17th of Last Seed, Helgen

Ralof frowned as they rode into Helgen, and sighed, looking around. "I wonder if Vilod still makes that mess with the juniper berries mixed in…" He muses, before he notices a few Thalmor riding behind their wagon, seemingly joining them right after they had rode in the gates. In front of one of them was a prisoner, tied tighter than a miser's coin purse. And was a Dunmer—hardly surprising, knowing that the dark elves hated their Altmer cousins. He looked obviously out of it, and quite badly hurt, if the still-healing injuries were anything to go by.

He was also gagged by a thin woolen cloth, and he was slumped forwards slightly, looking half-dead if the glassy look in his eye was anything to judge by. Or so Ralof thought, until those red eyes noticed his Jarl, and sharpened with interest, and then turned ahead. He shifted a bit, hiding his face from his captors, and frowned as he noticed the Imperial soldiers all around them.

The wagon came to a stop, and the Thalmor got off the horses a small distance away, pulling the dark elf roughly off with them. Two of them held him up, and he seemed to sag into them, and had the same glassy look in his eyes as before.

And then, Ralof turned his attention back to his own situation, as they got off, and their names were called. Empire loves their damn lists… He thought to himself, calling out after his Jarl, "It was an honor to serve with you, Jarl Ulfric."

Jarl Ulfric nodded back to him, before turning, unable to say anything through the gag. Ralof was called—"Ralof of Riverwood!"—after the horse-thief tried to run, and got shot down by the archers.

He walked towards his death, head held high, and a determination to make his ancestors proud with what he fought for. Torsmor interrupted the priest giving them their last rites, stalking up, and died quickly. "As brave in death as he was in life." He murmured, and prayed for a quick passage to Sovngarde for him.

Before any of their names were called, two of the Thalmor started forwards with their prisoner, and announced him. "Callon Dren*." They didn't mention his crimes, but it was probably worshipping Talos…though that didn't exactly make sense, as he was a Dunmer, but Ralof shrugged it off.

Callon perked up, and quickly stuck out a leg, causing the Thalmor on his right to trip, and slammed his elbow into the one on the left's nose. But then he just walked towards the executioner's block, determination and understanding and acceptance in his gaze. He wanted to walk to his death himself, and he knew that he couldn't get out of. Smart man. Callon knelt, and turned to look at the executioner as the Thalmor got up, anger and hatred in their gaze.

An odd, haunting sound echoed around, and the Imperials began to mutter amongst themselves, and Ralof frowned. As the executioner lifted his axe, something flew above the walls and landed on the tower and turned its snout up to the skies and Shouted.

Oh, fuck, Ralof thought distantly, That's a dragon.

And then the dragon looked down, and Shouted something else at the executioner and the Thalmor, and they all flew back—unfortunately, the dark elf flew back as well, hitting his head on the ground. "Un vuzt los invak, Yolsos**." It said, the unfamiliar syllables falling from seemingly the sky. "Do not get in our way." It then took off, and circled once, and threw down fire with its Voice, all the while the Dunmer groaned, and sat up.

Ralof shook himself off, and ran to a nearby dead Imperial, and cut his binds on the sword, and rushed back to the Mer, hauling him to his feet. He ran into a tower, shutting the door behind them. "Jarl Ulfric! What is that thing? Could the legends be true?"

Ulfric gave him a dry look. "Legends don't burn down villages."

The Mer reached up, pulling the gag off, and then looked down at the ropes binding his wrists. "Divines-damned Thalmor…" He began to work the ropes binding his wrists, slowly loosening them.

"We need to move. Now!" Jarl Ulfric says, and the Mer glances up, and looks back down at his wrists.

"Lead the way, Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak," The dark elf says, gesturing with both hands, before going back to loosening his binds. "Seeing how I can't exactly defend myself from a skeever at the moment."

His Jarl narrows his eyes. "Follow me. I have questions for you, Fireblood." He sounded like he was repeating something-perhaps it was what the dragon said?

Callon—the Mer—shivered a bit, before he nodded. "Agreed."

Line here

I have questions for you, Fireblood. Unfortunate, but Callon figured that he could deflect.

