The League of Dragonborn

Chapter Two: Change of Plans

Don't worry friends, I haven't forgotten you!


Brynjolf stumbled out of his cot, his head pounding with a hangover he'd earned ferociously the night before. He knew he'd had a life before Freja—he just couldn't remember how it functioned. The sound of shrieking woke him from his dreamless slumber, and he slowly threw on clothes as he exited his quarters, searching for Delvin.

"What in the name—" He began, scratching his reddish beard.

"Dragons. Three of them, attacking from above. Half of us think we need to evacuate everyone into the Ratway tunnels, while the other half just want to leave the people up there to burn."

"This isn't some sort of joke, is it?" Brynjolf said angrily. It had only been a few days since Freja had left without a trace, leaving only two notes as a hint of why she'd gone. And he wasn't sure he wanted to follow her. The woman disappeared once before, and she had a good reason to do so. Maybe now, she had a good reason, too. Only Brynjolf was tired of searching, and tired of wondering, and tired of hoping. And right now, it seemed that not just he, but the whole of Riften, had bigger problems. Problems she could've been helping with, were she here now.

"'Fraid not. But Bryn-"

"Of course we're bringing everyone down into the tunnels," Brynjolf scoffed, turning back towards his quarters to suit up in his Nightingale armor. "No question. Get Vex and head up to Honorhall. The children come down first. Then move to the temple, to the sick and injured. I'll round up the others and tell them what to do."

"Aye," Delvin said, a hint of a smile on his lips. "As you say, Guildmaster."

Brynjolf turned to chide him, but Delvin was gone before he could say a word. He didn't like being called 'guildmaster' just yet; the word didn't fit yet.


In fifteen minutes, Brynjolf was dressed, armed, and standing in the center of the Ratway surrounded by his associates. "We're thieves, but we still have spines. Right now, our city's in danger."

"Our city?" Tonilia said haughtily. "The same city who views us as rats, who fears us and spits at us as we pass by?"

"Well, it's the nature of our trade, what do you expect?" Brynjolf said delicately. They were thieves, after all. Surely they didn't owe Riften a thing, but it seemed a bit drab to let everyone die above their heads while they sat safely underground. "But that shouldn't matter right now. What matters—"

Dirge growled angrily, bored and irritated by all the talking. "Enough! It's simple. Who are we gonna steal from if everyone's burnt to a crisp, hm?" The entire room fell silent.

It was the smartest thing Dirge had ever said.

In ten minutes, everyone (Tonilia included, despite her distaste for Brynjolf after his fast rejection of her in favor of Freja) stood at the ready, awaiting orders. They divided into groups, and spread throughout the town, assisting anyone the came across, but especially the poor and helpless who were ignored by the Riften Guards.

Brynjolf moved up to the surface alone, unsure of what he would find. He was amazed, as he entered into the dull, colorless afternoon, that his ears were greeted with cries and shrieks. The citizens of Riften, and even some of the guards, were running this way and that, holding what little belongings they had, gripped by panic.

The children were still filing out of the orphanage with some assistance from the thieves when a greenish dragon suddenly swooped down, shooting fire at the roof of the building and exploding it into flames. Brynjolf abruptly began sprinting in that direction, though it was unclear what exactly he could do when faced with a dragon. The only other time he'd encountered one was with Freja, and then, they only ran.

He didn't have to worry long, because suddenly a shout rang through the town, the bones of every human there vibrating suddenly. "Fus roh dah!"

Turning to his right, his eyes wide, Brynjolf searched for Freja. However, when he spotted the source of the shout, he realized it wasn't her, but a different woman—shorter, with red hair. The other dragonborn, here for Freja? Behind her stood a man with wolf armor, dark, shaggy locks and black eyes to match. He didn't know them, but in that moment, they were fighting the dragon off and helping the children escape to the Ratway, so that was enough for him.

He ran towards them, grabbing the bow and arrows he'd luckily remembered to bring with him. The man in the wolf armor did the same, though a large, impressive sword hung at his side. Swords are apparently useless; will remember that for next time. If there was a next time.

"It'll be back for another round," the redhead said, looking at her companion, then towards Brynjolf. "If you can both time your shots, aiming for its eyes, nose, and neck, we can do maximum damage. Are you with me?"

