Fralia offered him a drink as she led him to a once-plush couch in the main hall around a grand firepit. Her grip was iron and only let him go once he was firmly sat in the center. "What would you like to drink?" Fralia asked. "Ale? Wine? Oh, we have an excellent cider from last-Ysvaar! Avulund! Come bring the good cider!" Fralia smiled and sat across from him. "You haven't met my grandchildren, have you? No, they were too young to attend your last banquet. Some of them weren't even born yet!" She chuckled.

Ulfric half expected Vignar to appear in the shadows with a bow drawn and aimed at his face. Fralia carried all the delight that her husband and brother-in-law lacked. She sat upright with a cheerfulness that belied her age and wealth; the war hadn't been kind on the clan. Aged, faded quilts and tapestries decorated the walls, displayed silver hadn't been polished. The once-proud clan-hall had a film of gloom throughout it like a draft from a window.

A young boy ran down the stairs, his hair already the color of iron, and disappeared into a back room. Ulfric nodded in agreement with Fralia. The banquet in question had been nearly five years ago. It was a test of loyalty, not a celebration the late High King Istlod's life as the invitations claimed. He flexed his wealth, trying his damnedest to show that Windhelm was every bit as prosperous as Solitude, only without the Emperor's allowances, as if that would sway the Moot in his favor rather than Torygg's.

In hindsight, perhaps he should've been more open about his intentions since the beginning rather than masquerade behind politics. Politics were the ways of men that couldn't back up their words with a strong sword arm, but politics were the ways of men who laid lifelines of gold throughout Tamriel. Windhelm was nothing without its port and only the truly self-sufficient could grow past the constrains of those cowards in their castles of gold and silver.

"Congratulations," Ulfric said, forming each word carefully before letting them pass his lips. "May they be blessed with Shor's favor."

"Oh, they're just like their parents when they were little," Fralia said. The boy returned from a different doorway-no, a different boy-holding a mismatched selection copper and quartz goblets in both hands. He dumped the half-dozen or so goblets on a table pushed to the wall, most of them tipping over and one crashing to the ground. Fralia inhaled, but kept her face cheerful. "Thank you, Avulund. Go help your brother with the jug."

Avulund nodded, but stopped to stare at Ulfric before hurrying to the stairs. "And you've already made such stewards of them," Ulfric joked, trying to lighten himself up to meet Fralia's mood. He tried to recall her not brightening up a room, though he supposed that compared to her husband and brother-in-law, it was hard not to be the most cheerful of the bunch.

Fralia gave a quick laugh. "We were so worried when your letters ceased," she continued. "Of course, you've always been a busy man, even more so with the war." Ulfric watched the two identical boys carry a jug of golden cider up the stairs and over to the table. One of them stood on a chair to guide a sloshing amount into two goblets, the other boy standing beneath and supporting the jug from the bottom.

"And I thank you for your support," Ulfric said.

"Gram! I didn't spill any!" The boy on the chair beamed. He slammed his little fist into the cork, stopping the jug as the pair set it on its side on the table. It rolled back and forth before coming to a stop a little too close to the edge.

"Good job, Ysvaar!" Fralia praised.

Avulund pouted. "I never spilled any either!"

"Nuh-uh! You spilled with Mama!" Ysvaar jumped down from the chair.

Avulund's face grew red. "Mama said I spilled good!"

"Boys!" Fralia scolded. "Run along, go play outside." She shrugged at Ulfric. "No pushing!" She stood and ushered the boys towards the door, wincing as they slammed it. Fralia set the jug upright and handed Ulfric an overfilled goblet. "Their mother's teaching them to read," she explained.

Ulfric bit his cheek, looking down at the cider. He hadn't intended to stay for longer than it took to throw the sack of coins inside the threshold. "I'm sorry for intruding, I just came to give you-"

"Oh, it's no trouble at all! Please, come by whenever you want, general," Fralia cut him off. "Drink, drink!"

"Only if you accept my thanks for your continued resilience." Ulfric pulled around the sack of gold, leaning over the low-burning fire towards her. Fralia flinched. "Please, I won't pretend as if I came by on a social call. I'm beyond thankful for everything you and your clan have given me, and I beg you to take this gift as a show of my gratitude. Though, all the wealth in the world could never repay you."