He hadn't been having a good day until the dragon attacked. Unfortunately, he still wasn't having a good day—he was stuck in a warzone, with no weapons and tied up. The Divines-damned ropes weren't coming off, and he wasn't sure if they weren't enchanted to never come off except by a Thalmor's hands. Gloves. Thalmor gloves.

Adding onto that, he was all-but forced into a group of Stormcloaks, led by the Jarl of Windhelm. The leader of a rebellion that he wanted no part in.

Adding onto that, he was fairly badly hurt, and the first order of business was casting some Restoration magic on himself, to at least alleviate the still-healing wounds and allowing him to turn his full attention to survival.

Speaking of which—the Jarl tossed his head towards the door. "When I open this, run for the keep!" The entirety of the Stormcloaks here agreed with that suicide plan.

And Callon sighed, and finally undid a knot, and managed to loosen it enough so he could slip his thumb out of place, wriggle his right hand out, and then his left hand, before relocating his thumb to its proper place. Ralof had watched him as he heard the pop, and Callon stifled a grin at the horrified expression on the Nord's face.

The Jarl swept open the door, and Callon was in the middle of the pack, and even managed to grab an Imperial sword on his way to the Keep. They managed to make it mostly to the keep—two or three died as the dragon used it's Voice or caught them and flew up and dropped them—and Callon was the first inside, and killed a stray Imperial by running the sword through their ribs, before any other had made it inside.

He tugged off the footwraps that the Thalmor had given him—out of the kindness of their cold, dead hearts he was sure—and quickly began to pull on the armor, turning as Jarl Ulfric walked in, shutting and locking the door behind him.

Turning, the Jarl frowned at him. "Are you an Imperial?"

Callon gave him a death glare. "No."

"Why did the dragon say that it's debt with you was paid? What did you do?"

"Did it say that? I heard something in another language, but I'm not sure—"

The Nord who'd picked up Callon puffed up in indignant anger. "Watch who you're taking to! Mind your respect, elf."

"And mind your tone, Nord." Callon rolled his eyes and turned away, walking towards a gate, and crouched down in front of the locking mechanism, and studied it. Might be picked, if I had lockpicks. He grimaced, vaguely remembering the incident where he tried to escape from inside the Embassy, the only time that he had surfaced. But I don't. Looks like it opens with that lever over there, which is just out of reach. Damn. Turning, he glanced over toward the large wooden doors. No locks visible on this side. We're trapped like a mouse that's being hunted by a cat.

Surprisingly accurate, considering the Thalmor likely survived, crafty bastards that they were. Callon wouldn't be surprised if they could survive the Red Mountain exploding with them in the caldera. Interesting thought, and one helpful for ignoring the Nords for now. And to keep away the thoughts and memories, even if he had closed off his mind during most of his stay with the Thalmor.

He twitched, turning slightly, hearing footsteps echoing down the corridor. He whirled, hiding to the left of the gate, and heard as the Imperials spotted the Stormcloaks, and readied his swords. The first poor bastard through the door got a sword through his jugular, and the next one through his ribs. The captain swiped at him, but he danced away. Humans were slower than the Thalmor, and he had just spent a month mostly avoiding their blows. The Stormcloaks charged, and the captain died quickly, and Callon stuck to back, and swished his fingers, reaching through the Aetherium and plucking the strings that kept healing at the pace that was, and began to heal himself.

The wounds would scar—if they were deep—and luckily no bones were broken, but everything else healed well. Callon wasn't vain, and he would be meditating quite a lot in the days to come, to settle the memories and help hea the mental damage that being kept with the Thalmor caused. His mentor had taught him Hadriman, or Mind-Shield—a long-lasting ward to protect the mind from traumas***. It would wear down, and the memories and emotions would rush back, but he had a week to reintegrate the memories before the ward crashed completely.

With the worst damage taken care of—and his Magicka depleted; unfortunately, the Thalmor had kept him awake for long periods of time, to deplete his reserves—Callon could focus much more on escaping with his skin. He stalked forwards, blending into the shadows and half-light between the torch sconces. He was quicker than the Stormcloaks, and stole into a room, and waited for the Jarl and his men.

