Interlude: Disgruntled

"It's true." Betrid said, shrugging. "Of course it's true. What did you expect?"

Throngvor stared at her for a few seconds, just to make sure she was serious. "You must be mistaken. My brother was a true Nord, he—"

"Thonar Silver-Blood loved two things, darling. Money and power. Not his country, and certainly not me. I never had any illusions of that." Betrid took another swig out of the bottle in her hands. Throngvor couldn't tell what it was, or how she'd managed to get it when they were in a mercenary camp inside a silver mine inside a city-wide lockdown.

"And family." Throngvor corrected. "He cared for his family."

Betrid snorted, but then shrugged again. "Well, if you say so. He's dead now, so tell yourself whatever makes you feel better."

That made Throngvor mad. He bristled, and bit out "Do you feel nothing about your husband's death?"

"Yes. I'm furious." Betrid spat on the ground nearby. "I went from one of the richest women in the country to…this. Squatting in a Talos-damned cave. And all I've got is what little silver and gems I can carry to put my life back together after this is all over. Assuming the Thalmor don't gut me…" She pulled open her inner petticoat, revealing a selection of silver gemstone rings sewn into the lining.

"Still, it isn't all bad." She looked up at him and smiled. "I've at least got your lovely self protecting me. Thanks a lot for that, by the way. You certainly seem a lot more dependable than your brother was. More handsome, too—"

"Not interested." He turned and started walking away, ignoring her outraged scoff.

Verulus was leaning against the wall nearby, and pushed himself off once Throngvor approached. "Satisfied?" He asked.

"Don't know what you're so smug about." Throngvor huffed, pushing past him.

"I'm not trying to be smug. Just—"

"Yes, I know." They walked together through the assorted connecting caves. Throngvor ran a hand over his scalp, sighing. "So. My brother was a traitor to his country. Am I supposed to feel good about that?"

Verulus put a hand on his shoulder as they moved. "No. But you need to acknowledge it if we're moving forwards."

Throngvor looked across at him. Patted the hand twice, then brushed it off. "So, what? This doesn't mean we should accept that murdering whore's proposal. She didn't kill him to do the Silver-Bloods a favour, she killed him because we put her family in Cidnah Mine."

"Or maybe he was just in her way…" Verulus muttered. Throngvor gave him an inquisitive look, and he elaborated, "I'm no sympathiser to the Forsworn, you know that. At least the Thalmor share most of our pantheon. But this 'Hjarnagredda'…who in Arkay's name is she?"

"I don't know." Throngvor groused. "And that bothers me too. Me and Thonar did talk. Madanach, I knew about, of course I did. And I could have named four or five of his biggest allies in the mine, and any of the leaders in the hills that got particularly big for their boots. But Hjarnagredda just came out of nowhere. Not a peep of her until less than two months ago. Then over the last few weeks she runs rampant through the city, interrogates Thonar, kills more than a dozen Forsworn, vanishes, reappears in jail, vanishes again leaving a bloodbath behind and then reappears just in time to slaughter every major figure in the city. Including, from the whispers, her own grandfather."

"She's proven she's willing to kill Forsworn just as easily as everyone else." Verulus agreed. "That could mean that she's serious about being impartial, wanting to help everyone."

"Or it could mean she's completely damn crazy." Throngvor countered. "How do I trust a woman with no love for her own family? The only one she seems to care about is that other wench she was with. I mean, what does she want? To control the Reach? Or to see it all burn down? Is she an Imperial spy, a religious zealot, or just here out of guilt? Oh, and she's a werewolf, which we're all just brushing over here."

"All wonderful reasons to tell her to go to Oblivion." Verulus nodded. "Counterpoint: What do we do after we've made an enemy of her, too?"

"I could take her." Throngvor growled, rolling his shoulders.

"And after you put on four silver rings and punch her in the throat? What about the army she implied she was forming? We're still in an awful situation."

At this point, they'd reached Throngvor's room. He went and sat on his bed, exhausted, while Verulus hovered in the doorway.

"…Say she's definitely honest, and everything definitely goes as she plans." The priest said, carefully. "Would you even want it to? Forsworn living together with the rest of us in the streets?"

Throngvor let his head fall into his hands, and groaned.

"I don't know." He admitted. "Could I live with myself? Letting them all get off scot-free? On the other hand, if I have that chance and don't take it, everyone that dies continuing the fighting is on my head."

