The seven companions couldn't get out of the lift fast enough. They were further north than where they'd descended, and it was snowing, the drifts piled high around them. Apart from the jutting tower that contained the lift, there were no structures in sight; just snow, trees, and more snow. They stood around up to their knees in the white groundcover, savouring the taste of fresh air.
"I don't suppose you know where we are?" asked Falin.
Gylhain took off her helmet and tucked it under her left arm. Flakes of snow landed in her dark brown hair. She scratched at her chin.
"We're not far from Fort Dunstad," she said. "We could rest up there. I can still pull rank with the Legion if I need to."
Kara and Kureeth removed their helmets as well. Dar'epha pulled up the hood of her Guild armour to stop snow getting in her fur. She rubbed her scars and peered through the falling snow for signs of danger. Vash still had Gylhain's scimitar in his hands, though there had been ample time on the ride up to return it. They'd spent most of the time tending to minor wounds and struggling against exhaustion.
"Isn't the Hall of the Vigilant closer?" asked Vash, also familiar with the area. "I'm sure they'd take us in."
Falin added her support to the idea. "Sure, they always take in travellers who need shelter, which we will if this snowstorm picks up," she said.
"It will," grunted Kureeth. His tail made an arc in the snow with its gentle swishing.
"No," said Gylhain. "The Vigilants and I don't see eye to eye." She started to move off through the snow, around to the left behind the lift and between some trees, heading to the south-east. The others stomped after her. As they passed a rocky outcrop jutting from the snow on their right, Falin called out to Gylhain.
"Is that because of the demonic sword on your back?" she asked, raising her voice. The Dragonborn stopped and looked back over her shoulder. "I'm not an idiot," Falin went on. "All of us mages can sense it."
Gylhain looked tired beyond comprehension, her eyes hooded and drooping, her shoulders hunched against the cold. The others weren't much better.
"You really want to talk about this now?" she asked, throwing her free arm wide. "We're going to freeze out here if we don't keep moving."
"Yeah, I do," continued Falin. "Because you're carrying around gear with history, gear that could only have come straight from the same daedra that almost killed me and Kureeth."
"She is correct," agreed Antario. "That glowing sword is known to the Thalmor. It is Dawnbreaker, granted throughout the ages to the servants of Meridia. You are carrying a dangerous artefact, Dovahkiin."
Gylhain squashed her eyes closed. When she opened them she found Falin and Antario still staring at her expectantly, now joined by Kara. Kureeth's face could not be read, Vash didn't care, and Dar'epha served Nocturnal herself, albeit circumspectly. At least she wasn't entirely alone.
"Fine," said Gylhain, stepping through the deepening snow back towards them. "After I was named Dragonborn, I went adventure-crazy. If there was something to be done, I did it. This included deals with most of the Daedric Princes." Kara looked to be about to say something at this point, but Gylhain pushed ahead. "I knew what I was getting into. I did things for them—bad things, mostly—and they gave me weapons and armour far beyond what even the best smiths in Skyrim can do. I convinced myself I was holding onto them so that nobody else could use them for evil, but that wasn't enough. I scattered them soon after . . . soon after I married. Some are buried deep in the ground, some are on the bottom of the sea. Nobody will use them now."
Falin seemed somewhat assured by the tale. "But why do you still have that sword?" she asked.
Gylhain shrugged. "Meridia hates undead, I kill a lot of undead. Dawnbreaker is good for killing undead. No disagreements there."
"But your collection's huge," said Kara. "You must have other things in there just as good."
"Arguably," said Gylhain. "The point is, those days are in the past. I don't deal with Daedra anymore. The Vigilants, on the other hand, would rather punish me for my past crimes than let me get on with the demon-slaying in atonement."
"Good," said Dar'epha. "Argument sorted. Now can we please get movin' to the Fort? I can feel icicles formin' on my whiskers."
Falin managed a smile at that, and the group began moving again through the snow.
They had to skirt another giant's camp on the way to the Fort. Red Road Pass, Gylhain called it. Its huge fire looked inviting through the trees, no doubt radiating fierce heat, but she guided them around it at a safe distance. The huge shadow of a mammoth loomed in front of the fire, blocking the light, and they moved on.
They avoided the Hall of the Vigilant too, coming within sight of it as they rejoined what passed for a road in those parts of Skyrim. Falin looked longingly towards its thick walls and spurting chimney, but said nothing.
Eventually they crested a hill and there it was: Fort Dunstad, an outpost of the Imperial Legion. Its black stone rose defiantly out of the snow, daring the elements to try and bring it down. Gylhain hailed a soldier on the battlements, and the gate was open for them when they rounded the walls to reach it. A single officer stood in the way, a thick fur cloak wrapped over his Legion armour.
"Legate!" hailed the officer, perhaps not as surprised as he could have been at seeing the Dragonborn at the head of such a motley band, exhausted and bloodstained. "What can I do for you?"
"At ease, Prefect," said Gylhain, who suddenly seemed to stand taller and straighter in the snow. "We were looking for shelter against the cold, and hoped you could aid us." She peered through the falling snow, thicker now. "Lucred, is that you?"
Dar'epha had long ceased to be surprised at the breadth of people known to Gylhain. No doubt this Prefect Lucred was an old war comrade of the Dragonborn's. The two friends broke with formality and grasped wrists.
Lucred grinned. "Stands to reason you'd finally show up in a storm like this," he said. He was unshaven and weary, but still in full command of his senses.
