Divakiin!

by Speaker-to-Customers

A disillusioned WWE Diva (OC) makes an unwise wish and finds herself transported to a world where the fights are unscripted, to the death, and there's nowhere to shower afterwards. Hopefully a new spin on an old concept.

4. Wrestlemania?

Four: Wrestlemania?

Rhiannon shook her head. The guard had told her a lot of things, very little of which she'd understood, and now she was thoroughly confused. "I don't understand any of this," she said. "You're telling me I have the blood of a dragon? What, because my dad fought under the name of Gareth 'the Dragon' Morgan, except when he was doing a stint with the WCW, and I was Rhiannon the Dragon in NXT until they simplified it when I moved up to the main roster? That was just because the Red Dragon is the national emblem of Wales."

"Well, I didn't understand any of that," said the guard, "so we're even."

"I don't even know who Tiber Septim is," Rhiannon continued.

"What?" This guard wasn't wearing a full-face helmet and Rhiannon could see his eyebrows shooting up. "You don't know about Tiber Septim? The founder of the Empire?"

"Well, that would explain why the money is called Septims," Rhiannon said. "I'm a stranger in this w… country. Forget I said that. Is a 'Dragonborn' some sort of… mystical warrior?"

"The Dragonborn can kill a dragon and steal its power," said a different guard, "and we just saw you do that. There's an easy way to prove it. If you really are Dragonborn, like out of the old tales, you ought to be able to Shout. Can you? Have you tried?"

Rhiannon remembered the draugr in the last chamber of the barrow, and the way it had knocked down both her and Delphine with the power of its voice, and she remembered the word that had appeared in glowing letters on the chamber's wall. And what Delphine had told her afterwards. Suddenly she knew what to do.

"FUS!" she Shouted. A wave of energy burst from her mouth and slammed into the guards. They went stumbling back, one of them tripping and falling on his backside, and Rhiannon put her hand to her mouth.

"Sorry!" she gasped. "Are you all right? I hope I haven't hurt any of you."

"That was Shouting, what you just did," said the guard who had fallen over. He got to his feet and brushed himself down. "That proves it. You really are Dragonborn."

"Only the Dragonborn can Shout without being trained by the Greybeards," another added. "No wonder you could slay the dragon."

"I didn't slay the dragon," Rhiannon protested. "We all did it together."

"You flew through the air and descended upon it like a thunderbolt," said the guard. "You struck the killing blow."

Rhiannon honestly had no idea who had been the one to deliver the finishing strike. It might have been her but it might equally well have been Jenassa, or Irileth, or one of the guards. She suspected the dragon had succumbed to the cumulative effect of multiple wounds and to give any one person the credit would be inaccurate. "I didn't fly," she pointed out for the third time. "I just jumped."

"Well, I don't know about this Dragonborn business," Irileth said, "and I don't know whose blade brought the dragon to its final end, but I know one thing. Here is a dead dragon. And a warrior who can, at the very least, play a major part in slaying one is someone I want on our side."

"I am," Rhiannon assured her. At least as long as Irileth wasn't talking about the civil war; Rhiannon still had no firm idea about the rights and wrongs of each side and really hoped that she could stay out of it.

"Good," said Irileth. "I had better get back to report to the Jarl. This affair is too… involved for me to delegate the task to a subordinate. Balthmar, you're in charge in my absence. Prepare the bodies of the fallen for transport to Whiterun, for burial, and see what you can salvage from the tower. You two, come with me."

Jenassa gave Irileth a look that said, as plainly as if she had said it out loud, 'I don't take orders from you.' Instead she turned to Rhiannon. "My patron, we should gather up the scales that have fallen from the dragon," she suggested. "It may be possible to fashion armor from them, or perhaps a shield, and if not then I am sure they would sell for a good price. And none have more right to them than you."

"Us," said Rhiannon. She looked at Irileth. "Is it all right if we take a few minutes to do that?"

"Very well," Irileth said, "but don't be too long about it."

"Dragonborn," one of the guards addressed Rhiannon, "what did you shout as you attacked the dragon? It sounded like the war-cries of the Witchmen of the Reach. You're not… one of the Forsworn, are you?"

"The what?" Rhiannon had no idea who the Forsworn were but 'Witchmen' didn't sound good. She realized that she'd been slipping into Welsh more and more, the longer she spent here, and she resolved to stick to English as much as possible in future. She was attracting too much attention as it was and it might be best not to stand out too much, while she was finding her feet in this world, at least until she'd learned the difference between acceptable self-promotion and making yourself a target. "I don't even know what you're talking about."

"Don't be stupid, Asgarne," said another guard. "She's the Dragonborn. How could she be one of those savages?"

"I suppose not," Asgarne agreed. The guards began to talk among themselves until Irileth broke up their discussion and allocated them tasks.

Rhiannon joined Jenassa at the dragon skeleton. She thought of retrieving the dragon's skull, to be a match for the one mounted above the Jarl's throne, but it crumbled under the pressure of her fingers as she examined it. Whatever had caused the dragon's flesh to burn away, as the stream of energy had left the corpse and entered Rhiannon, seemed to have had a corrosive effect on the skeleton and left it with hardly more structural integrity than a meringue. The few scales that had come loose before then, however, were intact and seemed to be as hard as steel. She recovered two, and two halves of a scale that must have been the one shattered by her axe, and a single loose bone that was still solid and heavy.

