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-Ross-

It felt good to be back in the saddle, doing what he did best. The last of the fire-leafed maple trees had long been left behind him, and Ross rode up the winding cobblestone road, crossing from one hold into the next.

Never had one of his contracts been so tiresome.

Gosvahgraag was over two weeks behind him, a length of time he could have easily traversed the entirety of the province east to west, but unfortunate complications had arisen shortly after he made his way through the mountain pass and crossed the border into Gravuungevild.

The rich golden forests of the south were home to many creatures—primarily predators. Bears were particularly common, and the dragons that made their homes in this hold often had to eat the huge, shaggy hunters for a profound lack in other sources of prey. Despite this, bears were plentiful in number. Ross had been in Gravuungevild many times this year alone—the autumnhold was the third most populated territory in Skyrim with five settlements and the capital Aarhorvutah—and considered himself well aware of the threat of bears, but he had not been in this hold since spring, and their numbers appeared to have bloomed throughout the breeding season.

It was proven when, close to dawn on the fifth morning since his departure from Gosvahgraag, Ross and his horse were surprised by a pair of young bears, which was almost laughable; his message was intended for a young bear, but did these two spare him for that? The mountain pass was only an hour behind them, yet they attacked when he'd barely started into the autumnhold, on the road to the nearest town. A frenzied fight followed, during which Ross managed to shoot one dead before it could attack; the other bowled both him and his steed clean over. Dazed from its strike, Ross struggled to reload, but he was not fast enough; the bear promptly lunged for the horse struggling to his feet, its jaws closing around one of the flailing hocks.

Pure panic overtook both mount and rider. A bolt was planted in the bear's throat before it could splinter the limb in its powerful maw, but its fangs had opened deep gashes in its prey's leg. Even after Ross soothed his beautiful steed and helped him get up off the ground, the horse could barely stand. In those few seconds when the bear had caught his prey, wounds had been laid down to the bone.

It seemed so grave that Ross had almost been tempted to put his beast out of his misery—the horse was Cyrodiilian-bred, built for speed, not endurance—but a freerider was only as good as his horse, and in his heart he knew there was no other mount to be found in the world that would ever be as good as his stallion. He could not bring himself to kill him.

He tore a strip from his travelstained cloak and used it to bind the horse's leg, then walked him the last mile to the nearest town, Kodaavnahkip—and never had Ross found the town's name, which meant Bear Feed, more ironic.

By dawn he'd found his way into the stirring settlement and to the stables. Ross always made his horse his first priority wherever he went, and this day it was no different, other than throughout his settling of the tired beast he fretted and fought to keep his desperation hidden from the stablehands that came to help. The wound hadn't staunched and still wept scarlet.

The stablemaster took one look and pronounced the horse a lost cause, which Ross furiously denied. "He's not as strong as your Skyrim-bred beasts, but he's tougher than he looks."

"Even Skyrim-bred beasts don't heal from a wound like this."

"Find me a healer."

"The best are to be found in Stormstone, two days from now. It'll take two days to even send them a message."

Ross couldn't wait that long—anger he rarely felt came surging up in him. "Are there none in this sparse settlement?" he exclaimed. "Not even an elder capable of casting the simplest spell in the healing arts?"

"No spellcasters here," the stablemaster answered, "though you might be in luck yet; some roaming alchemist just paid a week's worth of board in the inn. Maybe he can help."

Ross gave orders that his injured horse be treated with as tender care as a wounded child before leaving the stables to seek out this alchemist—who was preparing to leave on a herb-gathering expedition of some particular plants that flourished around this particular community, which was what had apparently drawn him here in the first place. He agreed to look at the freerider's steed, and after a few minutes' study of the bear's wound, pronounced that the lacerations would be particularly difficult to fully heal, and the shock of them might kill its suffering host given time, even if medicine was prepared.

Such was Ross's desperation that he pleaded the alchemist to try. "If it is gold you need, I will gladly pay you."

"I am not interested in gold," the alchemist answered. "It is time I need, and what you cannot give."

"For as long as I've done what I do, I've ridden this horse. He and I have endured a thousand journeys across Skyrim."

"Touching, but memories will not save him."

"Medicine can."

"It can. I know the saying about freeriders and their mounts. Yes, I will do my best for you—I have a soft spot for these kinds of things. I will have a day to gather my necessary ingredients, and another to make a potion suited for this animal's needs." He proffered a phial as he spoke. "For now, ensure the horse's wounds are thoroughly cleaned, and its bandages are soaked in the contents of this bottle before you bind them. It will prevent whatever infection—bear bites have a rather irritable tendency to induce bone break fever in their hosts."