"All wars have to end eventually." Verulus said. "And its almost never when you wipe the enemy off the face of Nirn. Even the civil war Skyrim's in will have to end in some kind of treaty."

"The last war-ending treaty was the White-Gold Concordat." Throngvor smiled wryly. "Look at how that went."

"Then it's up to you to end this one properly." Verulus warned. "In a way that doesn't mean your children come to fight the same battles you fought, that your fathers and forefathers fought."

"Ugh."

The noise explained what Throngvor was feeling pretty damn thoroughly.

And these are the thoughts Ulfric Stormcloak has to grapple with every day. The issues Igmund had to solve. Maybe I didn't give the old bastard enough credit.

"…We could try taking her up on her other offer?" Verulus tried.

It took a second for Throngvor to realise what he meant.

"Where she said she'd do a quest for us to make us trust her more?" He laughed out loud. "I'm not a farmer who's livestock's being stolen, Verulus. She can't win favour with us that easily."

Verulus rolled his eyes. "Yes, but we don't just want her to hunt wolves, do we? We could get her to solve our, uh. Issue."

That, Throngvor understood immediately. He narrowed his eyes. "You're joking."

"Why? She's strong enough, we can't get out of the city to do it, and it would go a long way to convincing our people that she's…good? Helpful? Agreeable, let's say agreeable."

"Or she dies, and that's one less problem to deal with. Hm." Throngvor looked down. It…wasn't the worst idea. And if he was being honest, it was one he really wanted to work. Ever since that night in the Hall of the Dead…

"Alright." He said, standing. "I'll find out a way to get a message out to her. Let's throw the werewolf into the cannibal den."

Borgakh the Steel Heart leaned against a tree, and listened to the conversation as it unfolded.

"What, are you telling me you're afraid?"

"Don't be absurd. I'm as excited to put an axe into Solitude as anyone here. But as chief, I have to be cautious. The city is strong, ready for war."

"We are strong. Look at us! All five great Orc Strongholds of Skyrim, working together, led by Malacath's champion!"

"It is not the short fight I fear. It is afterwards. We destroy the capital, and then…what? The Nords surrender to us? The Empire surrenders to us? Or are we at war with the world again?"

"…Hm. Point. Larak has been vague on the plans for after the victory. I'm up for taking on the world, just like Orsinium did in the ancient times, but…what about the women? The kids?"

"And I've seen some of the Stormcloak armies on the march. I'm not sure we can face them."

"Even with our numbers?"

"Well, we could take one. But it was just one contingent…"

Borgakh took that moment to shrug herself off the tree, and walk over to them.

They were back in Mor Khazgur. Though, not as it was. Five strongholds of soldiers piling into one meant the encampment had expanded considerably. There was no way Solitude didn't know about this, but Borgakh was a little past caring. But despite the constant, overwhelming noise emanating from the majority of the camp, there was a small circle in the middle of relative quiet. Larak's longhouse and the tents immediately around it were home to the chiefs of the various strongholds (and, of course, Borgakh), and it was here that Borgakh walked in on the two other Orcs having their private talk.

Chief Mauhulakh from Narzulbur, and Yamarz from Largashbur. Both of them visibly straightened as she approached, each bringing up a fist across their chests in salute.

"Steel Heart." They both greeted, in unison. That was all she got called anymore. Larak was the only person since Dulurza (stop thinking about the traitor) who called her Borgakh anymore. Worse than that was how their gaze tended to linger on the hammer slung over her left shoulder, rather than her face. And to think I used to prompt people to look up at my eyes.

"About our discussion just now." Yamarz coughed. "We obviously didn't mean to question your orders."

"Of course not." Mauhulakh added. "I'm sure that with the mighty Volendrung on our side any obstacle will fall before us, only—"

"It's fine." She grunted, before their protests could get any less pathetic. "Is my father in his longhouse?" She hadn't been able to find Larak anywhere else.

They glanced at each other, and Yamarz nodded. "Aye. Only, he made it clear he wasn't to be disturbed—"

"Good for him." Borgakh walked through them, and they stumbled out of her way as she approached the longhouse.

Volendrung is all they care about. She thought, wrinkling her nose up. That's all that's motivating them. Religious zeal. It doesn't matter what they think of the plan, of the fact that we don't know what happens when its over, and I've done nothing to earn that trust besides kill a few giants.

