Guide:

Dwemeris

Thoughts

"Speech"

"Dovahzul"

Warnings/Disclaimer: see chapter 4

Chapter Warning(s): Long chapter! Windhelm is a cold, motherfucking mess! Also dragons.

Last time…

"Oh, draughr and vampires are downright nightmarish to me, I assure you." I look up at the night sky, the stars winking innocently and the moons dying the world in pale colours. "I'll take watch. Go to sleep."

Chapter 18 - Windhelm

I'm not in the best of moods the next morning, not surprising in the least for either me or my wizard companion. A set of charming – yeah right. In my dreams perhaps – bags frame my eyes like bruises. Marcurio takes one look at my generally bedraggled appearance and remains mercifully quiet, with only two comments…

Per minute.

I swear, he's hell-bent on making me even more miserable. Can this day get any worse?

To be honest, had I been in a better mood I'd have appreciated the witty banter the Imperial unfailingly provides. Now, I don't feel like participating much at all, and I let more than one semi-insulting comment pass over me with nary a twitch. I know there's no true venom behind even his most scathing words towards me.

All of Mundus is apparently conspiring against me on this misty Loredas morning. A distant roar, painfully familiar and not in a good way, has the hairs on the back of my neck rise as a dreaded winged shadow passes over the two of us, temporarily blotting out the sun entirely.

Cursing in my native tongue without any preamble, I drop my knapsack on the side of the road, drawing my axes and taking a defensive stance right on that spot, leaving the still surprised Marcurio standing confusedly in the middle of the road.

"Remember that challenge I mentioned?" I call out at him as the dragon roars again, homing in on the seemingly lone mage with the abandon of a Centurion on an intruder. Said mage lets out a slightly hysterical laugh, charging his spells regardless of the trepidation he surely feels, summoning a flame atronarch and putting up a ward.

"Challenge? This is a suicide plan!"

He barks out, throwing the first lightning bolt. I observe him – he shows no fear, and his abilities aren't bad for what I assume is a standard wizard. Not bad at all. A feral grin nearly splits my face in half and I snicker at the man who holds his own quite well – then a second, loud roar echoes from another direction, definitely not the same as the dragon now landing in front of Marcurio to snap at him. The laughter dies in my throat quite abruptly.

Uh-oh.

TWO dragons? Sithis damnit all.

The second winged worm wastes no time approaching Marcurio, who has his hands full with the first bastard, and I don't pause to think when I sprint towards the mage, slamming into his side before jaws large enough to fit six grown men snap shut audibly with bone-breaking force at the exact place my companion was only just standing.

"Pay attention." I yell at the mage, cursing myself and the situation that required a near-deadly rescue attempt, before turning to the dragon. "Have a taste of this – FUS RO DAH!" The giant creature is blown back like it was whipped in the face with a hammer large enough for its monstrous size. I give it no time to recover and try to aim for a clothed lunch once more, deciding to trust Marcurio to take care of the second menace, and, taking a steadying breath, I move.

The battle rages for what feels like hours when the first of the dragons – Marcurio's target, to both my surprise and mild satisfaction (and envy) – falls to the ground with a last roar of defiance. I brace myself and fall back into a defensive stance, backing away from 'my' dragon as it looks at its kin, appearing almost confused. As if the death of the foul beast doesn't compute.

Then the soul of the other beast – Vodbahnil - spirals towards me and I grit my teeth to remain standing as it whirls around me like a maelstrom, the loud voices bouncing around my skull. The pain fades as quickly as the first time this happened, but a mild nausea lingers even as I face the second foe.

The still nameless dragon pauses.

I grin with far too many teeth.

The scaled creature is intelligent and has more of a sense of self-preservation than its fellow, as it tries to take flight even though it's bleeding profusely.

"TAKE THAT!" …It also makes the large mistake of not taking the mage in my presence into account – and it collapses back to the ground when a large spike of ice impales its left wing, the other leathery appendage beating erratically as the dragon wails in pain. "Dovahkiin, NO, WAIT!" My eyes go wide.

In the corner of my eye, a sizzling of magic and a taste of heady ozone in my mouth has me cry out: "MARCURIO, STOP!" The mage aborts the spell in the middle of charging it, nearly tripping over his own two feet as he comes to stand to my right a few feet away. I don't even spare him a glance, keeping my eyes trained on the second dragon.

"Tell me, why should I spare your life?" I ask breathlessly, licking my chapped lips and holding a hand to my side trying to keep my laboured movements nonsuspicious, clutching where the damn thing had tried to use me as some sort of… chew toy – but Mirmulnir's scales had proven adequate protection against that. It would leave hideous bruises, though. I'm insanely lucky it did not catch me in the leg.