The blonde one who was on the wagon charged into the room, and Callon rolled his eyes, hissing "S'wit!" under his breath as the Stormcloak fought the Imperials alone, before the others charged in as well.

Callon turned his attention instead to finding some salves and potions**** to heal his wounds and to help with the scarring, until he could make his way to a specialist. Perhaps he was vain?

The fighting died down just as Callon rustled through the first barrel, pulling out a red apple and biting into it. Divines, he was starving. Fucking Thalmor.

He snatched a healing potion, tucking it away somewhere even as he tossed a stamina potion at Jarl Stormcloak. "This looks like their main storeroom. Might want to search through for anything useful."

He hummed as he…commandeered…another healing potion and some flower salve. He sniffed it carefully, and nodded in approval when he could only smell the sweet floral scent of the blue mountain flower and the more musty, earthy smell of an imp stool. Quality work.

He applied the salve to his still-healing wounds before drinking the healing potion and sighed in relief as his wounds began to close quicker. The crash of rocks outside suddenly made him startle upright, and the Nords to draw their axes and watch the ceiling.

Callon walked over to the doorway and peeked through, and saw that corridor from before had caved in on itself, presumably from the dragon outside. He could still vaguely hear it's roars, and he looked to his left. Stairs. And to his right (back through the room and through the other door, which hadn't been blocked, by some miracle) the place from whence they came. Damn.

Still, there was one other way to go. Callon slipped down first, silent on the stairs, with the Nords being supremely noisy a few paces away. Callon could see down the stairs a torture room—a torture room—

pain-Fire-pain-pain-pain-pain-never-talk-never-it-hurts-please-stop-pain-pain-hunger-cold-pain

—and a torturer—

let's-begin-today-questions-darkness-is-better-hurts-pain-no-healing-poisoned-food-unsafe-fire-pain

—and the ward was breaking down already, which wasn't good. Callon stepped to the side, allowing the Nords first (blood right has been acknowledged from their perspective), and he recast it to the best of his limited Magicka ability.

The Stormcloaks had finished, and the Jarl was in front of Callon, trying to talk to him. "What?" Callon asked, blinking at the Jarl.

"I was asking if you were alright."

Callon glanced to the side, and then nodded. "Yes. I am. I thought that a blòdgjed***** should be taken by you and your men, considering who this room likely housed."

"You know of the blòdgjed?" The Jarl sounded suprised, and Callon narrowed his eyes in amusement, before giving an answer verbally after a moment.

"Yes. I've made a study of the cultures of Tamriel in my free time, and have probably accumulated a few blòdgjed and weregilds over the years."

"Blòdgjed haven't been in use for a century." It was stated quite firmly, and Callon pushed off the wall.

"Hmm…has it been that long? Time slips by so quickly…Either way, they are still applicable in the eyes of old Nordic law, even if the Empire prefers weregilds. Besides, I'm sure that at least a few of your soldiers have had someone that they knew pass through here. As their Jarl, it is your right to exact a blòdgjeld for them, if they cannot be here." And then he pivoted on his heel and rustled through the small knapsack, and grabbed another healing potion and some lockpicks.

Glancing through the cells (alone-stillnotsafe-can'tsleep-exhausted-whatdidtheydotome), he didn't see anything useful, and was aware of the Jarl following him closely, causing him to hiss slightly in annoyance. "For the sake of the Divines, you are ruining the stealth advantage that I have, s'wit." He said in a whisper to the Jarl who rolled his eyes but fell back, and Callon stalked through the keep, still irritated at not finding any bows or any hints of arrows. For the sake of the Divines, they very clearly had archers! Where was the additional ammunition or extra bows?

Despite this, escaping from the Keep was going remarkable well. Or it had, until the Jarl had begun to keep a closer eye on Callon, and as such, he had begun to have been sucked into the middle of the Stormcloaks whenever he wasn't walking at…hmm…Mer speed, so to say. Mers tended to be faster and naturally taller than men (ignoring that Callon rested at a mere 6'—the first few crucial years of nutrition and proper care had been pushed aside for survival), and Callon typically used this to his advantage. Unfortunately, the Jarl was taller than him, by just 2 inches.