Okay, that was an impressive feat. That entire time in the cave, she'd just been so furious, and the fact that she was singlehandedly butchering her way through monsters twice her size hadn't really registered. Still…They're not following father. They're not following me. They're following the hammer.

As she approached the longhouse, she found that she could once again hear voices from inside it. Only this time, they weren't so quiet that she needed to listen in at the door. Larak (and a mysterious voice she'd heard once before) were engaged in a full-on shouting match.

"So what, is it inconvenient now?" Larak boomed.

"As a matter of fact, yes!" The stranger replied, voice much higher and more nasal. "After your first assassination attempt failed, we were more than happy to cut our losses and our ties. But what has followed is utter madness!"

"Mor Khazgur does not move at your whim." Larak retorted. "It was not your will that we planned our first attack—"

"Was it not? Strange how our memories seem to differ there! But your tribe attacking the capital is one thing; drawing half the Orc populace of the nation into it is—"

"More than enough to tear Solitude to the ground. That's what you wanted, isn't it?"

"But you were never meant to tear it to the ground!"

"…What?"

All this happened as Borgakh was approaching the door. She briefly considered listening in again…and maybe it was the weapon on her back that made her snort with derision at the idea. I don't hide from my problems.

She shouldered the door open.

Larak, halfway through his next sentence, looked up in shock at her sudden appearance. But the real curiosity was the person stood next to him.

An Elf in black robes trimmed with gold, his hands held up in the air with purple magic glistening between them like she'd caught him halfway through a spell.

Borgakh's eyes narrowed.

"Thalmor." She declared. The Mer grimaced, then brought his hands back down, ceasing whatever he had just intended to cast.

"Well, well, well." He muttered. "If it isn't the woman of the hour."

"This is who you were talking to that night." Borgakh turned back to her father, giving him an unimpressed look. "Care to explain what this is?"

Larak's eyes narrowed as well, as he growled "Careful with your tone, daughter. This is our assurance that our attack will be successful. Or at least, it was…"

"Let's not throw around inappropriate labels like 'Thalmor' or 'assurance'." The blatantly-Thalmor huffed. "I am an agent who met with your chief to explain to him some of his options. Namely, that there are many forces at play in Skyrim, of which you are but one. If you were to bring down Solitude, the resulting chaos would likely prevent serious, organised repercussions."

"But we 'weren't supposed to'." Borgakh repeated the last thing she'd heard from him before entering. "What in Malacath's name does that mean?"

Despite his situation, the Elf still managed to sigh in annoyance. "I cannot believe I'm explaining myself to you creatures…if you were to remove Solitude from the Empire's control, it would not only be destroying their capital, but also their main connection to Cyrodiil. The Stormcloaks may win outright mere months later. We're trying to prevent the quick Imperial victory that Tullius is making increasingly likely, and hoped that if you successfully assassinated Torryg's wench, more forces would be withdrawn from the warfront to protect the capital—"

"You wanted us to kill the Jarl and then be destroyed." Larak summarised.

The Thalmor's mouth formed a thin line. "I am but an agent of a higher purpose. I never lied to you, it was your own overconfidence that led you to believe—"

"Save it." Borgakh said, moving between them and putting one hand on the haft of Volendrung. "What was doesn't matter. What about now? Are you going to get in our way?"

The Thalmor's jaw worked. "In light of…certain information that has come to our attention, about the parties that will be present in Solitude during the event, along with the ever-changing political landscape—"

"Get to the point." Borgakh grunted.

"—we are willing to allow this assault to take place." He finished. "Preparations are in place for most of the possible outcomes. But I do warn you. It would be wise if your prominence in Skyrim is…short-lived. There are too many variables at play, and an independent nation in Tamriel would be poorly received. Go bother Hammerfell or High Rock, if you must. But Skyrim is too pivotal at present for you to be any more than a nuisance. Measures would have to be taken against you."

Larak tilted his head. "Was that a threat?"

The Elf paused for a second. Then said "…Yeah."

His arms flicked up into the air, and the purple balls of magic in his palms burst. He vanished before their eyes. Borgakh was barely able to track a flickering outline move past them and out the door to the longhouse.

"…So these are your bedfellows now." Borgakh uttered, turning back to her father. "And here I thought it was just Dulurza who slept with our enemies."