Fralia didn't move to take it, and so Ulfric placed it on the wide arm of the couch. "If you won't take it, I'll leave it here to pick up after my visit is finished. I hope I'll remember to grab it after we catch up," Ulfric said. He took a sip of the cider, blinked, and went in for another. Fralia hadn't been joking when she called it the good cider.

Fralia gave a shaky sigh. "I hope you don't go and forget it. Then I'd have to take time to return it to you. And then I wouldn't have the grounds to ask for a favor from you."

Ulfric leaned forwards, half to get more warmth from the low fire, half to hear the old woman better as she dropped her voice.

"Did a young man named Thorald ever join the Stormcloaks?"

Thorald Graymane. Ulfric remembered him. He'd been nearly to his twentieth year at the banquet and able to smell the tension in the hall, his demeanor so much like Ulfric's own in his youth. The young man was practically itching for a fight; Ulfric vaguely recalled advising Vignar to let the boy join the town guard or start acting as a Housecarl. Perhaps if he'd thought on that night since, he'd have wondered why Thorald hadn't shown up in his ranks.

He shook his head. Fralia deflated. "Then he's been captured."

Or killed on his way to Windhelm. Perhaps he joined at a camp, like most rank-and-file Stormcloaks did. It was mostly the former nobles and accomplished veterans that made the journey to Windhelm. But still, heavily coded lists of recruits' names were passed around and checked against casualties after every siege and skirmish. Even out of the thousands of names he skimmed over in the lists of dead and missing, Ulfric would've noticed such a name as Graymane. Unless the boy chose a different name, dead set on creating his own glory. It wouldn't be out of character for a self-determined youth such as Thorald.

"At the end of the war, all Stormcloaks were released," Ulfric mentioned. At the very least, they were supposed to be. His life for thousands.

"Unless they refused to pledge loyalty to that damned Empire," Fralia added. Ulfric flinched; he'd refused to consider the very real possibility that the terms of peace hadn't been fully honored. If he were in the Empire's place, he'd have issue simply letting go of their soldiers with only a verbal oath to bind them. "But he wasn't captured by the Imperials, at least not officially. He'd sooner die than give word to the Empire, and I'd feel it if he had been executed with the rest of the Stormcloaks, may Shor guide their souls."

Had it been a month already? Had he honestly missed the date of the execution of his followers, so loyal they'd go to the grave for him? Ulfric had been too busy counting the Dragonborn's coin, sparring with the Companions to even offer his Shield brothers and sisters so much as a thanks on the day they were to die. "He may have gotten lost along the way," Ulfric offered. It wouldn't be much comfort to Fralia, but Thorald waiting out for the snow to melt in late spring was leagues favorable to him waiting out the minutes to be interrogated, or whatever else happened in secret Imperial prisons. Probably something similar to what happened in his own secret prisons.

"Lost? From Whiterun to Windhelm?"

She had a point. The roads were well-maintained even in war, though far less traveled during it. But the waysigns were frequent enough that one could only manage to be turned around for half a day, at most, before finding a sign pointing them back in the right direction. Ulfric sighed and finished his cider.

"What can you do to get my boy back home?" Fralia met his eyes with hers, decades of struggle to keep her clan in glory behind them.

Ulfric choked. "I-Nothing," he admitted. "It was all I could do to get the Stormcloaks pardoned. I have no more power."

"But the Dragonborn…" Fralia took a deep breath, her voice becoming shakier with each word. "She has to be able to convince them to let my Torvald go, right? Surely she has the influence! I just thought that you…" Fralia broke down into sobs.

Ulfric looked away as she tried to compose herself, drawing a sleeve to her cheeks. The Dragonborn could be dead for all anyone knew, a possibility that became more and more apparent as each day passed. And even if she were here, what could she even do, if she were willing? If the boy had been captured by the Empire, it may have been under the Dragonborn's own orders.

"When she returns, I'll see what can be done," Ulfric said. He couldn't put his chest into the promise.


The Whalebone Bridge was solid. Nariilu figured she would slip right off and into the Void, but an invisible force ran between the bones and kept her upright. Still, she limped with most of her weight on the Skuldafn staff and kept her breath shallow as her blood fell through as if nothing was there.

