Turdas, 3:34 PM, 6th of Sun's Dusk, 1E 173
Snowhawk
The city felt different. Yngva wasn't sure how to describe it. The gatehouses were the same, the streets were the same, the buildings were the same, the afternoon traffic was the same … but it all felt different. It felt smaller, somehow.
She wished she were happier to see it. But there was no triumph in this return.
Over the past weeks, she and Divayth had retraced their steps, all the way through the Pale and Whiterun Hold and now Hjaalmarch again—with only a brief detour first to the outskirts of Windhelm, where she sent a letter north to Winterhold. The travel had been slow. They hadn't talked very much.
But it seemed that the Chimer's declaration of friendship continued in both victory and defeat, because as they walked into the city of Snowhawk, they brought only defeat with them. They had lost the book, lost the blue stone, failed in the High King's mission—and worst of all, had been bested in combat by a complete stranger. There was only one positive element in all this.
They were still alive and free. That was their sole victory.
The walk through the city was brief. The three spires towered over the rooftops ahead, as they always did. After putting their pack horse up in the stables and removing its bags, Yngva was back in Snowhawk like she'd always been.
Besides that she was now walking with fifty pounds of weight in her backpack, and another thirty on either arm, plus the weight of her weapons and armor. This was going to make her sore.
But still, it all felt familiar. She threaded her way through the streets like she'd always done, finding the path to Whitehorn Hall where she'd always lived. The little stone building with the tiny porch in front. Or, large compared to other houses around here—little compared to the structures she'd seen of late.
"Home at last," she remarked, setting one of her bags on the ground in order to retrieve her key.
"You could sound a little happier about it," replied Divayth, before he walked up to the bag and lifted it up by the cloth strap in both arms. His voice instantly switched from 'normal conversation' to 'pained grunting.' "Oh gods this is heavy, how did you do this."
Yngva ignored him and went on to the door. "I hope Drisa hasn't been moved to the service of another Thane yet. I don't know who would make us those cinnamon rolls."
Divayth snorted. "Don't joke. I actually liked those."
They were out of time for talking. Yngva slotted her key into the steel lock, twisted, and pushed the doors wide open.
The sight on the other side was familiar. It was her home. The main room, the stairways, the back and side doors, the numerous decorations throughout—all of it was just as she remembered. The hearth was burning bright, and sure enough, Drisa was sitting beside it, tending the fire.
The moment the elder Nord saw the two of them, she shot to her feet. "Yngva! My dear! You're home!"
Yngva was totally unprepared for it. She had just enough time to drop her second bag on the floor before Drisa's arms were around her. "Yes," she said, from over Drisa's shoulder. She could barely feel it through all her armor, no matter how much she'd have liked to. "We're back. Safe and sound."
Once Divayth was inside, he promptly dropped his own bag with a heavy thud, then closed the door behind him and said, "Our journey has been long and arduous. Is the guest room still available?"
"Oh, all of the rooms are," Drisa said, extracting herself from Yngva's front so she could resume conversing like normal. She was still practically bursting with glee. "You must be exhausted after all your journeying. I've just been preparing the hearth for a modest dinner. I think a much finer one is in order now."
"The healing spells helped with the exhaustion," Yngva commented.
Divayth said, "I'm still about ready to go to sleep."
On one level, it was, of course, good to be home again. But the Nord girl's mind was elsewhere. Oddly, at the moment, she simply felt physically uncomfortable. She had broken a sweat from carrying all the heavy bags across town. Her smallclothes were already damp from it. Soon, they'd be clammy and awful. She couldn't wait to get out of all this stuff.
"Well, I'll let you on your way," said Drisa, still smiling. "Ah—before you go, Yngva, shall I send word to the Snow Palace?"
That meant Hakind. Yngva had been looking forward to this part. She smiled back. "Absolutely."