Not a lot, but it meant that he could keep up with Callon. Which would have been annoying, but manageable.

However. The Nord that rescued him—when he was recovering from having his head slammed into the ground at high speeds—was also taller than him. Also by about two inches.

And if they were annoying apart, they were completely fucking irritating together.

Callon had come quite close to killing both of them quite a few times, as they fought through battles and ruined the stealth advantage that Callon usually enjoyed. Gods-damned Nords. Honor means nothing on the battlefield, when it's kill-or-be-killed. Honor means nothing in the Shadow's world, and it had nothing to do with his.

However, he had gotten his hand on a bow and a few arrows, after taking it from a dead Imperial, so even the irritating Nords weren't too bad in light of that.

Line here

Ulfric had thought that he would die on that executioner's block, and that the Imperials would have won, that the blood on his hands would've meant nothing, that brothers would have fought over nothing.

And then the Thalmor rose behind their wagon, and even after years of recovering he couldn't help a little flinch, still feeling the pain, the burning, before he recomposed himself. The Dunmer he had originally dismissed, but considering how eager they were to get him executed…well, it had made him interested as to what he had done.

And the dragon came, and it all went to Oblivion.

When they were (relatively) safe in the Keep, and Ulfric had tried to question the elf—"Un vuzt los invak, Yolsos," or "Our debt is paid, Fireblood."—over the dragon's words, but he had played on Ralof's overprotectiveness, and expertly diverted his attention. And he had killed with ease and obviously knew what he was doing, before he had cast restoration magic for a shockingly short amount of time, before continuing forwards, exchanging the sword for two daggers, and had allowed Ulfric's men to do most of the killing, and just taking what he could.

Callon Dren, the Thalmor had called him, but Ulfric thought that he moved through the shadows too easily to be just some poor bastard. No, Ulfric thought that the Dunmer was either:

1. A leader of a rebellion against them

2. A thief or a spy

or, and perhaps most exciting of all:

3. An assassin, who had killed the Thalmor in some capacity.

After all, if he had killed the Thalmor, he wasn't a friend of them. And therefore he could become useful to the war, to fight for them.

But the elf had seemed off at seeing the torture room, and Ulfric had a creeping suspicion that the Mer was hiding a few cracks beneath that unimpressed and annoyed façade. Sure, he had talked at length about a blòdgjed, but it was the most he had talked in the entire time that Ulfric had seen him. So he was either unsettled or…he wanted to impress Ulfric with his knowledge of old laws? The second didn't make sense, so it was likely the first.

After that, Ulfric had managed to keep pace fairly well with the Mer, much to his obvious annoyance. He was also taller than the Dunmer, which he was curious about. Usually Dunmer were 6' 2" at the shortest, but most were between 6' 4" and 6' 6". Callon was 6', if Ulfric were to guess.

It made Ulfric even more curious. Ralof managed to keep pace as well, and was taller than the elf as well. It obviously irked the smaller elf, and so Ulfric asked, as they were walking through natural caves. "Why are you so short? Most elves are much taller."

The elf threw him a dirty look, "Divines help me, are they making small talk now?" He muttered, before sighing, and pressed his lips together. "Yes, most are. However, I was…hmm..born in a time of unrest. Survival came before proper nutrition and rest, both of which are necessary to become tall."

Ralof snorted. "You don't look young enough to have been born in the Great War."

Callon smiled, all teeth, and Ulfric felt uneasy. "How old do I look these days?"

"Perhaps late twenties, early thirties. No later than forty."

Callon smirked a bit wider and carried on in silence, sticking to the edges of the cave.

Ralof huffed in annoyance, "How old are you?"

Callon looked back, amusement lighting his red eyes. "Hmm…I think I'll leave you to guess. After all, everyone should know their history."

"Dunmer haven't had easy lives for the past few centuries, since the Red Mountain erupted!"

"You mean since the Ministry of Truth crashed into Vvardenfell, which caused the Red Mountain to erupt?"