The wide doors opened for her as she approached, revealing the grand hall inside. The golden exterior gave way to a hall of polished stone and bright rugs. A huge firepit bathed the hall in a homely glow, complementing the dancing aura visible in the far windows that rose up to the ceiling, easily a hundred feet up. Ivory feasting tables around the firepit and reaching towards the wings at either side of the hall were piled high with glistening, fatty meats, plump fruits, thick cheeses, golden, flaky breads. Nords in small groups idled near the tables and mammoth-sized wine barrels, wearing all ages of armor.

Nariilu leaned panting by the door, watching a woman in pristine armor she'd only seen half-rotted on Draugr guffaw with a man wearing a skirt of what was undeniably Argonian skins and a woman in modern Imperial scout armor. Nobody seemed to pay her any mind as she stumbled towards the feast, the smells overwhelming. She tried to count when she last ate anything other than a few drinks of a health potion, the only answer she decided on was 'too long ago'.

And so she sat down on a deceptively soft stone bench, helping herself to the feast of the dead. She ignored a nagging in the back of her mind about all those old tales of mortals being ensnared in planes of Oblivion once they partook of the food of the realm. If she were to be trapped in Sovngarde for all eternity, so be it. Nariilu decided she could take her sweet time giving Alduin the fight of his life, and then coming back to the Hall of Valor to rest until the end of time.

It wouldn't be such a bad existence, she thought, the food was richer than anything Nirn could give, the air warm and alive with laughter and familial chatter. She felt herself mend with each bite, the sting of the gashes in her arms closing, the ache of broken ribs fading into pleasant nothing. Nariilu took a drinking horn that appeared near the edge of her vision without a second thought, already drunk on the feeling of health before the ale even touched her lips.

"Ah, I see your journey has been long, Dragonborn. Welcome!"

Nariilu acted as if she hadn't spilled half the horn on herself, turning to the accented voice and taking a long drink. A man in ancient armor towered over her even after he swung his leg over the bench to sit beside her. She was sick and tired of Nordic towering. At least Altmer had the humility to be lithe enough to easily push past instead of roughly the size of a doorway. She scanned the man for any sense of identity, he scanned down her front to the puddle of ale in her lap. Nothing betrayed him; he was a tall, muscular blond Nord with shining old armor and a battleaxe strapped to his back, just like half the warriors around the hall.

She pulled the horn away from her lips, feeling it get heavier as it refilled itself. "Have I been long expected?" She glanced around. He didn't seem to react when he saw her face, though she stuck out like ink on paper. Her helmet blocked her heritage from anyone that wasn't staring her straight on.

"Aye. Our door has stood empty since Alduin first set his soul-snare," he said. "By Shor's command, we sheathed our blades and ventured not into the vale's dark mists."

"No one's made it to the Hall of Valor since-"

"High King Torygg was welcomed with cursed fog at his heels," the man spoke over her.

Her mind swum with casualty numbers from the war, memories of her soldiers piling Stormcloak corpses after sieges. How many thousands had she doomed to Alduin? Not to mention all the other Nords that died outside of war. To think not even a single one had made it through, though untold numbers were still lost in the mist. Nariilu shrugged, feeling the dent in her armor pull against her shoulder blade. "I figured as much." She took another pull from the horn, waiting for the man to continue. When he didn't, she asked, "Is there some place I could fix my armor? And are there any other Dragonborns here?"

"Ah, you seek companions on your quest. What good is valor if it is not shared?" He pulled his own drinking horn from thin air and drank for a long time before letting it go. It disappeared as soon as his fingers relaxed. "Dragonborn are few in Shor's Hall, but our fellow Companions are not, and their hearts sing for battle. And, there are three others who have long awaited your word to loose their fury upon the perilous foe. Gormlaith the fearless, glad-hearted in battle; Hakon the valiant, heavy-handed warrior; Felldir the Old, far-seeing and grim."

"The ones from the Elder Scroll!" Nariilu exclaimed, jumping up and spilling the puddle of ale in her lap to the floor, splashing it on the man's boots. Eorlund had gone above and beyond for the tightly-woven plate skirt to hold as much drink as it did. "Sorry. Which Companions are here? Ysgramor and his Five Hundred, no doubt. And however many Harbingers. What of the ancient Tongues?"