Bryn nodded at them. The woman was right; suddenly, a shriek filled the skies, and from the distance, the same green dragon came zooming towards them.

"Now!" She screamed as it drew closer. Quickly, Brynjolf and the other man raised their bows, pelting one arrow after another at the beasts head. They pierced its scaly skin, causing the dragon to cry out, when suddenly the air was filled with another shout, this one Brynjolf couldn't quite make out. Through the air, sharp ice pellets flew and froze along the creatures neck, stabbing and breaking its scales. It screamed again, retreating backwards again towards the mountains, this time for good.

"That seemed too easy," the dark-haired man said.

"They weren't here to destroy Riften," the freckled woman with light eyes said carefully. "They were looking for something."

Brynjolf rolled his eyes, knowing much more than he felt like revealing in that moment. If the man and women had come for Freja, they would be sorely disappointed, and Bryn knew they would find him eventually. Right now, however, he was more worried about assessing the damages, injuries, and ruined homes than chatting with another dragonborn and her protector about the Skyrim's destiny. Turning on his heel, Bryn ran in the direction of Delvin, not even leaving his battle companions his name.


Night had fallen, and things in Riften had steadily calmed down. Sofja was relieved; it meant she and Vilkas could finally focus on the task at hand—the reason they were in Riften in the first place. Sofja hadn't even spoken to the Greybeards before attempting to seek out Freja; based on the severity of recent events, she thought it best just to find Freja and bring her back to High Hrothgar.

"We're looking for a woman," Sofja said evenly, trying to keep her tone quiet as she leaned against the Bee and Barb's bar. She was constantly suspicious—especially in a town like Riften, where dishonesty, spying, and thieving were the three main areas of business. Nine knew that she'd seen her share of uncomfortable situations, but standing at the bar of the Bee and Barb, Sofja felt immensely on edge; perhaps it had something to do with the dragon attack they'd witnessed earlier. Still, it seemed incredible to her that after the dragons left, the town went right back to their dishonest wheeling and dealing. If it had been Whiterun, the Jarl would have been preparing for another attack, creating escape plans and storing rations for the citizens.

Yet now, Sofja stood in the Bee and Barb, and everyone was drinking, whoring and carrying on as if the whole thing hadn't happened. And she still had her mission.

"Yeah?" Keerava said, not even bothering to look up from the mug she was drying. "You're going to have to be more specific than that. A lot of women live here."

Sofja sighed gently, her patience extending for miles—until Vilkas cut in. Unlike Sofja, his patience was much more brittle, and it was beginning to crack, especially after the stress of the afternoon. The blood was boiling in his veins, and he wanted nothing more than to be home with Sofja in Whiterun, a city infinitely more respectable than the filth of Riften. How did the dragons know we'd be coming?

"We're not done yet," Vilkas said quickly. "A thief. Thin, with blonde hair, almost white. Sharp, attractive features, short."

At these words, Keerava looked up, the expression on her face softening. "Ah, you must be talking about my dear Freja!"

Sofja and Vilkas shot each other a quick, wordless look. Bingo.

"Of course! Miss Freja was a frequent patron. A few months back, she was with us here at the Bee and Barb."

"But not anymore?" Sofja asked anxiously.

"'Fraid not," Keerava replied, organizing the mugs behind the bar. "For a while, she was running around with the Thieves Guild, and especially that tall redheaded man in the corner over there." The Argonian pointed to a table across the tavern, pushed far against the wall. There sat a thick, muscled man with red hair and a goatee. He seemed to be enamored with a mug of mead. "Brynjolf, his name is. Not sure why I still allow him in here, the Nine know he's swindled me enough times." Keerava trailed off for a moment, her mind seeming to drift back into the past. "Still, I was taken by his love for her. Reminds me of me and my man."

Sofja and Vilkas looked at each other quickly. It's the same man from earlier, Sofja thought. Vilkas nodded, as if he could read her thoughts. The one who helped us fight off the dragon.

Vilkas' ears perked up. "So they have some sort of relationship?" He asked quickly. "This Brynjolf will know how we can get in touch with her?"