"Zu'u los krosis, Dovahkiin. I am sorry. I am Raanjudiiv. I had not thought one of mine would find you. One of our eldest and honoured Zeymah, kin, who is like the vahzah thur on the tallest strunmah ko keizaal calls for help. I cannot reach him. None of the Dov can… Not those in their true forms." I change the grip on my axe slightly with narrowed eyes, even as Marcurio's jaw hits the floor quite comically.

This, of course, changes the game. And also begs the question:

"What do you want from me?"

The dragon almost seems to be grinning. Gods, that looks unsettling. "Rok is Vulthuryol. Dark fire king. He lives in the Deep. And calls for aid. Your aid, Dovahkiin." Now, I'm officially confused and not a little frustrated with the continued use of Dovahzul, which I don't speak, and general vagueness the dragons appear to be quite fond of, if this one is a leading example for the rest of the species.

"What deep? Underground? Dragons underground? What aid? What are you talking about?" The creature – Raanjudivv, I remind myself, rumbles darkly. "I do not know. My task and business with you is done. Do not expect mercy a second time, Joor." And he – it? She? Stumbles off, into the wilderness. It leaves a filthy taste in my mouth to think that the Dov will likely not last the night if they cannot fly by dusk. When Marcurio finally snaps out of his daze, I've already picked up my pack and shouldered it, prepared to set off again and think properly on the strange encounter.

"You – Did you make a deal with dragons to create a challenge for me? You're dragonborn? What's going on?" He demands, sparks clinging to his fingertips. Instead of answering, I sit down in the dirt, forming small clouds of light dust around me.

A few minutes pass in stunned silence while I rifle through the knapsack, before the mage doubles over with an 'oomph!', hands automatically clutching at the large purse, that weighs about as much as a solid ebony children's playball. "You're apparently worthy of my time and investment, Marcurio. That I do know." I lean back on my hands, tilting my head back allowing me to look at him almost upside down, whilst at the same time letting the now slowly starting rain cleanse my face of blood, dirt and sweat. Quite refreshing, since we're as close to summer as a land as Skyrim gets the right to be.

He just stares at me as I down a stamina potion first before giving him the answer he actually wants: "As for the dragons, that was unplanned. I'd expected only one to show up, since the people of Shor's Stone warned me of a nearby burial mound. Yes, I'm Dragonborn. No, this is the first time a dragon has deigned to speak with me rather than try to brutally murder, maim, maul or otherwise bring severe pain upon me. I have no fucking clue as to what's going on here, either." I stand up to stretch luxuriously, only to wince at the ache in my side.

"If you're injured, I've got some potions. I'm running low, though, so once we're in Windhelm, I'll be visiting the alchemist."

He's still utterly, uncharacteristically silent as the mage takes in what just happened to him, taking the change of subject for what it is. I hold out a potion for him to take with a raised eyebrow. "If you want to back out of travelling with me, I won't hold it against you." It'd be a waste not to have the wonderful view and intellectually stimulating conversation, though. But this wizard either doesn't take the hint, or refuses to acknowledge it. With a mischievous and eager grin, he takes the potion and downs it gratefully, throwing the empty bottle over his shoulder to be forgotten.

"You're mad if you think I'll pass an opportunity like this. Lead on, oh great Dragonborn."

I groan in exasperation even as we set off again, my chest not feeling quite as heavy as it had before even though Raanjudiiv's message has greatly confounded me. What am I saying? I'm confounded they had a message at all.

I'll see where the road takes me. If I find that dragon, Vulthuryol, I'll see what it wants. Until then, I'm still going to visit Winterhold. I have a feeling that that's the place I want to be right now.

We pass Kynesgrove without encountering any trouble aside from a snide comment of one of the guards regarding my heritage. I wonder why these primitives are so narrow-minded - only seeing the good in their own racial superiority. All races have something to offer… Maybe it's a good thing that my own people are gone.

A Dwemer is prideful, and when one of these men accidentally verbally assaults a noble… I suppose that if the Dwemer still lived, we'd have taken over all of Tamriel by now. Not sure if that'd be so great, either. The slavery ma always fought against seems to have been abolished, for one.

As I let my mind wander and my feet follow the road, the landscape gradually changes from forests, tall grass and rocky hills to snow and ice and mountains as far as the eye can see. It's also reached ungodly levels of cold. The gates leading up to Windhelm are rather imposing, and the whinnying of horses pulls me back to the present at last, causing me to glance around until I spot the hooved, saddled banes of my existence.