"Have you any idea to whom you speak?" The man asked with a sudden seriousness. Her heart dropped. He'd already referred to Shor as a third party, so, at the very least, she hadn't dribbled alcohol like some drunk on an actual god, unless he was-Shit.

"Talos?" She asked, ready to drop to one knee and honor him like a Divine. Well, that sure put a kink in her plans; it was hard to claim you were the next reincarnation of a man that she'd just spilled her drink on. Then again, it's not like anyone else was here to take not of the proceedings. Now that she put a fraction of a second of thought to it, it'd be easy enough to claim that Shor himself had come down from Aetherius and named her Talos in mortal form. Nobody else could confirm anything she said about Sovngarde. She might just tell Stormcloak that Sovngarde turned out to be nothing but Elves and Argonians and Khajiit.

"I am Ysgramor, Bringer of Words."

Nariilu let out a breath. Excellent, all she'd done was ask a man if he knew where himself was and spill a few drops on his boots. She hadn't made fun of his soup fork, so that was something. "Hail, Harbinger," she said, crossing her fist over her chest and dipping her head. He didn't seem to hate Elves as much as some historians claimed; she'd been sitting in front of Ysgramor for well over a full minute and her head was still firmly attached at the neck.

Ysgramor nodded in acknowledgement. "My Companions gladly number in the thousands, and the great Tongues… Well, their factions stray not into differing philosophy. Though, a Dragonborn unites them in times of need. You may find allies against the Twilight God in both followers of The Calm and followers of End's Kiss. I do not confer with the Tongues; deciding their place in your battle, as with all Shield Brothers and Sisters, is on your shoulders. There is only so much blood to be shed."

She nodded, committing his words to memory. By the Nine, Nariilu was starting to regret only glancing through the Greybeard histories. She'd do well not to waste her time trying to get the Greybeards to Shout, even if it did end up saving Mundus. Perhaps Jurgen Windcaller was somewhere around here; she'd half a mind to tell him to revise his tenets. "And my armor?"

"You seek the Stormforge, Kyne's twin gift to the mortal Skyforge." Ysgramor gestured vaguely behind him. "It is as transient as the wind and rain. Do not waste your years waiting for its return."

"Right." She'd rather fight with dented armor than with open wounds, but she'd still be banging out what she could of that dent any way she could manage. Perhaps on the sturdy steps, or maybe using the arm of Shor's throne would grant it some kind of power. "So where are the warriors from the Elder Scroll? And how will I find Shield Brothers and Sisters?"

"Sovngarde is stock in inevitability. If your Soul desires, your Soul is sated."

"Except for the Stormforge."

"Save the Stormforge."

"So, if I wanted to talk to…" Nariilu considered for a minute, "High King Erling, I could?"

"Should both you desire in harmony," Ysgramor explained. "Many Nords who pass over the Whalebone Bridge seek my audience, consciously or no. Regardless, I tend well to the arrivals of our kin; orient them to their eternal hearth."

And the chances that High King Erling would want to speak to his possible ancestor that he definitely didn't know he had were near zero. She had better chance actively wishing for anyone else. And she was so comfortably warm, Nariilu understood why Nords were so eager to die for Sovngarde. If there wasn't a way back to Mundus, if she couldn't find the portal back to Skuldafn again, she couldn't see the harm in staying and eating and drinking and resting for eternity with these warriors.

"Ah, hail Banishers of the Twilight," Ysgramor announced. Nariilu turned to see three Nords standing in formation, looking just as they had through the twisting runes and stars of the Elder Scroll. "I feel the call to battle deep within you all, time-honored Heroes."

Nariilu stood to greet the eldest of the three, standing at point with the other two behind him. "I must apologize," he began, dropping to a kneel that the others mimicked, "for I pushed the doom of our day unto yours, causing untold death and destruction to the unwary."

"And yet without your efforts, the world would've ended long ago," Nariilu replied, holding out a hand to help the old man up. "Now, shall we end this once and for all?"

He led them all to a much smaller banquet table, nestled by a grand window overlooking the Void and near to whisps playing some jovial ballad Nariilu couldn't quite place. The group sat in silence after a quick round of introductions, Nariilu realizing that they were all waiting for the other party to speak first. She cleared her throat and began, "So, first off, brilliant idea to force dragons to experience mortality. I can't express enough gratitude for creating a way to ground the beasts and dispatching them easily enough."