The next thirty minutes were spent in a long, laborious process of unpacking and settling in. Yngva first had to get a drink of water, because she'd been walking all day. Then she had to remove all of her kit, then fetch a much larger amount of water, and give herself the most thorough bath she'd gotten in what felt like a lifetime. It felt so good to be totally clean. It felt even better afterwards, when she changed into an actual proper dress for the first time since she'd left.
She spent a little while simply looking at herself in the mirror in her room. Nearly two months had passed. Two months of travel and adventure and peril and wonder. Snowhawk felt different, but in truth, it was the same as before. She was the one who'd changed.
At least their rations had been enough for her to not lose much weight. Maintaining muscles like hers wasn't easy business.
Next, the Nord girl spent a little time unpacking items from her bags, setting them on shelves or simply putting them in piles to be sorted later. There was quite a lot. Empty bags, dirty linens, leftover food, travel gear, loot from Ysgramor's Vault. It ended up making the main room look quite a bit messier, at least for now.
And that was how her first half-hour in Whitehorn Hall went. She would have gone on even longer, sorting and putting away items before her fatigue could get the better of her, but at around the half-hour mark, there was a knock on her front door.
She immediately answered. The list of people this could likely be was very, very short.
Standing there on her porch was Hakind. The sight of him made Yngva's heart leap.
"Hello, Yngva," he said.
They grabbed each other in a kiss before he could even step inside the house. It was a tight, hot embrace, furiously abrupt, with all the pent-up passion of a long journey apart. Neither of them let go until they'd worked their way inside the house and kicked the door shut behind them.
"You look good," Yngva replied. And she meant it. Hakind had dressed up for the occasion, not in his armor but in a proper embroidered doublet, complete with jewelry. His hair was trimmed neatly at neck-length, and—there were a few dark hairs on his chin and lip. Short, sparse, fuzzy-looking hairs, but the very first of many to come.
That was new. It stood to reason. It'd been two months. Hakind was fourteen now. His birthday would have been just a week ago. He was growing so quickly.
Hakind said, "I missed you. It's so good to have you back here. In one piece."
"It was a longer trek than I'd planned for. I'm sorry I missed your birthday."
"What?" The younger Nord made a face. "That's nothing. Forget about that. I want to hear about what you found. The Jarl … my mother and I have been waiting this entire time to see what would come of your quest. It's important to both of us."
Yngva leaned back and turned to look at the hearth. Drisa was on the far side of the room, busy preparing some ingredients or other in a wooden bowl.
"Well, we were going to have some dinner in a while," she said, turning back to Hakind. "Do you think you can stay with us until then?"
Hakind took off his shoes courteously, then walked over and took a seat on one of the chairs by the hearth. "It sounds like it's time for you to tell us your story."
Her story. It was still a strange thought, the idea that anything she'd done was even worthy of retelling. She supposed now that her experience across Skyrim was the sort of thing that her parents had such a wealth of. They'd always made a point of telling the grandiose tales of their adventuresome exploits. But this didn't feel grandiose. Yngva's journey had been grueling, and unglamorous, and at times simply desperate. And on top of that, it had been a failure.
Still, the Nord crossed over to sit opposite him. "All right." She let out a long sigh, staring into the low flames in front of her. The warmth of home. Here she was, safe at last, with the whole trip firmly in the past. "Where to begin?"
She began with the journey from Snowhawk to Winterhold. The passage through Whiterun Hold, the sudden cold of the Pale, the tundra of the north, the auroras in the sky at night. Then she described the sight of the capital city, and her journey into the Arcanaeum … which ended abruptly with her arrest by the city guard. And then came the prison cells, and then came the High King and their secret conversation. Even with everything that came later, Yngva felt in hindsight that she'd been in her deepest danger on that night and morning.
But after that morning came the journey south, into Eastmarch, for the hidden ruin of Ysgramor's Vault. Yngva took her time describing the fight with the draugr—Hakind was hanging on every word. And she even took note that they did find the treasure they'd been sent for. Except that then, they'd suddenly been attacked by surprise, and now the mission was forfeit. Now there was nowhere to go and nothing to do. She'd sent a letter north to Winterhold explaining her failure, and headed to Snowhawk to figure out her next move.
