legs again use that." She had begun muttering under her breath about stupid recklessness; the swabbing of her brush became fiercer.

Fortunately for the injured Nord, Balgruuf chose that moment to arrive. The Jarl breezed into the room, royal furs billowing dramatically, his crown freshly polished and beard braided. He was accompanied by a quartet of royal guards and Irileth, who didn't seem any worse for wear. In the left guard's hand was a fairly lumpy object hidden behind a cloth. Hammel struggled to sit upright, but was unable, wheezing as the pain rattled his recently shattered ribs.

Balgruuf waved it away. "Stay down champion of Whiterun, no need to stand on ceremony." The man smiled, warming up the entire room. "The impossible was done. A dragon, slain. In my hold, honor has been done to all parties, I think." Before Hammel could respond to the Jarl's statement, Balgruuf held up his hands, "And please, spare me the false modesty you adventurers seem fond of. Yes, the others helped; yes, you were lucky. However, I did not hear of another man leaping off the Western Watch-tower onto the back of a dragon to save my city." He paused dramatically, turning momentarily to look at several of the other guards, lying unconscious on their cots. "That kind of courage..."

"Or foolishness," Irileth muttered under her breath without humor.

"Does not go unrewarded in my hold." He continued, utterly ignoring his housecarl's comments. Waving the guard with the covered object forward, he stated, "Thus I present you with the Axe of Whiterun." The guard yanked the cloth free exposing its contents. In his hands he held a meticulously crafted hand axe. The weapon was forged from pure steel, its handle bound with fresh leather. Carved into its head, on each side, was the stallion of Whiterun. It looked magnificently balanced and razor sharp. "I understand you favor a dual-weapon style, after losing both of your blades defending my city I felt a weapon was in order. It will prove a fine tool for the off-hand."

He smiled. "Congratulations, Thane of Whiterun."

That caught Hammel completely off guard. His breath halted in bruised lungs. Images flashed through his mind of a childhood on the streets, hunting for scraps of food and feeling worthless, being told he was a whore-son, a guttersnipe, and would never be any else.

"Thane?" The word squeaked out from cracked lips, lingering the air as fragile as a glass hand mirror.

"Indeed," Balgruuf smiled again, "Your housecarl is fixing your new dwelling as we speak. Please visit her shortly; I imagine she has some questions." As he turned to leave, Balgruuf paused before throwing something at Hammel. It was the fang he'd taken from the dragon's maw, a small hole had been drilled into it and a thick strip of leather ran through the hole. "I took the liberty of having the dragon's tooth threaded. It should fit around your neck or wrist or wherever you choose to hang it. Good day, Thane."

The Jarl strode from the room as briskly as he'd entered it. The conversation had taken maybe three minutes. In three minutes his life had changed completely. His moment of reverie was shattered as another jolt of pain worked its way up his leg when Arcadia spread more of her poultice. "Thane or no, this needs to go on. Now, grit your teeth and take it!"

The Nord grit his teeth and waited.

Clob didn't much care for Belethor. The Breton was, in a single word, untrustworthy. He was lanky and pale, with eyes that resembled pieces of flint, and his oily hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail. His skin was even less lined or scarred than the Orc's and he smelled faintly of rotting fish. He was a businessman, and not a trustworthy one.

Still, Clob needed basic supplies, and to unload some of the loot he'd acquired during the flight from Helgen, no questions asked. He still had yet to find a partner for his journey deep into the wilds of Skyrim. However, he'd burn that bridge when he arrived.

"I was wondering something," Belethor asked the Orc as he fetched the winter blanket and jerky the mage had requested. "You're a mage, and, if I may say so, seem a powerful one." The greasy man's words became muffled as he dropped below the counter. "Why didn't you do battle with that dragon?"

The Orc shrugged his muscled shoulders, "Was not asked." The words rumbled from his maw like a bear awakening from hibernation. He folded his arms across his quarterstaff, making it obvious he wasn't interested in pointless questions, there was too much on his mind.