Despite the stablemaster's persistent doubts, Ross had him carry out the alchemist's orders. Throughout those first two days he didn't leave his stallion, even sleeping in the same stall as him. The horse's condition deteriorated slowly, though it was pain and fatigue that ebbed his strength; the alchemist's potion was potent, and no sickness spread from the bite.

At last the alchemist returned on the dawn of the third day with the promised medicine. The wound was festering freely, but Ross was assured that the discharge was a good sign. "Pus drinks foul humours and restores the blood; it is a sign your animal values its life and is fighting for it, which is admittedly impressive. Then again, your steed is still in his prime years and at the peak of his physique. He certainly stood a chance."

"The medicine will heal him?"

"I am certain of it. Soak the horse's bandages in the potion and change his bindings twice a day. I have two bottles. Each bottle should last you three days. By the end of this week your horse should be able to stand and walk freely, and once that is achieved his strength will return swiftly. You will be back on the road in less than a fortnight."

The alchemist was as good as his word. By that evening the stallion's condition had already improved, and by the time Ross had used up the first bottle of medicine, the wound was healing swiftly, and its host grew better by the day. The alchemist departed Kodaavnahkip on his own accord during that time without being paid a single coin.

This had greatly taken Ross by surprise. "He never came for payment."

"I guess saving that sorry beast was payment enough for him," the stablemaster shrugged.

"Do you know him?"

"Know? No. I've only seen him come into this town on occasion, as always on the hunt for herbs. He's not the social sort, keeps to himself, definitely doesn't make a ceremony out of things. Think I overheard his name once, though I'm bad with them. It was funny, though, not what you'd expect with an Altmer and their fancy callings; some flower, I think?"

Ross stayed in Kodaavnahkip for ten days and departed on the eleventh morning, on the fifteenth of Last Seed, and while most of that time was spent constantly tending to his recovering horse, he did spend an hour or two in the inn each night following his mount's regenerating health, and while he told the interested townsfolk stories and events happening around Skyrim, they also had a great many to tell, and some were more fascinating than others.

"You've heard of the Viper, right? Infamous thief, makes men bleed tears as she steals right in front of them? She was sighted in Aardiiah, and she stole something of immense value from Dragonlord Ollos himself! Can you believe it? She stole from a Dragonlord, she went so far as to make him weep tears of blood as she slipped away into the night! There's a bounty for her capture that could buy an entire city!"

"Word is the Summerset Isles have been hit by the World-Eater's forces, and Firsthold's been sacked, every single citizen slaughtered or devoured. There's been another rebellion down there, another attempt at reforming the Aldmeri Dominion, so the story goes—of course that attracted the monsters' notice. What were those fool elves thinking? The World-Eater and the Dread destroyed the Dominion once, when they were at the pinnacle of their power: what made them think this crude reassembling could ever make a stand?"

"You've heard about Vylornar's census, right? It ended in the northhold on the first day of latesummer—not that there's any summer up there—but apparently some mage from the College tried to kill the Dragonlord! Imagine that, some bold fool thinking they could take on a Dragonlord—and Vylornar, no less—Of course he got blown to pieces and didn't land a single blow, but the dragonmen can't stop talking about the duel. Their firefight nearly blew the town apart!"

"If you could believe the rumours, the stonehold is becoming a much more dangerous place to be—for dragons. Strange, isn't it? Dragons have been turning up dead in their lairs. It's almost like someone's hunting them, there're signs of struggle, but the dragonmen believe the dragons themselves aren't responsible for the deaths of their kin—only a few weeks ago a prestigious active loyalist of the World-Eater's was hunted to his death. Who could possibly be so bold as to do such a thing? Nobody knows, though interrogations have increased in Markarth and the warden's urging anyone with information to come forward…"

"The Raiders are withdrawing across Jergevild! Their forces are moving east into the mountains. What is the young bear thinking? Are they trying to mount an assault on the World-Eater's Eyrie? Madness! They'll be destroyed for certain! Kaarn must be truly broken by the death of his uncle if he's attempting such folly!"

Much had been happening throughout Skyrim, but it was the rumours of the Raiders' flight into the eastern mountains that held Ross's attention longest. He'd given little thought as to how he'd attract the Raiders' attention, prepared to cross that bridge when he came to it—now he had a modest sense of where to look for them. Though the Eyrie is found in those mountains, and the Eyrie is the World-Eater's throne—if you could dignify that tyrant with one. Even in Alduin's absence, I can't imagine that place being unguarded. Dragons will hear of the Raiders in the easternmost mountains, and when they do the rebellion will perish for sure…

Were the Raiders routed with the death of Ulfric Stormbear? Then the message from the Greensmile voicing his support is made all the more important, Ross thought, conscious of the letter stashed safely in a hidden pouch on his belt—he didn't trust his saddlebags to keep it from falling into unwanted hands. He felt that familiar restlessness he always gained from spending time in one place too long—his horse was almost healed, standing and walking without trouble, each step taken stronger than the last. Soon the road would be beneath him again, and he would ride north to the east.