"... oh, but if you're worried you weren't able to help any more, I did put that dagger of yours to use." Yngva smiled. "Saved my hide, just like you wanted."
Hakind stared, mouth agape, for a few long seconds. Then his face slowly turned to a big grin of his own. "All right. I'm glad I made a difference."
"You did. And before I forget—" The Nord girl stood up suddenly, walking off towards the front door and searching through the pile of unpacked supplies. She found what she was looking for in the form of a roughspun cloth bundle.
Which she then put right in Hakind's arms. "This is for you. A belated birthday gift. I imagined you might like to hang it on a wall somewhere."
He unwrapped the bundle carefully in both hands. Inside was a one-handed war axe. Yngva had polished and sharpened the alloyed steel of the blade during the journey back, but it was still obviously an ancient Nord relic. The haft was gray and dry with age. The head, even when clean of the tarnish of age—weapons like these seemed to respond to time more like silver than iron—was still obviously of the old Atmoran design, with spikes and prongs and odd angular contours. The flat of the axe head was completely covered in beautifully engraved patterns, mimicking the sharp-angled form of the blade itself. It was more than a weapon. It was a work of art.
Hakind's eyes lit up. "Thank you," he said immediately. "Is this—did you get this from the ruin?"
"Right out of a draugr's cold dead hands," Yngva nodded in satisfied confirmation, unable to help herself.
"This is amazing. I don't… I don't even know what to say. This'll go on display in my room, no doubt about it. I can't believe you got this."
But she had. Even if she'd failed to retrieve the treasure she'd been sent for, the draugr and their weapons had all been down there for the taking.
Unfortunately, that didn't make the mission a success.
Yngva sat down slowly, her mood suddenly burdened by the reminder of that reality. "It wasn't that hard. They were just draugr. So far, what I'm gathering is that the real enemies are the ones with living minds."
A little while went by in silence. She stared into the flames for a while longer. The warmth of home.
Drisa was still over by the back of the room, working on her food preparations. No doubt, she'd heard every word so far, and she had her own opinions on all of it, but she was keeping to herself. It was appreciated. Yngva wasn't sure how much of other people's opinions she could withstand at the moment.
But she was still home and safe. That much couldn't be overstated.
"You said you're back in Snowhawk to plan your next move," Hakind said.
Yngva nodded.
"You sent a letter to Winterhold. Instead of going up there yourself."
She nodded again.
"Does that mean you're not sure if you want to keep trying to exact revenge?"
Yngva took a sharp breath in. Divayth hadn't asked her that question, but they both knew the answer already. Hakind hadn't taken long to catch on either.
"Yes," she admitted. "I'm afraid I might be in over my head with this. There are better-qualified people than I to undertake this quest. I started out looking for vengeance for my parents, and I ended up going on a mission for the High King's favor. That's not right at all."
Hakind hesitated for a moment, then said, "For what it's worth, I think you could still do it."
"I don't know about that. This mission I was sent on, it seems to be part of some grand conflict between rulers of races. I'm not the only contender in it. Divayth and I met another outside Ysgramor's Vault, and we were soundly defeated. The answer here is obvious. We're not ready. I'm not so proud that I can't admit my limits."
"Fair enough, I suppose." The younger Nord frowned. "I hope this doesn't mean you're considering stopping adventuring entirely."
Yngva did her best not to scoff. "Oh, no. No, no no no. I've trained my whole life for this. I think the message at hand is more that I'm not done training. And possibly that I might like to travel alongside someone besides Divayth, because I can't expect him to risk his life for my regular business."
Hakind brightened again. "Someone like me?"
"I can't expect you to risk your life either!" Yngva laughed. "You're the Jarl's heir. Come on. She'd have my head on a spike if anything happened to you on my watch."
"You're the Jarl's heeeir," he repeated in a mocking sneer, before breaking into a grin. "I can fight. Give me a few years, I'll be right with you. Besides, one day I'll be the Jarl. I'll make you my housecarl. Who can stop us then?"
