The sun had risen well into the sky by the time Percy awoke. The embers in the hearth having cooled to little more than smoldering cinder. He spent the majority of the morning on the grim task of digging a burial plot for the poor man whose life had been taken in exchange for his home. Luckily, since it was a farmstead, Percy found a useable shovel leaning against the side of home.

It took him some time, as the ground was especially hard in Skyrim, but after a little under an hour, the man got the burial he deserved. It wasn't much, but it was all Percy could offer. If there was an afterlife in this world, Percy prayed the man's safe passage to wherever he would be happiest.

With his grim duty done, Percy turned his back on the homestead and began his trek to Falkreath. Thankfully, with the help of his procured health potions, he'd recovered from his injuries against the dragon, and he was making far swifter progress than the day before. It was a beautiful day for travel. The storming rains of the day before had given way for clear skies, and beautiful sunshine.

It was one of the many intriguing contradictions of Skyrim, Percy was beginning to realize. It could be cruel, barbaric, and chaotic one moment and then beautiful, serene, and tranquil the next. He supposed that might have been part of its charm, but the sunny skies did nothing to brighten Percy's mood. He'd not been happy in Skyrim, but he'd not been unhappy either. Percy had been comfortable, and given his life, that had been enough for him. All up until the last couple of days at any rate.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. He needed to get his head on straight. He'd been through worse, and he could all but hear his mother in the back of his head, trying to comfort him. But the thought came with the painful pang of regret. He didn't like thinking about his mother. About what she must have gone through after his disappearance. More than anyone, he didn't like to think about her.

That had been why the Legion had been as appealing as it had been to Percy to begin with. It was a distraction. Something to keep his head focused on something. The beauty of the Legion was there was always something that needed doing. Some task Percy could accomplish which would occupy his mind. It had worked, and eventually, Percy had managed to come to some kind of peace with his work.

But now that he was alone, unguided and without distraction, the thoughts he'd spent years burying below the surface were rising to the top once again.

He tried to shake the thoughts away it did him no good to be dwelling on the "what-ifs" and "could have been's." Percy couldn't afford to allow himself to get too lost in his own head. Life in Skyrim was hard, and it appeared to be getting harder all the time. The Civil War was only getting more and more violent. The wildlife seemed to be growing ever more chaotic and hostile. And now there were damned dragons with the strength of gods burning down cities for fun.

With how dangerous the world seemed to be becoming, getting lost in his own head seemed like a surefire way to get himself killed.

He forced himself out of his thoughts, and instead focused on the scenery. The further he got from Helgen, the more and more alien the world seemed to become. It was a strange thing, how drastically the world seemed to shift from one city to the next. Helgen was little more than a patch of ice and dirt, but only a few miles away was dense forestry.

It was almost comforting really. The thick mass of trees that surrounded the many logging facilities of Falkreath reminded Percy of Camp. It brought a sense of familiarity and comfort that he sorely needed at the moment. He tried to keep his mind occupied by focusing on the surrounding wilderness and wildlife. Through the trees, Percy could see a large doe leading her young fawn through the underbrush.

A pair of squirrels tussled with one another in a nearby tree, locked in combat over the best source of food in the area.

For some time, Percy kept up this routine, but eventually, the trees began to thin as the path climbed. He crested the next small hill, and the thick forestry around him opened up into an enormous valley.

Falkreath was far from an impressive city. Whereas Solitude might have been akin to New York or Los Angeles in Skyrim, Falkreath was far more of a Detroit. It was very much a blue-collar city, which wasn't a surprise given its heavy reliance on the lumber industry. But it also had the affectation of a city that had once been far more impressive. Given its proximity to the Bay and to Hammerfell, it had once seen bustling trade traffic. But time had not been kind, and as the lumber industry began to wane in favor of stone, the Merchants began to pack up and move. Leaving for locations like Whiterun, Solitude, and Windhelm. It didn't help that ages of battles fought at the mouth to Skyrim had left the city ravaged time and again.

The effect had been devastating, and now Falkreath's biggest claim to fame was its enormous graveyard, which was boasted to be the single largest above ground crypt in the country. Percy was willing to believe the boast though, given that the cemetery seemed to be nearly the size of Arlington, and nearly twice as packed.

It was a dreary town. Percy blamed it on the graveyard, or maybe there was just something in the water. For whatever reason, the locals all shared the same haunted, world-weary expression. The hardened faces of those who'd lost much and were now scraping at the bottom of the barrel just to survive.

Gods he hated this city. It was just depressing, and that was the last thing he needed at the moment. Even the gate guards were morose. Barely even acknowledging him as he passed by.

Percy still had a few hours to kill before the sun set, and he had coin burning a hole in his pocket and was in desperate need of equipment. Percy remembered one of the local blacksmiths was an Imperial loyalist, Lod, Percy thought he remembered the man's name was. He'd met the man once or twice, and he sold quality equipment. Not the best, but certainly better than what he had.