I frown and shy away from the large animals even as Marcurio snickers. "Is the great Dragonborn afraid of a teensy horsey?" he teases, and I turn my frown to him as it darkens into my usual scowl, hissing: "Don't call me that. I'm Fjaldi, just Fjaldi. If these people find out, they'll try to recruit me into their petty little scuffle."

The mage shakes his head wryly, walking a little faster so he's moving right next to me, and I can almost feel the warmth he radiates through my clothes. How are the people of Skyrim not as cold as the snowy places they deem fit to inhabit?

The guards let us both in without much trouble, but Marcurio is warned to keep an eye on 'his pet elf'. My ears are still covered – Sithis, are these guards TRAINED to differentiate between a Man and a Mer? That might prove annoying… I have to grit my teeth not to lash out at them for being so degrading. Straightening, I clench and unclench my white-knuckled fists to keep myself in check. I should fucking teach them a – I clear my throat slightly, abashed, derailing that train of thought and observing the happenstances in the city around me instead.

…

As we stand in front of the tavern, we decide on a small plan: Marcurio will visit the alchemist to purchase potions, as well as sell some ingredients I'd gathered along the way. After that, he'll go to the market to but fresh produce, and then get us a room at the large inn, where he'd pack accordingly.

Meanwhile, I'd go explore the city and visit the local blacksmith. Then after gaining permission to use his or her forge, I'd make a new axe, improve it, sharpen my old axe, and then proceed to sell all the materials I won't need. If Marcurio doesn't show up at the forge by then I go to the Palace, where I'd try to explain to the court wizard that I must borrow his enchanter for a bit, and won't he pretty please accept a few coins for the trouble (and his silence)?

As I descend down a long set of stairs, I'm eyed warily by Dunmer walking to and fro, most carrying items or clearly having a purpose to their steps. Almost subconsciously, I adjust my pace and walk to match theirs, wary, quick, no-nonsense. The buildings towering above me are in a clear state of disrepair, dark and dreary and broken at the edges. Wooden planks board the narrow windows, and the sun barely reaches the uneven, overgrown, narrow path running between the buildings. Is this a… What is it called? Slum? The elves walking around have gaunt faces and troubled gazes, and I keep my own eyes ahead.

"Hey, you." I don't pause, they must be addressing someone else, I don't know anyone here. "You in the fancy scale armour." Now, I scan the area warily, until my eyes meet those of a stern Dunmer woman, standing on a porch with her arms crossed. "What are you doing here?"

"Where is 'here'?" I ask carefully, hand twitching to my axe. She seems surprised, at least. As if I'd straight out admitted to actually being an Imperial spy in disguise. "You – you don't know? This is the Grey Quarter. Where all the dark elves go because Ulfric doesn't lift a finger in our defence and we're apparently all imperial spies." Oh hey, colleagues. Instead of coughing suspiciously at my own stupid joke, I look around the mess that indeed turns out to be a slum –

"So wait, you all live here because you're Dunmer?" She walks down, and by now we've caught the attention of some of the other residents, who all stare at my like I'm a lost animal.

It's… rather unnerving.

The situation is worse than I anticipated. If this is what the Stormcloaks stand for, I think my sense of morals might force me to intervene with this civil war even though I really don't want to. It's like Riften's beggars and thieves, only these people had even less of a chance. I bite my lip harshly as she tries to placate me, or herself, it's quite hard to tell over the loud screaming of denial emanating from every pore of her being.

"At least we're allowed in the city. Khajit and Argonians all have to stay outside the walls." The woman adds, as if it's an afterthought, as if it's no big deal. That sort of mentality is what ma always called the 'source of all unfair chances'. I tilt my head. "This city is deplorable. I'm glad I'm only passing through."

The Dunmer chuckles, but it's wan and humourless. She then decides that I'm not the bad sort, and informs me on more of the city's problems that aren't being addressed thanks to the Stormcloak rebellion. Like the serial killer called the 'Butcher' that murdered several young women. And the drunk making the Grey Quarter a noisy place at night. And the fact that the Shatter-Shields are rumoured to have deals with pirates, undermining the other traders.

Throughout her story, I cannot help but get the sinking feeling that I'm going to be getting involved in all of it. Of my own free will, because honestly this cannot be true. What kind of disaster zone is this? I'm tempted to run to the Palace where this Ulfric character lives and reprimand him like my ma used to reprimand me.