"Fair enough." The shopkeeper deposited a small canvas sack on the counter before beginning to fill it with the mage's items. "Let's see," he spoke, slowly dropping the items in one by one. "A wheel of cheese, three pounds of jerky, a winter blanket, two pounds of dried fruit, half a pound of tea leaves." He paused, rubbing badly tattered gloves across a barely shaved chin. "Sounds like someone is planning a long trip."

"Yes." Clob responded tersely, pulling his sack towards him, slinging it across his shoulder. The mage reached into his coin purse, silently counting out his owed amount. He placed the Septims on the counter one by one, not oblivious to the look of pure greed that crossed Belethor's face at the sight of the money.

"If you plan on heading out of the city you'll need help," he added helpfully, his faux concern not quite hiding the naked avarice. "Even a mage as powerful as you, could be vulnerable when traveling alone."

The Orc turned rather abruptly, his normal cheery nature finally exasperated by the scrap of a man. Without another word he strode from the general goods store, flinging the door open as he went. It banged shut behind him, cutting off Belethor's further attempts to engage him in conversation. He hadn't wanted anyone asking questions. He hadn't even intended to tell anyone he was leaving. Save that Nord, Greymist; Clob figured he owed it to him.

The sun beat down brightly in the Whiterun market; various vendors hawked their wares and coins were exchanged. Carlotta seemed particularly pleased with herself, humming an ancient ditty. After the thrashing Lianna had given Mikael, the widow seemed to have been left alone.

The Mage looked around the area, sizing up each occupant in turn. The greasy Breton hadn't been wrong, he did need a traveling companion. But who would he take? Certainly not Greymist, the Nord was too attached to his new-found home, besides, if the rumors were true, he'd be very occupied in the coming days. In a similar manner, he'd ask Farengar, but the Court Wizard had duties he couldn't possibly put off, especially now with a dragon's corpse to study. But who else did he know? Who else did his trust?

Pondering the decision before him, Clob crossed the street and entered the Bannered Mare tavern. Saadia was serving the few patrons present, moving elegantly from person to person, balancing a platter of drinks. Hulda remained behind the bar, wiping the counter down with an old rag. The middle-aged Nord didn't seem at all bothered or flustered by the midday rush, she simply smiled, head down and whistling a tune under her breath.

Clob took the situation in before setting himself at the bar. Mikael was still playing, his face much improved. The Nord in the iron armor, Sinmir, the Mage believed his name to be, continued to complain bitterly about the city guard while downing bottle after bottle of mead. Clob considered asking him for a moment, then discarded the notion. Any warrior worth his time wouldn't be that drunk.

An angry looking woman in plate in the corner was similarly dismissed; she seemed too bitter to be trusted. No other obvious warriors were visible in the tavern. There were few other patrons at all during that point in day, all farmers or citizens. He'd wait until night. Perhaps a mercenary or adventurer that seemed trustworthy enough would appear.

"Good evening, Clob." Hulda greeted him warmly enough, depositing a mug of cheap beer in front of him. "I took the liberty of pouring the same drink you ordered last night." It didn't look horrific. He barely remembered the taste; he'd been wrapped up in his notes the previous evening, studying and re-studying his map.

He smiled warmly, his tusks framing his face, "Thank you," he snatched the pewter mug up in one hand and drained it. "Another," he requested, gently returning the object to its place at the bar.

"Coming right up." The woman spun around gracefully to the kegs behind her, refilling the mug as Clob created a small pile of coins. "I'll miss you when you head out," she told him, honestly enough, placing the refill before him. The foam bubbled up happily over the side, frothy and white. "You've been a good patron, and fine company." She swept his coins off the counter into her money pouch with a practiced hand, counting them as they cascaded into the bag. "And you always paid your tab." She shot Sinmir a dirty glare, "Which is more than can be said for some."

At first, the Orc was going to ask how she knew he was traveling, but then decided against it. Aside from mages with mind reading capacities, none knew people better than bartenders. Either she'd noticed him studying maps or simply read his expressions. Regardless, denying it would be pointless.

"I will return, if I can." He responded, taking his second beer much slower than the first, his beard slightly damp with foam. "However, duty takes precedence. I must make my journey, or die trying."

Hulda had likely heard such grandiose statements before, but still seemed faintly concerned. "Will you be traveling alone on this quest then?" She begun filling a third mug for the mage, already knowing he'd request it.