Gormlaith chuckled. "Glad my creation outlived me."

"I'd like to know how to create Shouts, like you did." Not exactly the main point of the meeting, but Nariilu saw no reason not to take every advantage she could.

"They're not for mortals to create," she answered. "Dragonrend is unique in that it can only be understood by us. Every other Shout…well, I suppose if you were creative enough and were it to reach a similar scope as Dragonrend. But, it took a majority of my life to even begin to understand the mechanics of what makes a Shout a Shout. If Felldir hadn't found the Elder Scroll-"

"Gormlaith, you saw she's a Dragon-Eater, like Kynslod Cruel-Tongue," the younger man interrupted. "She isn't bound by such limits as we who are not blessed by Akatosh."

"Kynslod nor any other Dragon-Eaters have created Shouts," Gormlaith replied. "My point is that without the Scroll imparting its power on my understanding of the Words, there would be no Shout, Hakon. The dragons are as outside of time as the Scrolls are, and the Shouts seem to require energy left over from the Dawn Era."

"Yes, but if she eats dragons," Hakon gestured towards her, "she eats such energy."

"I absorb their Souls into my own," Nariilu said. "I'm Dragonborn; I have a dragon's Soul instead of a mortal's." She made a mental note to find this Kynslod. "Sorry, did you mention seeing me devour a Soul?"

"We can watch over Nirn should we choose," Felldir explained. "Most only use it to observe living relatives, but just as the Elder Scroll showed you our struggle against Alduin, it showed me how you have struggled against the World Eater. How you will struggle."

"And? I saw Gormlaith fall. What did you see for my final confrontation?"

Felldir's eyes glazed over. "I saw time shatter into fragments of possibility. A Dragon Break. Not even Akatosh yet knows of the true outcome."


She managed to convince the three to hold off on the fight until she had time to fix her armor. Or at least, do her damn best to fix it. They'd be gathering interested warriors while she used a warhammer to reverse the dent in her chestpiece. Which, at the rate she was able to work at, they'd have time to gather the entire Hall, travel to Nirn, recruit every mortal, and return with ample time to spare. She held the armor on a roasting grate over a roaring fire, trying to soften the ebony.

She'd have to warn Eorlund against going to Sovngarde. He wouldn't enjoy eternity without a proper forge being somewhere in the massive hall permanently.

Nariilu sat on the ground and watched the fire as she leaned back against an ornate bedframe; the dead did sleep either by choice or necessity. The room she'd chosen to take up residence for the night (though, through the windows she could see nothing but eternal twilight) was far down from the main hall. She'd tried to reach the end of the corridor to avoid disturbing anyone with her clanging, but after a few minutes of walking, Nariilu decided it must be an endless corridor. How else could the Hall of Valor hold so many?

She left the door open just in case she'd chosen an occupied room, but the immaculate space left no indication of residence. Still, she couldn't imagine the dead had many possessions other than what they'd died with. Ash gathered on the armor, turning the malachite to a dull grey and keeping the flames from reflecting oranges and reds in the ebony. Nariilu tossed another log on the fire; the basket of firewood replaced itself as soon as it began to burn.

She pulled the warhammer along the floor and into her lap, already dreading wielding the massive steel weapon for such delicate work. What she wouldn't give for a smith's hammer-

A hammer, a perfect replica of the one she'd used at her own forge after the Great War, appeared on the floor next to her. Nariilu sighed, and spoke a thanks to no one in particular. If only Alduin would impale himself on a mountain peak and die instantly! She looked out the window; the layer of mist remained over Sovngarde.

The Hall had its limits, just as Ysgramor had implied. And it seemed no one wished to speak with her, the Last Dragonborn. Or, at the very least, no one she'd be interested in speaking with. It wasn't unexpected; she hadn't been named Dragonborn until half a year or so after Stormcloak killed Torygg, setting the last part of her Prophecy into motion. No Soul had crossed since then, none here had known of her deeds in life.