This city is similar to a Dwemer warzone. Conspiracy, complots, murders in the night… My heart aches for the poor sods that have been victims of the systematic racism and insanity within the walls.

I leave the Quarter as quickly as I can after that, seething with anger even as I play nice and manage to finish my work at the blacksmith's place. The Enchanter is trickier to get to, since I can't help but glare at the man sitting on the throne, well-fed and covered in expensive furs while the ones he's responsible for starve and freeze.

I want things to change here. But… Do I have the right to meddle? I resolve to ask around more first, and maybe Marcurio has some ideas – he's been in Skyrim for longer than I have.

…

When I find the mage sitting in our shared room – they only had one free – that evening, I start off with the standard pleasantries: "This city is a gods forsaken mess. What in Nirn is Ulfric thinking?" Of course, I'm still sensible enough throught the hazy curtain of rage to wait with speaking until after I shut the door securely behind me.

The apprentice wizard nods along with me absently. Then: "I know. I took a little walk, and the people I spoke to all said much the same drivel. Back in Cyrodill, some of them would have already been either discharged or banned. And I'm not talking about the Argonian dock workers."

"I haven't visited those yet." He gives me a sidelong look, pursing his lips darkly. "Perhaps you should." I shake my head with a low growl, dragging a hand down my face before dropping my new weapons and a spare dagger to hand to the mage on the bed rather carelessly.

"There's also a Dwemer ruin nearby, hounded by a group of bandits whose leader is infamous enough to be known by name in these parts." Seems like I'm not the only one who got his share of gossip today. "Alain Dufont, right? Cheated on his Markarth girlfriend to run away with a Shatter-Shield?" I add somewhat dubiously, not sure if what the Dunmer people in New Genesis Corner were telling is a hundred percent fact.

"Huh, that's a bit more than the Alchemist's assistant told me. A honest-to-Dibella Reach woman, huh? Best not to tangle with those if you're not planning to get serious as the Rattles with them."

I start unbuckling my armour, the clasps still freezing cold even as the rest of my body is growing uncomfortably warm because of all the fires in this place. "I sold most of what I'd planned, but we're still carrying far too much precious materials for me to be okay with. We're just asking for robbery at this point." I grouch as we're exchanging today's other interesting happenings.

The mage hums around a bottle of Black-Briar mead. Disgusting stuff, yet he likes to down it without even a grimace. Let his taste of mead be a thing we agree to disagree on. "I might have an idea," he finally drawls thoughtfully. "There are plenty of people in need of help here, a serial killer on the loose and all that pleasant stuff. Maybe you can buy the empty house here, Hjerim, after you've earned favour, and put everything you don't need in there. Like the storage space near Mzulft."

I spend a few moments thinking it over. Then: "I suppose… I suppose Winterhold isn't that urgent."

Nor is the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller, to be honest. The greybeards should know that a 'dragon' like me doesn't follow orders well. Neither do Dwemer, for that matter. I'll go get that thing when it's damn well convenient for me personally.

If they wanted someone who'd bend over backwards to be honoured, they should have appointed a Nord. And Hjerim… wouldn't be my permanent home, right? I can always sell it later once I've figured out where I really want to settle here in Skyrim. Falkreath is still looking best, and that's…kind of sad.

Marcurio grins. "Alright, so here's what I know…" I'm so happy I started a travel journal to keep track of all the things I still have to do. I find myself thinking halfway through. Windhelm really is a mess, and some of the things the mage mentions sound like entire quests for some shitty novel. This is going to get me all across Skyrim, isn't it?

…

I knew it.

Needless to say, we spend the next few weeks running about the city and the surrounding area to solve problems, meet up with Ulfric Stormcloak and his court members several times without Marcurio blowing the man up or me trying to chop his head off in a truly gargantuan joint effort, and then go dungeon delving in no less than three Nordic ruins, making Hjerim as a storage space even more important. The secret room is an added bonus. And the place is made out of stone.

I can almost, almost, deal with the fact that I'll be officially 'living' in this warzone with a hypocritical, annoying, bigoted, xenophobic, racist man running the place half-assed because of a conflict he instigated. I just really, really need a place to ditch all these ingots and gems and spare armours. But what's more annoying…

The endless racism. The endless, frustrating doubt in my ability, my parentage, my mother's chastity, my strength, my job, my honesty, my fucking everything.