Yngva looked around herself. "But if I have a place in the Snow Palace, who will live in Whitehorn Hall?"
"All of your amazing people who work for you, because you'll be rich from all the plunder from ruins and things. Obviously."
This was why her heart belonged to Hakind. There wasn't any shame in taking note of it. He was somehow managing to salvage Yngva's mood, despite everything.
She said, "I think I've spoken enough about my own little affairs for now. I'm curious what's happened around here in my absence. As I recall, I left on the 16th of Hearthfire. A lot can take place in that span of time. And ordinarily, I wouldn't care much, but my parents are gone, so whatever concerns this household—"
Yngva's sentence was interrupted by a knock on the door.
She immediately stood up. "I'll get it," she said, already heading to pull it open.
Behind her, Hakind asked, "Well, who could this be?"
When Yngva opened the door, she wasn't sure what she saw on the other side. It was a man, dressed in commoner's clothes, but with a strange gray mask on the top half of his face. It was the most distinct thing about the person that Yngva could make out. A sleek, gray mask with strange blue lettering down the middle.
She'd seen it before. It was so familiar, it made her stomach lurch. But she couldn't quite remember where.
She asked, "Who are you?"
"I can't tell you that," the man said. "Even if I wanted to, I couldn't. But I'm not your enemy. I came here for you."
Then Yngva realized where she'd seen the mask. Out of context, it was almost impossible to place. But then she heard those words, and it all came crashing into place. This was the mask she'd seen staring down through the doors of Ysgramor's Vault.
And she didn't have a sword on her person.
"You're the dragon priest," she hissed. "You're the one who attacked me. Give me one reason I shouldn't kill you where you stand."
The man winced. "I'm really, really sorry about that. I didn't want to fight you. I'm not even a dragon priest. I wanted to talk to you, but your friend hit me with a lightning spell before I could get a word out. And then you were on me with your sword, and…"
A couple thoughts began to flit through Yngva's mind, rising above the aftershocks of that jolt of fear. Firstly, this situation was becoming much more complicated than she'd thought, and maybe that entire fight outside Ysgramor's Vault had been totally different in truth than how she'd seen it. But more than that—much more worryingly than that—with this man standing here before her, the quest for the High King of Skyrim was no longer off the table. That door had just been reopened.
"You were dressed like a dragon priest," she said, for lack of anything else she could think to voice.
"It was my best armor. I didn't mean to make myself look like a draugr or something." The man shrugged apologetically. "I thought not having a skull face would be clear enough."
Yngva focused on the exposed portion of the man's face, below the mask. She still wasn't sure what she was looking at. There didn't seem to be much of a beard, or else
"I'm … having a hard time seeing your face," she said warily. "What's going on?"
Then Hakind's voice spoke from behind her: "Yes. What is going on?"
He was standing right there behind Yngva's shoulder, eyeing the stranger warily, with that well-polished ancient war axe in his hands. He looked about ready to bring it into a proper combat stance, although he hadn't yet.
"Put that away," Yngva said, shaking her head. "I don't think we need to fight right now."
The masked man said, "Exactly. May I please come inside?"
Yngva considered it for a moment. If she deemed the man untrustworthy enough to refuse, he might have tried breaking in anyway. But there was little reason to take that route. The man had shown up again, apparently after trying to find her and Divayth on a peaceful basis. He'd done this, after absconding with their treasure. There could be no selfish motive for this visit.
While Hakind put the axe down, Yngva stepped aside and held the door open. "All right. Come in. We're having dinner soon."
The masked man walked inside and let Yngva shut the door again. He glanced at Drisa, who was staring at him blankly. "Is ... that an invitation?"
"Depends how this conversation goes," said Yngva. "I have questions for you."
"I might have answers."
"What were you doing at that ruin in the first place?"