It was where he was now, as Ross withdrew from his thoughts; in the saddle where he belonged, his horse under him, galloping across the border into Jergevild. Now even the bearwood was behind them.

The road to the easthold wound its way up a plateau, and from the cliffs Ross could see the vast stretch of the sweeping volcanic tundra. He paused here to allow his horse to catch his breath, and to check his wound. It had healed well, closed neatly into some gleaming silver scars. The last of the sunlight was fading, and the mournful cries of dragonsong were subsiding as night closed in—Ross found shelter in a disused animal den atop the plateau, and there he let his horse rest while he studied his map and planned how best he start his search for his unknowing receivers.

An ungainly flurry of feathered wings made Ross look up; his shelter was located beneath a bristly fir tree, and upon one jutting branch a raven had lighted—and one that seemed familiar. Was it the same one from the greenwood?

In the moonlight and beneath the open sky, it appeared an old and rather ugly animal. Its plumage had receded around its large head and oversized beak, displaying a lot of withered grey skin around its beady eyes, and every feather had a permanently bedraggled look. It was also quite big, as large as or larger than a snowy owl.

Again, Ross was made uncomfortable by it. "Go away," he snapped, looking for something suitable to throw at it. "Go bother something else."

The raven screeched at him. The horse started with a shrill whinny.

"Get away with you!" Ross cried.

"Way!" the raven shouted back.

Ross recoiled in surprise. This haggard old bird was a mimic—some ravens could be like that, and they were the most annoying ones. "Yes, way," he told it. "Preferably away. Go on, shoo, back to the forest with you." The last thing he needed was that dratted carrion-eater following him around.

His hand closed around a stone, but before he could throw it the raven hurled itself into the air and vanished in a few noisy wingbeats, screaming, "Way! Way! Way!" in its wake.

Ross glowered after it and released his would-be projectile. And may a dragon eat you, and good riddance to that.

He was awake before dawn, in the saddle an hour before the sun was risen. He made it to the bottom of the trail when light crept across the sky, and promptly turned east towards the shadow of the mountains. It was dangerous to ride in daylight, but he preferred that to the danger of trying to scale craggy peaks and precarious ledges in pitch darkness.

It seemed luck remained with him; by the time he reached the scattered highland territory at the foot of the mountains clouds had covered the sky and a drizzle was falling, creating a mist upon the ground that gradually grew thicker as the rain grew heavier. Ross pulled up his hood and draped himself more snugly beneath his cloak as he prepared for a long day of searching. He stopped at the foot of one old mountain trail to once more check his horse's healed injury before mounting and starting the ascent into the stony hills.

Occasionally shadows passed over him, and the calls of hunting dragons echoed through the mountains, rumbling through the stone, but visibility was reduced and Ross was not seen. For a few hours they peacefully searched the mountainside for any sign of life or Raider activity, gradually moving north as they went; but either the rumours were false or the Raiders were excellent at concealing themselves and an entire rebellion, for the search proved fruitless. Ross had expected this, though he despaired a little; there had to be some easier way to gain their attention without attracting the sky-borne enemy.

The rain soon reassumed drizzle as the day warmed, though the mist was thick and cool. Nonetheless, the humidity stirred a thirst in both beast and rider, and it so happened that they soon came across a grassy shelf where a rill ran through. Gratefully Ross slid from the saddle and led his horse to water, and both drank contentedly from the icy stream.

He let his mount rest and drink a while longer as he studied this new environment. The silhouettes of the mountains rose all around him, barren and unforgiving, but tussocks of tough grass bent beneath his boots. Hunger gnawed at him, and he thought of the food in his saddlebags. Somehow it was evening; a whole day had already been spent in the mountains of Jergevild. And of course I find nothing, Ross thought with a sigh. At least where he was would be a good place to spend the night; he spotted a ledge of stone nearby where a lip of rock jutted out to shelter a shallow space beneath. He wandered over to investigate—it was no underground cave, but it would do to keep the wind and rain out. Perhaps it would prove foggy enough to light a small fire and dry off a little for the day ahead.

A faint, sharp crack turned his eyes from the overhang to the ridge above it. A pebble clacked its way down the mountainside to land near his boots.