Keerava chuckled, shaking her head a little. "I know they did. But judging by the way he's drowning himself in mead tonight, I'd say things have changed. Still, you're welcome to try. Usually, he's quite a friendly sort."

Vilkas and Sofja nodded in thanks to the barkeep before silently making their way over to Brynjolf's table.

"May we—" Sofja began to ask politely, before Vilkas plopped down directly across from Brynjolf, taking Sofja by the arm and forcing her to sit as well.

"Hello again. We're looking for Freja," Vilkas said quickly, his dark eyes boring into Brynjolf.

Sofja rolled her eyes. This is the last time I ever take him on a delicate mission for the Greybeards.

"Ah, so you're Sofja, then? My, my, our world certainly is a small one, isn't it lass." Brynjolf said suddenly, looking up at her, taking in her honeyed-red hair and clear eyes. She was something like a mirror image of him, with all the red and the barely-visible freckles that spread over her neck and arms. A striking image at that, and yet not to his taste. He preferred his women a blank palette, to be colored instead by passion, sarcasm and wit. Blonde hair, light eyes. Freja. He completely ignored Vilkas.

"How did you know that?" Sofja asked suspiciously.

"Because the Greybeards warned Freja that you were coming. And it's what caused her to run."

"Run?" Vilkas asked with alarm. "You mean she heard the Greybeards needed her help and she took off?"

Brynjolf took a long sip of mead, slamming it down on the table in front of him when he'd had his fill—at least for the moment. "Aye." He spoke slowly, finally acknowledging Vilkas' presence. "She may be Dragonborn, lass, but she's no hero. At least not the kind of hero you're probably hoping for."

"And you have no idea where we can find her? Obviously, after what we saw today, you know finding her is important." Sofja asked desperately.

Brynjolf was slow to reply, lifting the mug of mead to his mouth again—until Vilkas interrupted him, forcefully grabbing his wrist and guiding the mug of mead back down to the table.

"She asked you a question. Not just important—a matter of life and death." He paused, the Companion's dark eyes flashing. "For the whole of Skyrim."

Brynjolf scoffed with disdain; it was rather unlike him to act so disrespectfully, and yet he couldn't help it. "And who are you supposed to be, her bodyguard?"

Vilkas grinded his teeth. "I'm her partner. And she doesn't need a bodyguard. The woman sitting before you is the Harbinger of the Companions. Show some respect."

Freja swallowed hard. Still sounds strange to hear it out loud, she thought.

A smile twitched onto Brynjolf's face, and he noticed the uneasy look in Sofja's eyes. "Harbinger of the Companions? Well, isn't that interesting. Good for you. I recently received a promotion in my own line of work," he said, chuckling just for a moment. "Anyway, you'll need skills if you're going to take Freja alive and try to convince her to join you. She's a fierce fighter, prone to playing dirty, and her every step is blessed by the daedric prince Nocturnal. Your task isn't easy." He took a long swig of mead now that Vilkas had released the grip on his forearm.

"And no," he continued, shooting a glare at Vilkas. "I don't know where she is. I have some ideas, but no true knowledge. I know what's at stake, I need no reminders, lad. For what purpose is she joining you, anyway?"

"The Greybeards want to speak to both of us. They think there's a way to dispatch this dragon threat... Once and for all. So..." Sofja paused, swallowing hard. "You'll help us? Skills we have, but we could use the help of someone who knows her," she offered hopefully, her eyes pleading.

Brynjolf opened his mouth to say no. He wanted to say no. And yet... There was something in her eyes. It was making it incredibly difficult. Not to mention, the life of everyone he'd ever known was on the line, if the dragon threat was as dire as they made it sound.

"I don't know if my presence would help the situation. She left me without telling me where she went or why, only that she had to take care of something. She may not want to see me."

"Despite that, as I said before, we have bigger things at stake," Vilkas added with an air of annoyance in his gravelly voice. "It's now or never; what say you? We don't have time to waste."

Brynjolf scratched his beard, mulling over the possibilities, when suddenly, he raised his mug to them, smirking. "Aye, lass and lad, I'll help. And I may not know where she is, but I think I know where to ask. She's not the only one blessed by a daedric prince. To Nocturnal we go."

And with that, their partnership had been formed: the wolf, the fox, and the thief.