"I have not betrayed my people, and you would do well not to make such accusations." Larak retorted, tense. "This changes nothing. Our goal remains the same. You will lead our forces in their attack on Solitude, and we will bring the Men to their knees."

"And then?" Borgakh prompted. He was silent, and she repeated "What then, father?"

Larak said nothing. Of course he did. He'd never trusted her before.

Borgakh scoffed, turned, and walked out into the night.

Vendil tried to suppress his flinch when an opened envelope was slapped down in front of him, interrupting his reverie.

"News." Mirri said, waving her hand in front of his face. "You want to wake up and hear it?"

"Hear it implies you'll tell it to me." Vendil replied, leaning back in his chair and sighing. "Please do so, and don't subject me to Me'Daro's cat-scratch."

"Her handwriting isn't that bad."

"But it is in Khajiiti. Hit me."

Mirri did hit him, idly slugging his shoulder before pulling up a chair and sitting across from him.

Her expression darkened. "The Dark Brotherhood weren't destroyed."

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He held out a hand and snapped his fingers, and she sighed, tossing over a pouch of coins.

"Of course they weren't." He said, pocketing the money. "The Dark Brotherhood are some of the premier assassins on the face of the planet. Sithis is formidable."

Mirri raised an eyebrow. "Oh yeah? Then why aren't we working for him?"

"Do not gender the primordial void. And that's exactly why: Sithis does not understand the hearts of Men and Mer as our lady does."

"And if you don't understand someone's heart, how can you remove it?" She gave him a sly smile. He waited, not responding, until she groaned. "Oh, come on, that was a good one. Since when was it me that had to make the witty remarks?"

"Please don't force yourself."

"Vendil, you've been brooding for months." Mirri stressed. "Isn't it time you stopped moping?"

He glared, feeling a flicker of annoyance. "I think I'm entitled a little more than a few months, Mirri."

"Everyone loses people, in all sorts of ways. Or have you forgotten what we've both lost?" Her red eyes stared into his own, and her hand moved to rest on his, grey on grey. "You've moved past worse than this. And we all need to stay focused."

"I'll move on when I have my answers." He looked down. "Remove the arm."

"Do I have to, though?" She teased, grinning again.

Her attraction was as petty as it was obvious (and unappreciated). "It doesn't matter if the Brotherhood lives." He continued, bypassing the topic entirely. "It matters if they're still a problem. Are they?"

Mirri pouted, and took her arm back. "Me'Daro doesn't think so. There's only a few left, all licking their wounds. Though apparently, they have found a 'Listener'. Know what that means? Me'Daro seems to think it's a big deal, offered to try and deal with them."

Vendil did know. He ran his fingers over the pommels of his daggers, thinking. Then shook his head. "No. Even if they can start taking up contracts again, they're still in no position to cause us any problems. Let's not poke the hornet's nest unless we truly have to."

"And if they do?"

"Then it won't be us who have to poke them." He stood. "Just have Me'Daro feed their location to whoever brought them low the first time. We have more serious issues."

"To Solitude, then?" Mirri confirmed.

Vendil nodded. "To Solitude."

"It's her."

Ondolemar sighed, turning away from the view of the city offered by Calcelmo's library. How the Nords (or even the ancient Dwemer) could tolerate living underground for such extended periods, he had no idea. But he certainly wasn't making the old Jarl's quarters his own. The wizard's observatory suited him far better.

He completed his turn to see an old Man in a ratty black cloak, leaning against the stone of the cliffside.

"How did you get up here, wretch?" The Thalmor Justiciar asked, raising an unimpressed eyebrow. I told the guards to keep their eye on him, how does he keep doing this…

"For those who have the faith, the patience, and the will, a path always reveals itself in time." The old man replied, unhelpfully.

Ondolemar scoffed. Heretic. When all is said and done, you will die, and you are a fool if you have not realised it.

But for now, the wretch was oh so very useful. He knew things.

"Enough games." He said. "What do you mean 'her'?"

"You know what I mean." The Man shrugged himself off the wall and hobbled over to stand next to Ondolemar, looking out at the city. "The disruption. It was her."

Ondolemar sighed. "Do save your delusions. There were the sounds of shouting in the street at night, and when our men arrived to investigate they found nothing but lingering magical traces. Why would that imply a werewolf terrorist has returned to the city?"