Clob finished his tankard, before slamming it down definitively. "If I must."

Hulda seemed sympathetic to his cause. "Many men do difficult things in the name of honor. Preforming your quest alone, though admirable, is also foolish. Can you delay another evening?"

The Orc paused, mentally reviewing his plans. After a moment's consideration, he nodded. "Yes," he took another long draft of the Nordic beer, "I believe I can."

"Good," the woman smiled. "I know some people; they are mercenaries, but trustworthy ones," she defended, noting the Orc's look. "They are...interesting people. But I believe they would be most willing to assist in your cause. Whatever that may be."

Clob snorted. "We'll see."

"Imperials," Lianna murmured, wiping blood off her longsword. "So very arrogant." The few scouts outside of Korvanjund had been in sloppy position, scattered around in little groups by fires or friends. They hadn't even noticed the Stormcloaks until they'd been among them, and by that point it was far too late.

Galmar pulled the head of his axe out of the neck of one unfortunate legionary, almost severing what was left of the man's head. The carnage had been quick, bloody and brief. Not a single man had made it through the barrow's massive iron doors to warn the others, leaving the rebels with a potentially large advantage.

"Search the bodies," Galmar ordered his voice rumbling like a rock slide. "One of them is bound to a have a key for this gods-damn door!"

Snow was falling gently from the darkened sky above, blanketing all those present with a dusting of white. Galmar resembled an angry bear more than a man, his breath coming out in great clouds of mist. Lianna knew this was his mission, his passion; he'd pushed Ulfric to send them for the crown, and he didn't intend to let a few Imperial cowards stop him. For that matter, neither did she. If the future High King was to need the Jagged Crown she would die before letting it slip away from her grasp.

Ralof was already fishing through any visible pouches on the rapidly cooling bodies, brushing away snow and gore. Steam rose in the air as warm blood poured from corpses into the ground, melting the snow. Bending low in the snowdrift, Lianna gave her husband a hand. Her warpaint was smeared and her hair was coated in snow, the tips of her pointed ears turning blue with the cold. The wool lining in her gloves kept her hands warm, but made opening pouches difficult. In frustration, the elf began ripping the cheap leather apart, digging through its contents with her typical lack of flair.

Nothing worthwhile was revealed in this man's pouch, much to her frustration, so the elven renegade moved onto the next one. It wasn't her that found the key, however, it was Natala. The stocky woman waved Galmar over, clutching a leather strap in her hand. What certainly resembled a key of some sort dangled from it, though slightly stained with blood.

"Alright boys, form up!" Galmar barked, waving them over. With perfect discipline, each stopped their personal activities to join the officer. A large, predatory grin had rippled across his craggy face, as if he could almost see the crown already, feel its weight in his hands. His anticipation seemed to be leaking to the rest of the Stormcloaks, each unwilling to fail the Jarl to whom they bore so much devotion.

"Everyone, listen up," the old soldier began, looking at the gathered unit before him. "Resting somewhere inside that Barrow is the Jagged Crown." A low murmur rippled through the rebels. All had heard the legend of the Jagged Crown, of course, and each had been briefed before arrival as to the intended target. Yet to hear it spoken aloud, the name of an object of legend, it was stunning.

"Yes, that crown; the crown of dragon teeth, the crown still resting on the head of long dead king Borgas. It is within our reach." He closed his fist dramatically, demonstrating to all the nearness of their target. "We don't know how many Imperials are lurking within, trying to get it for their false queen. We don't know what traps or guardians may have been left behind by Borgas. But I do know this," he let the words hang in the air a moment before they fell like the snowflakes, "No amount of Imperials, or Daedra, or Mehrunes Dagon himself, will keep me from that crown! Now, follow me!" He pumped his fist in the direction of the Barrow before charging towards the door, drawing his axe as he went.

Natala sprinted ahead, moving to unlock the doors as the rest of the band gathered, ready to swarm the barrow's main entrance. Key in hand, the rebel gave a moment of pause, allowing her companions to draw their weapons. The Stormcloaks momentarily halted their charge, forming themselves in a fist shape, prepping for a breach into the tomb.