It took nearly an hour of wandering around the town, but eventually he stumbled upon the shop. It was an impressive workshop, just a block or so away from the Jarl's Palace. It was a single-story building, likely doubling as both store and home. Percy could see the forge on an attached porch at the back of the building. The sweet smell of melted iron, fire, and sodden earth wafted over Percy as he approached. It was a familiar smell. A comforting one, and for a moment, Percy was taken back to the forges of Camp Half-Blood. Dozens of boys and girls toiling away at the hot forges of Hephaestus's workshops.

He smiled.

A tall man was stooped low of the kiln, raking the coals and stocking the heat of the flames within. He turned as Percy approached, sweat dripping down his tufts of blonde hair and mingling his poorly maintained goatee.

"Can I help you?" He asked, wiping his hands off on the front of the black smock he was wearing.

"Need some supplies," said Percy, "Trying to make it to Solitude, but what I have on me isn't exactly…suitable."

Lod snorted, giving Percy's worn leathers a withering once over. "I would be far more comfortable if you burned those abominations and never tarnished those with the gift of sight with them ever again." He strode past Percy, gesturing for him to follow and led Percy into the store. It was a simple room. Racks of weapons lined the walls, and there were a few scattered pieces of armor on display on racks by the windows. Lod walked around the back of the large table near the back of the room, and leaned down on the table eyeing Percy carefully.

"So, what are you on the hunt for?"

"Armor for one," said Percy. "Nothing fancy. Steel preferably if you have it. Grieves, bracers, and boots as well. A steel sword, and I'd also like to take a look at what shields you have."

Lod let out a low whistle. "That's all doable, but it's going to be…costly. Even more if you need it custom fit."

"Cost isn't a problem." Percy had counted the coins he'd taken that morning before leaving. He managed to take quite the sizable sum, and that was before he even factored in the gems.

"But I don't need a custom job. I just need something that fits probably and will keep me from getting killed."

"Well," chuckled Lod, standing up, "That I can do. I'll be right back." He disappeared into a doorway behind the counter. He was gone for a while, allowing Percy time to peruse the man's work. His work was fine. The steel armor was well constructed and sturdy. He tested the balance of a couple blades and was pleased with how they felt in his hands.

Lod reappeared, a mass of different armor in his hands.

"Chest pieces first," he grunted, hefting the lot onto the table.

Night had fallen by the time Lod had finished with him. It had ultimately cost a majority of the actual coin Percy had procured, but it was worth it in his opinion. While the armor wasn't fit directly to him, it was a testament to Lod's skill that he had managed to find pieces that seemed to fit him perfectly. The boots, grieves, chest plate, and bracers were all made of sturdy steel. Tufts of fur were sewn into the lining to add comfort, as well as provide warmth in the frigid climate. The blade was of equally fine craftsmanship. The balance wasn't perfect, but the steel blade was still infinitely better than the rusting iron Percy had been using. He'd even managed to find a suitable shield, a circular shield made of wood and reinforced with steel that clung to a harness on his back.

Lod had tried to convince Percy to purchase a helm as well, but Percy had always hated wearing helmets. They disrupted his field of view, and made it nigh impossible to see out of the periphery. He'd been fine for years without a helmet, and he would be equally fine now.

With night having fully descended, Percy began meandering the now empty streets. He'd need a place to crash for the night. Preferably somewhere relatively safe. Luckily, there was a tavern just up the road from the Jarl's palace that served his purposes nicely. Close enough to the Jarl to ensure safety, without being overrun by guards.

It was a nice enough building. Delegated and well-worn with age like much of the rest of the town. The sign hanging from the door labelled the tavern as "Dead Man's Drink" and Percy could hear the sound of voices and song from even the street. Opening the door, he was greeted with the pleasant aroma of fresh food, and his stomach clenched and gurgled longingly at the smell. He hadn't eaten anything since Helgen, and he was beyond famished.

The tavern was nothing special. A single floored building with lines of wooden tables in the center of the room. There were enough spots at the table to fit roughly twenty, and only half of the seats seemed to be occupied. A bard was sat neatly in the corner, strumming on a strange instrument Percy didn't recognizing, and singing a song about some long-forgotten Nord hero.

A massive cauldron of stew was boiling in the hearth at the edge of the room. At the end of the room was a simple bar, behind which stood a tall, fair faced woman of about thirty or so. She had stringy blonde hair that fell like curtains around her shoulders, and was busy wiping down a set of glasses before eyeing Percy as he approached.

He sat down heavily on the wooden stool at the bar.

"Evening," he greeted. "Must be new." The woman grunted, "First time seeing your face around here. Traveler?"

"I suppose so, yeah," Percy said vaguely. "I'll have a tankard and the biggest bowl of whatever is in the cauldron. Smells incredible. And a room for the night as well, please."

She grunted and nodded, "Coin first."

Percy fought off the temptation to roll his eyes, and slammed some gold on the table.

In a practiced motion, she snagged the coins and smoothly plopped them in a pouch in her dress and dropped a brass key onto the table, nodding her head at a door to her left. She then reached under the table and grabbed a tankard from the shelf. She filled it with frothy drink from a keg and slid it to Percy before meandering over to the cauldron to fetch a bowl. Percy took a hefty pull of the frothy drink. It was a harsh taste, grainy and bitter but it was all the better for it.