"It wouldn't, alone." The wretch turned, and offered Ondolemar a grin full of yellow teeth. "But I have heard things, from my eyes and ears across the hold. Whispers that Throngvor and Faleen were both separately in secret meetings last night. That a new Queen has come to unite the Forsworn."

That got Ondolemar's attention. He narrowed his eyes, demanding "Do you have proof of this?"

"No, but by the time I get it you'll already be dead." Said the man, nonchalantly. "You're up against someone with agency now. I'm half surprised she didn't break into Understone, murder you, and work the rest out from there."

Ondolemar wrinkled his nose up. "Your obsession with her is showing. I have agency—"

"No you don't." The man's voice was dripping with derision. He made a hacking noise and then spat over the edge of the balcony, before continuing "Poor little Thalmor lapdog, waiting patiently for orders to come down from above so you can follow them. Like Igmund, like Madanach, sitting around and trying to slowly push their agenda forward rather than taking any decisive action."

He wiped his mouth on one sleeve. "She's made of sterner stuff. Loses contact with her family and she singlehandedly plots the assassination of a Jarl. What happened when you lost contact with your embassy, Justiciar? I bet you were in such a tizzy…"

Ondolemar growled. In a moment, a bound sword conjured itself in his hand and he swept the weapon up to the Man's neck.

"Watch your tongue, wretch," he warned, "or you will lose it along with your limb."

The wretch grinned. The wind whipped up a little, buffeting his cloak and briefly revealing the stump at the base of his left arm.

"Go ahead, if it pleases you." He said, chuckling. "I only need one arm to write, and I only need to write to change the world. But you won't kill me. You need a wolf to catch a wolf. Even if its metaphorical in my case, and literal in hers."

"And why should I trust that?" Ondolemar wondered, tilting his head. "You boast often, wretch, but your track record isn't nearly so impressive. The last time you went for this woman, she crippled you. What makes you think you could succeed again?"

The Man's expression soured somewhat. "I underestimated her." He admitted. "Our previous meetings had led me to doubt her resolve. And how could I have predicted that a disciple of Molag Bal would also bear the curse of Hircine? But I will make no such mistakes again." He leaned forwards, actively pushing against Ondolemar's flickering purple blade. "I have agents in the Forsworn who would see her dead. Agents in the guard and with the Silver-Bloods who want her dead. And I know many who want her dead anyways, that would only require the correct push to send after her throat."

"You would do well to remember that the Thalmor do not care for the life of one Forsworn." Ondolemar warned him. "Why should we enable your grudge?"

"Because she's going to act fast." The wretch replied, calmly. "Because as I said, she has agency. Whatever Hjarnagredda's plans are, they involve every single faction in this hold. If those plans go through, you'll be dead within a week. And when I bring those plans crashing down, it will provide you with ample opportunity to destroy everyone interfering in your mission." His eyes blazed with anger. "And I will bring them down. Be certain of that, Justiciar."

"Hm." Ondolemar felt one of his lips quirk upwards. "An arm for an arm, is it?"

"Oh, nothing so petty." The wretch grinned, viciously. "She took my arm. So I will rip all her aspirations from her, tear apart everything she loves in front of her eyes, and then kill her. That is how Logrolf the Willful organises his revenge."

"Permission to speak freely?"

"Honestly? No."

"Okay I'm saying it anyway. This is a really stupid idea."

Commander Maro sighed and leaned over the table, using the sound logic that if General Tullius couldn't see him, he couldn't judge him for Octavia's insubordination.

Four individuals stood around Castle Dour's map room. Tullius, Maro, and Octavia and Julius Meteuse.

"Calling the Emperor's decisions stupid is not your prerogative, agent." Maro warned Octavia, giving her a stern look.

Julius raised a finger. "Yes, but wouldn't that be your job? As his head of security?"

One Meteuse sibling was more than enough for Maro. Two of them in the same room was beyond overwhelming. Julius was unfalteringly polite, and often quiet. But whenever he spoke, he had this irksome trait of taking control of the entire conversation, and making it sound incredibly petty to interrupt him.

"I have done so." Maro admitted, leaning back again.

"So just to be sure," Octavia spoke up again, "you did explain to him the utter idiocy of travelling to a nation that is in open uprising for a wedding?"