The stocky woman slipped the key in perfectly, nodded at Galmar, twisted it sharply and threw the doors open.

The portals parted, revealing an entrance area with a cheery fire roaring and several blankets scattered about. Two baffled looking soldiers, with pieces of armor strewn about the chamber, could only gawk at the party of heavily armed rebels battering their way into the entrance chambers. A third man stood hunched over a stew pot, in the process of turning to face them.

Galmar cleaved his axe clean through the first gawker's head with one powerful strike. Simultaneously, Lianna, with a single slice, disemboweled the other solider. As the man collapsed, trying desperately to hold his guts in, Thangar fired an arrow at the man by the stew. The Imperial caught the projectile in the neck, falling backward into the cauldron. His lifeless form knocked it over, spilling a mess of stew and putting the fire out. The spurt of blood flowing from his neck mingled with the stew.

The simple wooden door on the other side of the entrance chamber, adjacent to the pool of blood and stew, flew open. Striding through it, a grim look fixed on his face, was an Imperial captain. He was tall, Imperial blooded, and wore a proud mustache.

Snatching a throwing axe from his belt in an instant, Galmar whipped the weapon across the chamber with a snarl. The deadly missile shattered the man's skull, sticking from his head like a macabre unicorn horn. The captain staggered back, gurgling, before collapsing in a heap.

A dozen odd boots stamped over his fallen form, hammering down the tunnel into the barrow proper. The sounds of mad scrambling and bellowed orders echoed upward from the chambers ahead, signaling that the troops ahead were preparing for the rebels attack.

Lianna smiled like a hungry wolf. Let them; it won't help.

Another wooden door blocked the Stormcloak advance, recently barred and supported by hastily thrown barrels. The wooden barrier proved absolutely no hindrance for the human wrecking-ball called Galmar Stone-Fist. Lianna watched, impressed, despite herself, as, without slowing, the burly man put his shoulder to the door. Wood fractured and shattered. Large splinters embedded themselves in the Nord's bear-skin armor. The Stormcloaks flooded the chamber after him, pouring through the empty door.

The battle that followed was a flash in Lianna's mind. Disconnected images dashed past her eyes as the battle ragged. A Legionnaire armed with a pickaxe rushed her, but a quick slice across the throat ended him. Another engaged her in swordplay and was likewise disposed. A third solider, a large Redguard with a shield and mace, followed the late duo, growling out a war cry. A swift downward strike removed his weapon hand and a follow up blow removed his head, helmet still attached. The Altmer morbidly watched it bounce away as his body slunk to the floor.

Much like the scuffle at the door, the fight was quick and brutal. Eventually, the chamber quieted, as if mourning the fallen warriors of both sides. Breathing heavily, the rebel elf took in the party's losses. Vorth was down, his wounds clearly mortal, Ralvin was moaning audibly, clutching the stump that was once his left hand in a desperate attempt to stop the bleeding. The bodies of fallen Imperials littered the room, mostly clad in leather armor or mining gear. Judging from the number of corpses, the Stormcloaks had done remarkably well.

Ralvin groaned again, his fur gauntlet stained red with his rapidly leaking blood. Upon seeing the maimed rebel, Galmar waved Lianna over, "Do something with him," he ordered sharply, "We need to keep moving before the Imperial's reinforce."

"I don't know any healing..."

The burly Nord cut her off, "You know fire. That should be enough."

The Elf almost immediately protested, but a small voice in the back of her head reminded her of the importance of this mission. Of the speed required. She nodded curtly to her commander, before approaching Ralvin. The injured man grimaced painfully up at her. "Am I going to die?" He growled out, between clenched teeth, trying to project some levity into his words.

The dark-haired Altmer shook her head. "Hardly, it's just a scratch." She smiled at him, trying to ease his discomfort. "I need you to hold out your..." she paused, trying to think of a sensitive way to phrase her request.

Saving her the trouble and potential awkwardness, the other rebel removed his good hand from the gory stump. His remaining fur gauntlet was stained a dull red, blood leaking steadily from the mutilated limb. "Just make it quick." He requested, looking very pale and nervous.