The woman returned, sliding a large bowl of stew under his nose. "Bless you," he said meaningfully, before shoveling a mouthful of the stew into his mouth. It wasn't anything special, but his empty stomach and yearning tastebuds had never tasted anything so good.

"You eat like you haven't had a mean in years," chuckled the woman.

"Been a couple of days," Percy admitted around a mouthful of stew.

"Got a name stranger?" The woman asked, "Don't get too many new faces in town."

"Percy Jackson," he said, "You?"

"Valga Vinicia," she introduced.

"This your bar then?"

"It is," she nodded, "Been in my family for as long as I can remember,"

"It's comfortable," he complimented, "An…interesting name,"

"Bit of some off-color humor of my forbearers," she laughed, "Given that the cemetery keeps fitting to grow on us, the entire town has fallen to its graces these days."

"Fair enough," Percy chuckled, "What's up with that anyway? Don't know if I've ever seen a cemetery that large before."

"Aye, I don't doubt that," she nodded in understanding. "It's a simple story really, it's simply the graveyard for all those in Falkreath Hold. The Divine only knows how old it is. Believe it or not, Falkreath was once one of the most prosperous holds in all of Skyrim. But its wealth came at a cost. Many a battle has occurred here, and many more a life lost. As is tradition, when one of our own dies they are buried in the graveyard."

"Only natural that it would keep growing, then, I suppose," Percy murmured, more to himself than to Valga.

"So, Mr. Jackson, from where do you hail?" Percy hesitated for a moment.

"Cyrodiil, originally," he said, coming up with what he hoped would be a half-believable lie. "Got press-ganged into the Legion was shipped off here. Finally got my discharge papers and now I'm just wandering."

Valga nodded in understanding, "Aye. I've known many an unfortunate soul forced into service."

Percy eyed her curiously. "I thought that Falkreath was an Imperial city?"

She snorted, "Depends on who you're asking I suppose. Many in this city hold a grudge for what happened to Jarl Dengeir."

Percy raised a brow, prompting her to continue.

"Depends on who you ask I suppose," she pondered, "The official story, if you're willing to believe it, is that Jarl Dengeir was simply too old and he stepped down."

"From the way you talk, he doesn't see it that way," said Percy warily. Her expression hardened.

"Jarl Dengeir was loyal to the Stormcloak cause. Obviously, the Empire wasn't fond of having the Jarl sitting in logging capital of the Country under Stormcloak rule, so, at least as far as the stories go, some of the more…influential members of our community…convinced Jarl Dengeir to stand down. He capitulated and stepped down. Last anyone heard, he's supposedly serving the Stormcloaks now."

Percy frowned. He supposed it wasn't entirely surprising, given the way that Tulles seemed to be running things. But it still rankled him. Had the Empire always been like this? Had he been blind to what had been right in front of him the entire time? No…that couldn't be right. Sure, the high command at Helgen could be inept at times, but they wouldn't depose sitting nobility.

"Is there any proof to substantiate that?"

Valga made a noncommittal noise, "Not as such, but I trusted and loved Jarl Dengeir. If that's what he says happened, then that's what I believe."

Percy nodded, but refrained from saying anything. It seemed just a touch too much like rampant speculation for him.

"I'm surprised there isn't more open hostility," he said genuinely. Valga shrugged. "Life could be worse. For the most part, the Empire leaves us alone. Helps that Jarl Siddgeir is the nephew of Jarl Dengeir. I'd rather that someone proper is running the city than some Imperial." She shot Percy a glance, "No offense."

Percy snorted, but waved it off. He was about to respond, but was interrupted as the door to the tavern was thrown open. A man stumbled in. He was frail and wearing baggy traveling robes. His face was red, and he panted heavily.

"Helgen…Dragon…Gone…" The man wheezed.

"By the Nine Vernen, take a breath," A man nearest the runner said, "And what the hell are you babbling about now? Weren't you supposed to be with the others? I thought Burdald was sending a shipment to Whiterun."

"We…was.." Wheezed Vernen, taking a heavy seat at the wooden table. "But we when we got to Helgen…" He trailed off and shuddered. "Gone…it's all gone."

"The town?" Asked the man, and Vernen nodded shakily.

"Burned to the ground. The entire town is still burning."

Percy nearly snorted into his tankard. That was very much an exaggeration. Percy himself had put the flames out on the town. He stifled a sigh. He didn't want to be here for this. With Valga''s attention still focused on Vernen, Percy padded softly away from the bar. He was tired, and he was looking forward to an actual bed.

After all, he had a few long weeks ahead of him.

AN: This marks the end of what I've written so far! Thank you all for the tremendous support, I'm glad so many of you are enjoying this with me! This will be ack again before too long so don't worry! Thanks again to my boy IDK for being a walking goddamn encyclopedia of knowledge and helping me with his brilliant idea. He's the man and you should check out his stuff 'cause they're all bangers. As always, thanks to my boy Double for being the best Beta of all time. Hit up the link in my bio to join the Emerald Library where I hang out with some of the best authors out there. Thanks again for all the love and support, and I'll see you next week.

Love,

LilDB