"Of course I did." Maro rolled his eyes. "But at the end of the day I do have to follow his orders. He believes the opportunity for peace is worth throwing his full support behind."

"This isn't a peace meeting." Tullius pointed out. "A trade executive is marrying a mead peddler."

"A man from a traditional Nord family is marrying the Emperor's cousin." Julius corrected. "That means something. People from all across the nation are coming. Ulfric Stormcloak was given an invitation, not that I expect him to accept it. This could be the biggest step towards a ceasefire since the war started."

"Capturing Ulfric was the bigger, had the dragon not interfered." Tullius glared across at Julius. "He would have been dead immediately without Elenwen demanding an official execution."

"So obeying Imperial law for captured prisoners is a bad thing?" Julius asked, deadpan.

"Oh, I'm sure Imperial law was the first thing on her mind…" The general muttered.

Julius glanced between them all and sighed. "I get it. Nobody likes the Thalmor, and if you're feeling particularly paranoid—"

"We are." Chorused Tullius and Maro.

"—then you could be concerned that they'd want the wedding to go wrong so the turmoil here lasts longer." Julius smiled, slyly. "But while I did report the details of the wedding to Elenwen, I doubt she's given much thought to the implications. Her attention's occupied with the recent break-in into her embassy."

"Ah." Octavia smiled as well. "You give her a Xander-style report?"

"Wrote a note with abstract language and delivered it to her office in a pile of other notes when she was just leaving? Yes." Julius glanced at Maro. "I'm an ambassador to the Thalmor, not a lapdog for them. Mark my words, they won't be interfering with the wedding."

Hmph. Good man. Maro gave Julius a small nod.

"Even so, we won't be able to allocate a proper level of protection to his eminence." Tullius warned. "We're spread thin as it is. If the Stormcloaks get wind of his arrival—"

"They shouldn't, because the only people that know are you two, and those of the Penitus Oculatus." Maro replied. "The Katariah has already set sail, and she's one of the fastest ships in the navy. The hope is that it will take Ulfric at least a few more days to find out, and that won't give him enough time to muster his forces for an assault."

"He wouldn't need an assault." Octavia groused. "Emperor Titus Mede, Vittoria Vicci, Elisif the Fair, General Tullius and a dozen more important figures will all be in the same room. You could spend a hundred gold on a fireball scroll and make fifty thousand from the explosion."

"I'm not attending the ruddy thing…" Tullius grumbled.

Julius shook his head. "Ulfric wouldn't have Mede assassinated. He respects the man for his service in the war, if not for his decision to end it." He then nodded at his younger sibling, "And you wiped out the Dark Brotherhood. Who would he hire?"

"There's more than one group of assassins in Tamriel, Julius." Octavia countered. "The ceremony has dedicated guests but the celebration afterwards is open to the public. All it would take is one man with a knife and nothing to lose—"

"We'd have guards within arms reach of everyone important at all times." Maro pointed out.

"Not to mention the other reason the Emperor shouldn't be anywhere near here." Octavia raised an eyebrow. "Quick check, what happens if a dragon attacks?"

Maro almost found it funny. Scant months ago, that would have been a joke. Now it was a valid concern.

"Well, you've read our brother's dossier on them, haven't you?" Julius directed the question at Tullius. "And at least three of the people who killed the last one will be there, if I'm counting right."

"Indeed, and I'm working with Elisif to put better protections in place. You're not attending?" Tullius checked.

"I can't, I'm being called back to Summerset." Julius didn't look too happy about it. "I'd rather remain in Skyrim, where everything important is happening, but duty calls. I wish you all the best of luck, but that's all I can do."

"Please just keep the emperor on the boat and let me attend disguised as him?" Octavia offered.

Heh. I'm going to have to tell her about Titus' body double before he arrives. Maro held up a hand. "That's the kind of option we're going to have to consider. We're not here to throw around complaints, we're here to come up with solutions." He leaned on the table, looking them in the eyes.

"The Emperor is coming to Skyrim. He is going to be seen at the wedding. It's up to us to consider the risks, prepare all appropriate safeguards, and keep him and the lovely couple alive. So? Shall we start planning?"

Mirabelle Ervine pulled her robes tighter around herself, calling "Have you tested if this works?"

"It's the Archmage's idea, isn't it?" Colette called back, the snowstorm around them making her words hard to discern. "Why wouldn't it work?"