"One, two..." She began counting, readying a spell in her free hand. Ralvin winced, readying himself for the blow. Before she said three, the elf released a quick wave of impossibly hot magical flame. The fire washed over the man's stump, searing flesh and melting bone. Ralvin shrieked in pain as the wound burned closed. With surgical precision, the elven renegade, called back the magic flame before causing damage to Ralvin's otherwise uninjured person.

The Nord glanced down at his now cauterized wound, looked up at the elf, and then winced. "You didn't make it all the way to three." His response would have been comical if he wasn't obviously in agony.

Lianna gripped his shoulder. "Bracing would have only made it worse."

"That's between me and Talos."

She was going to give him an equally pithy and yet sympathetic reply before being cut off. "Draug!" Ralof howled, slamming his twin axes together for emphasis, "Coming up from the crypt!"

Lianna smiled brutally before drawing her blade. The Orcish steel sung magnificently as it came out. It would never match the chilling power of her first weapon, Frozen Heart, but she would make short work of the walking corpses. A smile on her lips, the elf dashed forward, ready to meet whatever foe came her way. Nothing would stop her from completing her mission. Nothing.

Hammel Greymist hobbled towards Breezehome on his new crutches. At least, he hobbled towards the house fitting the description of Breezehome. After bestowing the title and honor of Thane upon his shoulders, and rewarding him with property officially, the Jarl's steward had given him directions to his new, permanent dwelling. While sleeping in Jorrvaskr had certain appeal, he would definitely enjoy the peace and quiet that came with living on one's own.

The newly acquired Axe of Whiterun rested comfortably in a leather strap on his belt, as if it had always sat there. The Kiss had been recovered from the field of battle and returned to its rightful place under his arm. Dangling from the band around his neck, the dragon's tooth stood out boldly, a monument to the man who'd brought down the dragon. The Dragonborn.

The word had bounced around his mind the rest of the morning before he'd pulled himself from Arcadia's care. Legends, responsibilities and wonder had each taken hold of his thoughts at some point, only to be chased away when anxiety or turmoil took root in their place. Time would tell what would become of him. Until then, he'd stay close to home.

Wincing as his ribs rattled, the man continued putting one foot, and crutches forward. The wind blew by pleasantly, bringing a slight chill with it. The city remained undamaged, the dragon's focus had been directed exclusively at the watch-tower and his death there had prevented further carnage, for the moment.

The sounds of hammer on steel and rapidly cooling metal reached his ears; Adrianne was hard at work at her forge, smithing something into shape. According to the directions he'd been given by Proventus, his new home should be adjacent to Warmaiden's. While many wouldn't consider a home next to a blacksmith to be a pleasant location, the former soldier did. The sound of the hammer on anvil was a comfort, and the location of readily available tools a blessing. If the woman needed a hand, or was simply offering work, he would be available. Hopefully, the grindstone and armor bench would also be available for use; maintaining his own equipment was one thing the legion had drilled into him.

The house he assumed was Breezehome was pleasant enough. It was a compact building, sturdily constructed of well cut timber. Instead of a thatched roof it was covered with wooden shingles, keeping the heat much better, several glass windows dotted its exterior. The foundation, only visible from certain angles, was solid stone and sturdy. A simple oaken door protected the home, sealed with a simple, but sturdy looking, iron lock.

Bracing himself against his crutches, the Nord fished around in his pouch for the key he'd been presented with, mentally hoping he was correct with the location. His first act as Thane, explaining how he wasn't breaking and entering, simply lost, would be embarrassing. Fortunately for his pride, the key slipped perfectly into the lock, and clicked warmly after a single twist. Gripping the handle, he pushed the door open.

It was extremely pleasant on the inside. The first thing he noticed was a roaring fire, crackling happily away. Two comfortable looking armchairs sat across from it, waiting to be occupied. Between the chairs stood a small side table, the perfect height for resting one's beverages. A cluttering of bookshelves, chests and various cupboards stood mostly empty, awaiting the time when they'd be stuffed with various nick-knacks and trophies. A set of stairs led to an upper floor, a small table and dining area was set up towards the rear of the chamber, and past that, double doors led to a currently empty room.