EVERYTHING they CAN make into an issue they MAKE into a fucking issue. Who even CARES if I have Altmer in me several generations back aye or nay? Gods, what's-his-name, Talos? Talos. Talos, tell your people to stop making Mer, Argonians and Khajit such a big problem when the actual problem is non-existent or caused by Nords themselves. If they keep going on like this, they'll HAVE imperial spies in the Dunmer and it'll be their own fucking fault in the first place.

I let out a frustrated sigh as I stalk out of the Palace of the Kings agitatedly, Marcurio on my heels. Whatever, it'll be their funerals, not mine. I'm staying out of this Civil War-thing.

I buy Hjerim to get the Steward off my back and see to the gory scene left by the Butcher being cleaned up. Then I buy the furnishings for the bedroom and kitchen areas – the most important ones. Ulfric isn't all too happy about it, wanting to leave a house free for a new Thane.

Marcurio shoots him down so brutally, downright majestically, that I'm tempted to slow clap. A memory to recall on dreary days, for certain. And now?

Now we're both sitting on the bed in Hjerim, crossed-legged and each nursing an ale, having just dumped all the precious metals and gems from all over the ruins we'd explored in the hidden room, leaving a few silver ingots and a bit of jewellery out in the open to fool thieves.

"I'm just glad we helped that Alchemist out before he died." The wizard mutters, leaning back contently. I sigh, "And that we made the women in this city feel a little safer." Even as I say it, my gaze drifts to the magical bottle given by said late Alchemists' assistant, now serving as a decorative piece. At least we'll never 100% run out of healing potions now.

Marcurio chuckles. "Are you just going to ignore the fact that you also broke into houses, stole some valuable items from one person to give to someone else, and massacred a group of pirates and some other unrelated people?" I shrug and drop back on the bed with a grunt. "No comment. The pirates had it coming though."

The mage laughs loudly, having consumed two bottles of alto wine earlier and being a bit more tipsy than he's been in the past few weeks. We needed this evening to unwind. Both of us. For Sithis' sake. "And the Shatter-Shields, though." Now, I also can't help but laugh, even though I know it's bad to do so. "I mean, Dibella's tits man," the mage continues, dropping into a conspiratory whisper, "you go and r-ruin their entire – hah - wealth and worth behind their b-backs and meanwhile they're – HAH! – they're thanking you, oh gods."

I'm so damn cruel for finding this funny, but the sheer irony is just so…

"L-Let's just keep that first part to ourselves. I think we may end up having a severe problem. And, speaking of problems…" I say, changing the subject and trying yet failing to keep myself from becoming as excited as a child on Midsummer Day's festival.

A raised eyebrow is my only response. "You having bad dreams again?" I make a vague hand gesture to the bags now semi-permanently under my eyes. "No, really? Never would have guessed. No, I'm talking about the fact that Alain Dufont has been a larger pain in the butt than usual and something should be done before he makes himself our problem."

The mage agrees easily enough, a simple shrug all the agreement I need. "Sure. When do we leave?" I eye the Imperial whom I've spent quite a lot of time with, taking in his new adept robes of destruction, glass boots and bracers, enchanted necklace, Dwemer dagger and all, with his reddened cheeks and shit-eating grin from consuming too much alcohol, too quickly. My own cheeks seem to turn to fire when that smile is turned fully to me. I need to cool off. I was right. This man is a Major Problem. "Now."

I stand abruptly, ignoring his indignant whining as I forcibly turn my mind to more sobering things. Like the nightmares. Sobering enough. "Wait, Fjaldi? Fjaldi, why so fast?" Marcurio complains loudly even as I throw my knapsack over my shoulder. "Because…" Uhm, "Because if we're fast we can ambush them before sunrise. It's not far from here, is it?"

He shakes his head – I'm not sure if it's in answer or in dismay at having to move out after dinner.

I can't bring myself to back off now though, he'll surely notice something is nagging at me if I do that. Especially with how well we've come to know each other over the past few weeks. "So then, we're off once again. To… Ra-bat-hair?" His tongue twists around the Dwemeris in a way that makes a snicker escape me. "Raldbthar." He never did say whether or not he believed my heritage, though. Oh Adrienne, what I wouldn't give for your voice of reason right now.

"I hope we don't run into any nasty surprises while we're there." The mage muses as we walk out into the snow. I pull my new scarf a little higher to cover my nose properly. "It's just a Dwemer ruin and some bandits, Marcurio. We're not going to clear the whole thing like with those draughr-infested pits a few days ago. What can go wrong?"

Famous last words.

A/N: I love cliff-hangers, but only when I'm writing them. To be fair, you can likely guess what happens in Raldbthar, with Alain Dufont.