Gylhain shrugged it off. "We had a spot of bother to deal with down in Blackreach," she said. Several of her companions scoffed; an understatement if there ever was one. Lucred's eyes went wide. "I'll come by after it's dealt with," Gylhain assured him. "Tell you the whole tale."
"I'll hold you to that," said Lucred. He pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders. "You and your friends are welcome to the old inn. It's a little bare, but comfortable enough." He gestured to his right, and Gylhain led her companions in that direction. She grasped wrists with Lucred again, and told him to get back inside the Fort, out of the howling wind that was building.
The name of the inn had been The Stumbling Sabrecat, and it was as bare as Lucred had claimed. But it served well enough for their purposes. A single bed rested in a corner, two small circular tables with six chairs between them nestled close to a cold hearth. Above hung the stuffed head of a sabrecat with the neck of a wine bottle stuck between its teeth, the namesake of the inn. The bar was bare but for a few empty tankards.
Gylhain dropped her helmet on the bar and stamped off the snow. Quickly and expertly she removed her armour and weapons. Kara and Kureeth again followed her example, albeit slower. Gylhain moved towards the basement stairs.
"Vash, get that fire started," she said. "I'll find us some more wood." She vanished down the stairs. Vash knelt in front of the hearth and piled what little wood remained there into a small pile, lighting it with a tiny flame spell. Dar'epha hurdled the bar and set about finding them all tankards and drinks.
Kureeth, his armour removed, pulled the two tables together nearer the fire and arranged the chairs around them in a loose circle. Falin collapsed in the rightmost chair nearest the fire, pulling off her boots and sighing deeply. Kureeth joined her, then Antario. Kara was next, leaving her armour in a pile and stretching out next to her friend. She pulled a rag from a pocket and set to cleaning her new sword of Falmer blood.
The fire under control, Vash rose and saw there would not be enough seats when Gylhain returned. He pulled a stool over from the bar and positioned it near the left of the fire, seating himself there. Unable to find a poker, he rose and unhooked the rusted iron greatsword that hung above the hearth, using that instead to jostle the logs. Dar'epha was next, dumping enough tankards for everyone on the tables, then bringing over two bottles of wine and four of mead. She seated herself next to Vash.
Eventually, Gylhain emerged from the basement, carrying an immense armful of wood. She dropped it in the gap between Vash and the hearth, then took the last remaining seat, between Dar'epha and Kara. At length, everyone poured themselves drinks. Wine for Gylhain, Vash, and Falin; mead for everyone else. There was restful silence for a time.
"Did anyone see when I crippled that Sphere in one shot?" asked Dar'epha, with forced nonchalance.
"No," replied Kara, grinning, "but I did see Kureeth rip the arm off that Centurion."
"Shit," said Dar'epha, "I dunno how I coulda missed that one." A smile spread across Kureeth's face.
"I still say there's nothing like an exploding atronach," said Vash.
"Indeed," said Antario. "A classic manoeuvre, perfectly executed."
"Did you see me jump off a mushroom and ride that Centurion into a pack of Falmer?" asked Falin.
A small frown appeared on Kara's face. "I . . . I don't think that happened," she said.
Dar'epha laughed. "Nah, but she had ya goin' there for a bit."
Gylhain sat back and listened to her companions swap tales. She had mostly long outgrown the need to do so herself. Many of them were not tales she wanted to relive—besides, a great deal of them bordered on the unbelievable. Yet her smile grew as those of the others did, the tales becoming taller, Dar'epha leading the way in that respect.
The bitter winds lashed against the walls of the old inn, but the mismatched group was safe and warm inside, finally comfortable in one another's company. Finally, after keeping silent through a blow-by-blow account of one of Dar'epha's more daring heists—although all of them were daring, to have her tell—Gylhain cut in.
"We escaped the Thalmor's trap, but they're not finished. What's our next move?"
"Did not your Jarl report daedric attacks?" asked Antario. "I would not disregard the Thalmor from being responsible for such things. It may be worth investigating."
Vash nodded. "South, the Jarl said. Around Riverwood, down into Falkreath."
Falin agreed. "That's near where we were attacked," she said. "There's definitely something going on down there. Perhaps we could ask the people of Riverwood? They might know something. Or we could scout the countryside; we could cover a lot of ground between us. Although the Jarl said his guards turned up nothing."
Dar'epha snorted. "All courtesy to Balgruuf, o' course," she said, "but his guards are useless."
Kara gave a single note of laughter. Gylhain rose and stretched. She went over to the door and opened it an arm's length. Snow spilled into the inn, soaking her feet. "We're going to be stuck here for a while yet," she said.
"Come sit down," urged Dar'epha. "Tell 'em how you met Azura."
Gylhain shouldered the door shut and resumed her seat. "It is a good tale," she admitted. She looked uncertainly at Falin; the tale did involve a deal with a Daedra, after all.
"It's fine," said Falin. "All of us have done things we're not proud of."
"Not me," scoffed Dar'epha. "I'm proud of everythin'."
"Alright then," said the Dragonborn with a smile, and she launched into the tale.
"There was a snowstorm blowing even fiercer than this when I climbed the narrow steps up to Azura's shrine. I had learned of it from a Dunmer named Faldrus, who said he was on a pilgrimage. But as I reached the top, it became obvious his journey had ended in tragedy . . ."