The first thing Hammel did was sit on one of those chairs. Letting out a groan of relief, he leaned his crutches against the other chair and got comfortable. His solitary vigil lasted only a moment before the sound of heavy boots on the stairs behind him signified the presence of another.

Turning his head slowly to avoid further wrenching his injured body, Hammel got the first glance of his new housecarl.

She was tall for a woman, nearly six feet at first glance, with plenty of lean muscle packed onto her frame. Long dark hair, the color of midnight, flowed freely over her shoulders, cascading like a waterfall. She had a firm jawline, weathered skin and a rather plump nose. Her ocean-green eyes twinkled with an unruly fire, suggesting that she had some free will of her own. She was clad in armor, wrought of heavy Nord iron, a round, wooden shield slung across her back, and a long blade was belted to her waist.

She sniffed the air once and stated, with just a hint of superiority, "You smell quite foul."

Hammel was momentarily taken aback. He knew his housecarl likely wouldn't sing his praises upon their first meeting, but he didn't expect a comment on his body odor. "I've just come out of the Jarl's healing room. I haven't had a chance to bathe since the battle at the Western Watch-tower." He placed his hand on the side table, wishing to Talos there was a mug of cold mead there. He snorted a little, "I look atrocious, too."

The woman smiled very faintly, "That you do, indeed." She bowed her head politely. "I am Lydia, and I am sworn to carry your burdens." She grimaced slightly at her own comment. "I will serve you until you deem fit to release me, or death take me. I will be your sword and shield, I will..."

Hammel waved at her, "Yes, yes, I get it. Sit down." He gestured at the other chair, "Don't tire yourself out giving me the long version."

Lydia nodded gratefully, before slipping into the chair with the grace of someone well trained in heavy armor's use. The chair creaked slightly but held her weight. She clenched her hand up into a fist and rested her chin upon it, gazing at Hammel for a moment, analyzing him. 'I hope I won't have to stand on ceremony all the time with you." Lydia stated a length, "When I was being trained for duty they warned me it could be so, depending on the man." She gazed into his eyes for a moment, "You don't seem to be that sort of man. Stuffy titles and putting on arrogant airs doesn't seem your mug of mead."

It never failed to impress Hammel how much warriors could tell about their fellows with observation. He snorted, "Me? Put on airs? Hardly. I'm a simple man, just trying to do his duty. I'd be damned grateful for the help," he admitted to her. "But I'm no one's master. I respect you, you respect me. Sound fine?" The woman nodded. "Good, please get me a drink." He requested, "If there is one in this house."

"There is," Lydia responded, pushing herself to her feet. "Black-Briar mead is in the right cabinet, for future reference." She pointed at the cupboard specified. Taking a moment, the woman reached up, opened the cupboard door, and withdrew two bottles, the Black-Briar label clearly visible on them. Before returning to her seat, she passed Hammel his. "Will there be anything else, my Thane?" She asked, seeming almost serious with the term, rather than mocking.

"No." Hammel yanked the cork clear from the bottle with a pleasant popping sound. "I just want to sit here a moment." Placing the bottle to his lips, the Nord took a long, hearty draft. The refreshing mead tumbled down his sore throat, electing almost a sigh from him.

"I expected the Dragonborn would be taller." His housecarl stated, one eyebrow raised slightly.

The ex-Legionnaire refused to be baited, "Nothing has been proven yet." Even to him his denial seemed weak, particularly after Farengar's rebuttals to his earlier denials. "We know nothing for sure."

"We will when the Greybeards knock on the door." Lydia stated confidently, glancing across the fire towards Breezehome's entrance. "They can sense you, you know."

"I know the legends!" Hammel responded somewhat tersely. Maybe that's why I'm so opposed to this. Like I'm not worthy to be one of them. What am I after all?

"They will come."

He wasn't sure if the woman had faith in him, or wanted to see him fall. Still, he found her firmness oddly comforting.

"Well, we'll see..."

AN Another one done. Please, don't forget to review, this story has 75 favourites and over a hundred subscribers, but very few of you are leaving reviews. I greatly appreciate them.

Thanks for your continued support.