"Yes! Their land is always half-starved, and refugees are still coming through."

"Hm. Skyrim is too cold for my tastes. Cyrodiil was better."

"Was?" Ulfric asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Until the War, of course. Bloody Thalmor were everywhere. Made it impossible to, ah, work."

"But how old are you?" Ralof interrupted, scowling at Callon.

"Now that would be telling, little Nord." And the Dunmer smirked wider, and didn't talk again until he suddenly gestured for them to stop, just a few minutes later.

"Shh! There's a cave bear up ahead. Give me a moment." Callon leaned down, and took an arrow from the quiver strapped to his back, and drew the bow, and slowed his breathing.

He narrowed his eyes, and inhaled, and then shot the arrow, hitting and killing the bear in a single shot. Straightening, the Dunmer brushed off the dirt, and rolled his shoulders, stretching out the muscles in his arms. "By Azura, that feels good." He sighs in relief and hops down from the ledge, and walks forwards. "A bit boring, but having a bow again feels excellent."

Ulfric snorted, and hopped down. "Axes are superior." He stated simply, and the elf turned to give him a Look.

"That is a lie. Bows are superior, as they allow you take aim with care and precision, rather than the rough chops of axes. Not to mention that, if crafted well enough, and wielded by someone who knows what they are doing, one can pierce armor and most wards in a single shot." He gestured with his hand animatedly as he talked, "It allows you to keep your enemies at a range and to keep injuries to a minimum. Even with an inferior bow, you can still kill bears and such."

"An inferior bow?"

Callon sighs, shaking his head. "You are lost."

He turned, and walked through the cave, towards the (presumed) exit of the cave system, and Ulfric followed, keeping his axes ready for any other surprises. Callon paused and inhaled deeply, smiling, and raced ahead, all but running out of the cave entrance.

"Fresh air. Trees. Earth." The Dunmer's head shot up and he rushed to hide behind a rock. "A giant fucking dragon," he muttered, and Ulfric stopped just at the cave entrance as the huge dragon from before flew overhead, and slowly became out of sight.

Callon straightened after another minute, and nodded at Ulfric. "It was good to fight with you, Jarl Stormcloak."

Ulfric raised an eyebrow, "Are you not coming with us to Windhelm."

"No. At least not right now." He paused, before moving closer, and said in a low voice so only Ulfric could hear, "But every good king has an excellent assassin, hm?" Stepping away again, he studied the Stormcloaks. "Send me a letter through courier if you need me. It'll eventually find me."

And then he walked away, into the woods.

*Actual family name from Morrowind; Dren was the Grandmaster bloodline of House Hlaadl. Last known descendant was Ilmeni Dren. C from possible brother line? No mention of what happened after the events of Morrowind

**"Our debt is paid, Fireblood."

Vuzt and invak i made up because there wasn't a word for it lmao

Yolsos literally translates to Fire (Yol), and Blood (Sos). It should probably be Sosyol (Bloodfire, literally), but Yolsos rolls off the tongue better imo. anyways, C is named this because of the Wrath of Ancestors abilities ("…wellspring of hatred…"), and yes, this does have to do with plot, thanks for noticing.

***Not an actual thing in canon. Also wouldn't be useful—not where TES is now; this so entirely my head-canon and a partial adaption of Occulmency from Harry Potter and a partial entirely new magic. Still in the Alteration tree, though!

****healing works differently here. a hybrid of Survival Mode from Special Edition & real life. salves are used with potions to speed up healing, and can take effect and heal wounds within an hour if applied with knowledge and care.

this is also why C mentions "…unfortunately, the Thalmor had kept him awake…to deplete his [Magicka] reserves…" because Survival Mode is hellish like that, and the Thalmor are assholes like that /3

"but what about restoration magic? It's here, Callon used it earlier!" it can't heal everything, unless you're a master at it. even then-well, youll see ;)

*****blòdgjeld literally "Blood payment" in Nordic, according to what I've found. using it as a variation of weregild (man price) as i imagine blòdgjeld would be more applicable here than a fine, if anything could be applied (it is war)