Though they had a way of watching over Nirn, which, by Felldir's own admission, few used for anything other than to observe relatives. Still, the three warriors had kept sentinel for Eras waiting for her. They felt guilty for forcing Alduin onto her and her time, though Nariilu couldn't see that they'd had much of a choice. Even more, had they not sent him through time, she'd never even have a chance of obtaining a fraction of what she had. Her vying for Empress wouldn't even be worthy of a joke.

"Therel." A man stood in the doorway. "Rare name, even by Dunmeri standards."

Nariilu crept a hand to a sword, ready just in case this Nord held certain sentiments to Elves. She looked at his nobleman's armor and ornate sword, thick furs and bright fabrics. "And what of it?" She should've advised the warriors to mention her as a Dragonborn, and not by her obviously Elven name. She wondered if her ancestors would look down on her for not taking some revenge against Ysgramor for inspiring and justifying so much hate towards anyone without rounded ears.

"Are you perhaps related to a Llera Therel?" The man asked. "She should be about…oh, what year is it?"

Nariilu blinked and struggled to find the answer for him. "Year 203 of the Fourth Era." She finally choked it out.

"Ah, three hundred or so years old." His red hair caught the light and danced in time with the flames, aging in the front from autumnal to winter in the same shades as her mother's hair had decades prior.

"How do you know Llera?" Nariilu heard herself speak from ten feet away.

She already knew the answer and mouthed it along with her grandfather as High King Erling told a tale of kings and maids she'd heard a hundred times prior.


Ulfric returned to Jorrvaskr with a pit in his stomach that only grew deeper as the townsfolk whispered amongst themselves as he passed or even dared him a hello. They stared as if they expected gold to mark his footsteps; he felt like some corrupt banker buying citizens' favor to overthrow the Jarl.

He passed the Gildergreen, the priest had gone home sometime during his discussion with Fralia. He sat on a bench underneath the reaching branches, carpeted in fallen petals from the tree and opposite the Shrine across the wide plaza of the Wind District. He'd made too many empty promises to the old woman. She was too hopeful for a son that would never return.

But Ulfric couldn't bring himself to crush the woman's last hope; she clung to his words even though they were noncommittal and barely beyond an acknowledgement that her son was missing. Fralia was a broken matriarch, falsely trusting him perhaps alone in her Clan.

From his seat under Kyne's tree the sculpture of Talos stared him down from across the District. His stone gaze challenged Ulfric to do something, anything, for a boy that was either dead or near to it. Ulfric stared back, praying, begging for anything to make him worthy of the false trust Fralia held for him, deserving of the light smiles the citizens of Whiterun gave in return for the money stolen from dead ancestors, to bless him with deserving some sliver of the regard he once held for himself.

How many more mothers would cry at his side, begging him to bring their children back to them? He had traded what power he once held for Companionship, and, with each passing day with no appearance from the Dragonborn, it grew more and more likely that the power she had promised would go ungained. Not that Ulfric ever trusted her to rise to the heights that she vied for, but even still, she'd saved his life. With her death, he was free to do as he pleased.

Her death. Was she dead? It seemed more plausible each day. To fly away on the back of one of the most powerful dragons in history was no small risk, and to do so towards a bastion of dragons and Draugr and whatever else Skuldafn had to hold was dangerous beyond compare. Once Ulfric considered the fact that she was planning on literally entering the afterlife, he was almost convinced he'd never see her in this life again.

Almost.

As much as it troubled him to even consider, Ulfric couldn't shake the feeling that she wasn't dead yet. He tried to place the exact feeling before biting his tongue at his inward justification; he was sounding like Fralia.

It must be the stare of Talos' shrine getting to him. It had the same piercing quality of the Dragonborn's icy look. Perhaps there was more credence to her claim to the Ruby Throne than he'd considered.

Movement off to his right caught his eye. Vignar Graymane took the stairs down from Jorrvaskr slowly, one at a time, his steward nowhere to be seen. Ulfric imagined the man, Brill, was staying to help with the Companion's finances; it was the nearing the end of Rain's Hand and Kodlak had made more than a few passes at the warriors' record-keeping skills that were less than lighthearted.

The old man paused in front of the shrine like many who passed, though the peak times for worship had passed with the priest from earlier who was nowhere to be found. He lingered in a prayer, pulling some coins from his pocket to lay on the shrine. Perhaps he was praying for Thorald to return.