"We're working for the same man, ultimately. The High King of Skyrim." The masked man stepped inside slowly as he talked, observing the room around him. He was wearing a large leather backpack on his back. Maybe it had those dragon priest robes inside. "And I read the same book as you."
"So you know about the Blades of Men," Yngva said.
The man turned and stared at her silently for a few seconds. Then he raised a single finger and pointed it at her. "That is actually the first time I've heard their name. I've been working with them for months, and they never told me what they're called. They received word that two adventurers from Snowhawk, named Yngva and Divayth, were going to Ysgramor's Vault, so I was instructed to shadow you and make sure you'd be alright. And… obviously, that didn't go according to plan. By the way, Yngva, it's nice to meet you."
That first comment struck Yngva more than anything. A random mystery stranger had shown up at her doorstep, wearing some magical mask that made him impossible to identify, and yet there were things Yngva knew and he didn't.
"That leads me to the next question, actually. Why did you take the blue stone from us?"
"I didn't mean to. I wanted to let you keep it. But then we started fighting, and I got carried away, and then the … stone got carried away, too. By me. And by the time I came to my senses, I was too far away to do anything about it. I really am sorry about that. Please, take it back."
The man unslung his backpack and set it on the floor. Then he opened the top flap, reached down inside with both hands—and pulled out the blue stone.
It was exactly like Yngva remembered it. Solid and perfectly smooth, glossy and iridescent, glimmering cold and warm colors in the light through the windows and from the hearth. She'd never expected she'd see it again. And yet here it was.
Yngva held out her hands expectantly. The man placed the stone right into them. It was cool and heavy, like she remembered. She shouldn't have been experiencing this right now—it should have been impossible, she'd lost that fight—but it was happening all the same.
She asked, "Why are you doing this? Why are you even here? You could've taken this up to Winterhold, to the High King. Or the Blades of Men you've been working with. I'm just an unsuccessful pawn in all this."
"Because when I got back to our hidden stronghold, all of the Blades of Men were dead. Someone else had gone in and raided the place. One person, by the look of it. They took down at least a few dozen men and women, all well-trained in combat. I'm pretty sure the only reason I'm alive is because I wasn't there."
Two dots connected in Yngva's mind. Someone was working to steal things from these places of protection. Someone who could kill an elite Thane and her housecarl, or slaughter an entire hidden stronghold's worth of secret soldiers.
The quest for vengeance had resumed.
The man continued talking. "I'm not going to go to the High King because I've never met him. He might have my head just as soon as give me aid. Unlike you, he didn't see the treasure in Ysgramor's Vault, so the stone would mean nothing to him. And besides that, people tend not to trust someone whose face they can't even see, and whose name they can't remember. It's even worse with the mask off—then you wouldn't be able to identify me at all. The mask is cursed. I can't get rid of it. That's how I ended up in all this mess to begin with."
Hakind cut in. "So you came to us, figuring that we'd be able to help you sort out what to do with this magical ball of yours."
"Exactly."
Yngva had to admit, she was stunned by how quickly and easily this whole thing had been resolved. So this person, this mystery man, was stuck with a cursed mask that kept anyone from identifying him properly. And he'd been on Yngva's side all along, despite the mask—among other factors—making their first meeting so tempestuous. But those were easy enough to look past. He'd just proven his loyalty by meeting her here to return the stone. The rest seemed like it would be smooth sailing.
"It's nice to meet you too," Yngva said. "What should I call you?"
"The Blades of Men called me the Gray One. That should do." The man looked at Hakind. "And who are you, now?"
"Hakind, son of Jarl Idrun. It's a pleasure." As always, Hakind's manners were exactly as they needed to be.
From across the room, Drisa said, "Shall I prepare another place at the dinner table, then?"
"As long as you don't mind me eating with the mask on," said the Gray One in an amused tone.
Yngva shrugged. "Wear what you like. We need to figure out what we're going to do. If we're in this together now—are we in this together?"
"We are."
"Then we need to find out who's doing this, and why. I can think of a few steps we'll want to take. First among them, I have a letter to write."