Mirabelle grimaced, and decided not to answer. She was stood in the courtyard, watching the restoration mage fiddle with a modified version of the light-fountains in the garden section.

It was a good idea. After Xander had offhandedly mentioned using the College's clever little light sources as heat sources (and promptly made everyone feel very stupid), Colette and Faralda had started working together to make it a reality. The halls were now a lot homelier and a lot warmer, much to Mirabelle's relief. This latest invention of theirs (also posed by Xander when he'd heard the good news) was designed to keep a certain volume of outside space at a certain temperature. If successful, this could allow them to start growing a variety of alchemical ingredients that would usually die in Skyrim's…unique conditions.

"Just be careful it doesn't set the garden on fire." Mirabelle warned, turning away…only to see an odd pair walking towards them across the bridge.

Faralda's presence was expected. It was often her responsibility (as dictated by a heap of inter-staff bribes, debts and favours) to guard the bridge to Winterhold. The man walking alongside her was…wow.

'Wow' could mean a lot of things, but in this case it was Mirabelle responding to his sheer presence. He was a Nord. Tall, rugged, blond and bearded, clad in mismatched armour of a variety of metals with a shield on one arm and a sword on his hip. Most of those things pricked Mirabelle's senses as enchanted, which in itself would be enough to mark this man as someone important. But what really struck her was the sheer intensity of his expression. His eyes locked onto hers the moment she started looking at him and didn't leave them once.

"Welcome to the College of Winterhold." She said, mostly automatically. "Faralda, who is…"

"I'm the Dragonborn." The man said. No boasting, no beating around the bush.

Mirabelle almost snorted. "You're joking."

Faralda tried to cut in with "Actually—" but the man had already looked up to the sky and breathed in.

"Lok Vah Koor!" He Shouted. Shouted. A blast of force almost made Mirabelle stumble, and had Colette looking up from the garden in shock.

Mirabelle didn't recognise the words. She looked up to see what the Shout had done…and gaped, as the winds began to slow and the clouds above began to clear.

She looked back down at the Dragonborn, as a bright midday sun began to fall on her face.

"Satisifed?" He asked.

"I suppose so." Mirabelle replied, trying to regain her composure. A good few students and other staff members had started peeking out of the halls to see what all the fuss was about, and she coughed. Guess we're not being subtle about this, then. "Again, welcome. Is there anything we can do to help you, Dragonborn?"

"I'm here looking for Alexander Meteuse." The Nord stated, prompting a round of muttering from the onlookers. "We briefly adventured together and he said he was available if I ever needed his help again. Is he here?"

So that's where he vanished off to after the party? Mirabelle tried not to sigh. For goodness sake, Xander, how do you find these people? The rumours are going to be completely incorrigible after this…

"I'm sorry, but the Archmage isn't here." She said. "He left a day ago on personal business. He expects to return within a few days, if you're willing to wait?"

The Dragonborn grunted, visibly annoyed. "Every day I waste is another day closer to the death of us all. Can you tell me where he went so I can meet him halfway?"

She couldn't, because she had no idea. But she wasn't keen to admit that, at least here with over a dozen people watching.

"Perhaps we could help you?" She offered. "The College is a vast repository of both knowledge and magical skill. We may not be able to join you on an adventure, but if it was something else you needed?"

Why do I get the feeling he doesn't just want a weapon enchanted…

The Dragonborn looked down. Looked back up. "Alright. I'm looking for an Elder Scroll. Do you have one?"

…Damn it, Xander.

The world moves.

DB is still plowing through the main quest with remarkable focus, with the rest of Skyrim struggling to keep up. Markarth is still a powder keg about to go off, and Logrolf is not dead. Of course he's not dead. What, I wasn't gonna do him dirty like that, I need him!

Solitude is obviously the hot spot. With the Orcs on the attack, Elisif getting her act together, a wedding in the works and an Emperor on the way, Octavia was right about the long list of named characters converging on the location.

Particularly knowledgeable readers may recognise the new Dunmer having a chat in one of the scenes above. 'Me'Daro' is another OC, but those two are from the game. Expect to see more of them going forwards, and place your bets as to where they might appear...

Next Time: Someone talks about returning a weapon, someone talks about retrieving a weapon, and someone talks about stealing a weapon.