He was more practical than his sister-in-law, however. He hated Ulfric for his false promises, and had gone out of his way since the banquet to stay out of the same room as Ulfric. Perhaps he'd heard of Ulfric's return to Whiterun and decided to leave Jorrvaskr before he ran into him. Divines, what Ulfric wouldn't do to regain his respect. Vignar had once been revered far and wide, but that reputation fell along with Ulfric's own, along with the Gildergreen's petals as they gave way to bright green leaves, along with the sun that turned the petals from pink to gold in the early sunset. Ulfric stood to leave before Vignar noticed him; he was in no mood for a confrontation nor did he want to upset the man if he were to go home to Fralia.

A guard sprinted past and nearly knocked him down, her helmet clutched in her hand as she shouted a hasty apology to Ulfric over her shoulder. She took the stairs to Dragonsreach three at a time. Ulfric put his hand on his sword as another handful of guards hurried around the Wind District. "Move away from the shrine!" One hissed at Vignar, moving into formation by the stairs.

"What, boy, has the Emperor come to sell more of my rights away?" Vignar responded, scowling with his eyes still closed and back bent in prayer. "He knows where he can shove his coin, and I'll show him if he's forgotten."

"No, sir, it's worse!" The guard argued. The other guards snapped to a stiff attention. "Thalmor's come again."

Ulfric's blood ran cold and settled deep in his stomach.

"And the Justiciar will be dead within the week." Vignar's tone was even more annoyed than before. "Just like the last one those elves sent." He grunted and knelt down before the shrine. "Have a little faith."

A flash of gold embroidery and enchantments caught Ulfric's eye. He swallowed thickly and took a step back towards the Gildergreen, hoping the elves wouldn't notice him and pass right by. Elenwen stood proud, leading four Justiciars behind her, another dozen High Elves in golden armor in formation trailing the entourage. Ulfric's breath caught in his throat. She kept following him everywhere he went. Could she have a tracking spell placed on him? Did tracking spells exist?

"Oh, dear," Elenwen said. Ulfric pressed himself against the thick trunk, watching Elenwen's hair shake in time with scolding tongue clicks. "Niraande, just look at this blasphemous display! Auri-El's mercy upon this cursed ground."


One last glorious feast. Nariilu ate what she could, her stomach buzzing with anticipation of the fight to come in the next few hours. Tongues from ages past gathered around, singing songs of their own glory and trying to outdo the others. Each greeted her with a name, title, and list of deeds they'd done in life, and a grand story of their deaths. Nariilu wasn't sure how much was embellished, but took notes of their deeds to compile into her own tales for the bards.

Every so often, one would greet her and bristle as their twin Souls flared up; Nariilu blinked and felt her body growl as her eyes focused to show a dancing mass of light beneath the skin each Dragonborn the warriors had recruited. Fighting one dragon set her flowing with battle lust; the army in Whiterun and mass at Skuldafn still had her tingling, but the handful of Souls in each Dragonborn in the Hall of Valor forced a jealousy unlike anything she'd ever felt before. They were her Souls.

Which the few dozen lesser Dragonborn easily acknowledged; Nariilu swore her teeth grew into sharp fangs, her back straining as if something were trying to emerge. Wings. Her heart fluttered and pounded with writhing Souls as she stood up and settled into a predatory hunch over the others before they backed down to her challenge. This must be what Odahviing felt as he commanded his army, what Alduin felt when he ruled Nirn. It was addictive; she craved more than them falling into an understood obedience behind her. She wanted their Souls, the ones they were born with, the ones they'd consumed throughout their life that they carried with them into Sovngarde.

Some of the more accomplished Dragonborn and Tongues shared their knowledge of Words of Power with her. Their understanding was closer to that of a dragon's than a Graybeard's; fierce and deadly and harsh. Little tips of pronunciation and emphasis enhanced what she already thought she knew, new Words and Shouts filled her mind and sent her Souls yearning to use them.

She gave no big speech as she and the honored dead shared a final meal together. They knew exactly what they were heading towards, and they were more riled up than any living soldiers she'd ever seen. If anything, she'd bring their energy down. She focused on her plate of roasted meats and candied fruits, tucking the fruit away in her pockets. With any luck, the food of Sovngarde would be just as medicinal back in Mundus.