Ross guardedly followed its route all the way up to the shrouded peaks, though it seemed devoid of any life. They always make you think that, though, he thought, and it's better to jump at nothing than not to in these dangerous times. His hand snaked beneath his cloak and grasped his crossbow as he turned his eyes from the stony slopes to look guardedly across the grassy shelf. Dragons were not the only predators to dwell in the mountains—cougars and wolves made their home here as well. His horse had been disturbed by the pebble and with twitching ears and eyes he scanned the area, though he did not seem too alarmed and shortly resumed drinking.

There was another clattering, followed by a rush of wings, and even as Ross whipped around with his crossbow drawn he saw the creature disappearing into the silvery sky, shrieking hoarsely as the sound of its feathers faded.

Ross shook his head. I don't believe it. He lowered his weapon and glowered after it. Stupid bird.

He listened intently a moment more, but heard only the silence and echoes of the mountains. He slipped his crossbow back to its sheath as he made his way back to the brook.

That was when he heard the unexpected footsteps, yet by the time he registered those there was a black flash before his eyes and his breath and voice was shut away as a cord tightened around his throat. He choked, scrabbling desperately at the hands of his attacker, as a rough growl sounded close to his ear. "One sound, dragonman, and we'll make it especially painful."

Dragonman. The word seared through Ross's frantic mind. They think I'm their enemy. He heard his horse start and snort in fear, saw two more men appear upon the shelf, one leave to subdue the panicking animal while the other advanced with a weapon drawn.

I can't let them…Ross tried to gasp his title. "Frh—frh—fh—" How could it be so hard? It was only one word! How could one word be so difficult to say?

There was no more time; he and his thoughts were beginning to black out. Can't let them…message…He dropped one hand just below his throat, gesturing wildly at his collarbone, at his pin. Let them see it…see it…please…

His vision was darkening, but he glimpsed a shape just in front of him, put a hand beneath the fold of his hood; then suddenly the weapon fell away as its bearer ordered, "Let him go, now!"

The pressure on his windpipe vanished instantly and Ross fell on his face, gasping.

Footsteps sounded around him, and slowly he climbed to his knees, leaning on one arm while the other pressed his aching throat. Gradually his vision cleared, he stopped trembling and his breaths quietened from ragged gulps to drawn rasps. Only then did he raise his head, to find himself staring up a longsword to a pair of armoured Nord men, standing over him with guarded expressions.

Raiders.

"Who sent you?" the swordsman demanded.

It took a moment before Ross found his voice again. "Halling," he wheezed.

Their eyes narrowed. "Who?"

"Greensmile. Warden of the south." He sensed their anger and added hastily, "Not for the reason you think."

"You bring a message from that traitorous Nord, that dragon-lover," his interrogator growled. "What is it?"

"I might remember better," Ross panted, annoyed, "if there wasn't a sword in my face."

"Fair enough." The tip jerked down and pressed at his throat instead, and he stiffened at the prick of steel on his skin. "Now what's this message?"

"It's intended for your leader."

"You're the messenger. Give us the message. We'll be the ones to pass it on."

He'd heard that before. "It's for Kaarn Stormbear's eyes and ears only—he'll be the one to decide if the rest of you will hear it."

The sword pressed deeper against his flesh. "And in case you've forgotten," the Raider responded, "we're the ones who'll decide if you'll walk out of this with your neck intact."

"I'm a messenger, as you said," said Ross stiffly, staring apprehensively at the weapon under his chin. "I take no sides. I'm not your enemy."

"Nor are you a friend, and if you aren't a friend, you're our enemy. Even freeriders."

Ross became aware of a rummaging sound; he glanced to where his horse stood, ears twitching in agitation, as a Raider busied himself emptying every saddlebag he could see. "You won't find it in there," Ross said. "If you didn't know already, we're rather good at concealing our deliveries for just this reason."

He turned back to the pair who stood before him. "The only way the Greensmile's message will reach Kaarn is through me to him. No conduits."

"We can easily become them." The sword pressed harder, and Ross cautiously leaned back to prevent the sharp blade biting into his skin. "Give us one good reason why we shouldn't."

Think. "Kill me," he responded cautiously, "and you'll be no better than the dragons you hate so." When the weapon lingered still, he added, "Nords are a folk that value honour—is this is true, you'll put the sword away and let the messenger deliver."

The two Raiders shared a glance. Ross waited tensely, until at last the touch of steel disappeared.

"You'll come with us quietly," they said.

The freerider climbed to his feet. "Of course."

"Show you mean that. Your weapon."

Ross sighed as he reluctantly surrendered his crossbow. "His saddlebags are bare," the Raider by his horse called. "Only food and clothes."

"Quietly, remember," the one before him said. One.

Ross detected the other moving behind him and guessed what was coming. "Is this really necessary?" he asked.

"Afraid so. Can't have you giving away where we are, Imperial, willingly or unwilling."

Then the bag went over his head.

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