"A strange transfiguration," Jenassa remarked. "Had it been like this when we fought it we could have crushed it with ease."

"Have you two finished yet?" Irileth demanded. "We have delayed long enough."

"I think we've got everything," Rhiannon answered. "I'm ready to go." She followed Irileth, with Jenassa at her heels, as the Housecarl strode off toward Whiterun.

The rain had stopped, by this time, and it would have been quite a pleasant walk if Rhiannon hadn't been ravenously hungry. She doubted if Irileth would allow her to stop off at the Drunken Huntsman for her promised meal. Oh, well, maybe the Jarl would feed her again.

And then there was a tremendous noise and the world shook.

Or seemed to, anyway, although as Rhiannon recovered her footing she realized that none of the nearby drystone walls and farm buildings appeared to have suffered any damage whatsoever. Only the people seemed to be affected. Then the thunderous sound became words.

"DO…VAH…KIIN!"

And then all was calm again. In the nearest field a ploughman took his hands away from his ears and stood, open-mouthed, looking around in all directions. The plough-horse plodded on, unperturbed, until the unguided plough slewed and tipped over onto its side. Shaggy cows, looking to Rhiannon very much like Scottish Highland cattle, continued to graze placidly.

Rhiannon bit back a Welsh exclamation. Perhaps she needn't have bothered to suppress it as both Irileth and Jenassa exclaimed, simultaneously, "B'vek!" Rhiannon guessed that this was the Dunmer version of 'Fuck!' or something similar. Both of the Dunmer women put hands to their swords and looked around.

"The… dragon said that, just before it died," Rhiannon said.

"It did? I could not distinguish the words within its roars," said Irileth. "Was that sound, then, another dragon?"

"If so, then we shall kill it too," said Jenassa.

"If it bleeds, we can kill it," Rhiannon quoted.

"Well spoken, sera," said Irileth, "but I do not see any other dragon and there has been no further cry. We must press on. The Jarl awaits our return and our report."

They continued on and reached the gates of the city. The guards there were engaged in an argument with the first non-white humans Rhiannon had seen in this world; dark-skinned men, in robes and headgear that bore a slight resemblance to the Tuareg headdress or to a hijab, who wore scimitars at their belts. They were being refused entry to the city. As Rhiannon herself had been denied entry, the day before, she didn't bother speculating about the reason. The gates were opened for Irileth without hesitation, of course, and Rhiannon and Jenassa followed her through and on into the city.

Irileth strode on at a rapid pace, her eyes fixed firmly ahead, and there was no opportunity for conversation. They passed by the Drunken Huntsman with Rhiannon only able to give a wistful glance at the place that held the promise of a hot meal. They walked on past houses, a large building from which emanated the smell of baking bread, a pottery, a carpenter's shop, through the market and past the shops that surrounded it, and up the steps to the next level of the city.

The preacher was still ranting in front of the statue of the warrior. 'A Manic Street Preacher,' Rhiannon thought, bringing a smile to her lips, and as they climbed the next set of steps she hummed If You Tolerate This Your Children Will Be Next under her breath.

"Good, you're finally here," the Jarl's steward greeted them, as they entered the hall of Dragonsreach and approached the dais on which the throne stood. "The Jarl's been waiting for you."

Irileth treated this statement of the obvious with the contempt it deserved and marched past Proventus without speaking. Rhiannon and Jenassa accompanied her and, behind them, Proventus shrugged and followed.

The Jarl was talking with a tall and powerfully-built warrior, whose scale armor had a pair of goat's horns sticking out from its pauldron, but he broke off as they approached.

"Irileth," Jarl Balgruuf said. "The look-outs report that they can no longer see the dragon. Did you kill it?"

"We did, my lord," the Housecarl replied. "The watchtower was destroyed but we killed the dragon."

"Well done, Irileth. I knew I could count on you," said the Jarl. His gaze moved to Rhiannon and Jenassa. "And was… Rhiannon… a help to you? And I see the mercenary who resides at the Drunken Huntsman. Presumably she played a part or you would not have brought her."

"My cousin's daughter was recruited by Rhiannon to aid us," Irileth said. Rhiannon realized that when Jenassa had referred to Irileth as her aunt she had been simplifying 'first cousin once removed'. "Indeed she played a part. She may have saved my life and, also, she wounded the dragon severely. And Rhiannon… without her I doubt that we could have slain the dragon. She leapt upon its back and smote it most mightily. Her bravery gave the rest of us the chance to attack. The greater part of the credit for the dragon's fall must go to her."

"Impressive," said the Jarl. "My thought that the survivor of Helgen would have something to contribute was correct. Rhiannon, I have instructed Avenicci that you are permitted to purchase property in the city. I shall think further upon how else to reward you. And you, mercenary, shall receive a suitable reward also."

"My Jarl, there is more," Irileth said. "When the dragon died… something happened. It was a little like the effect of a Soul Trap spell but not the same. A kind of… energy left the dragon and went into Rhiannon. My lord… the guards declared that she was Dragonborn. They called upon her to Shout and she did. It was like the reports we had of the slaying of King Torygg by Ulfric Stormcloak. Her voice drove them back and knocked one to the ground. I have never seen anything like it."

"Dragonborn," Balgruuf said, almost reverently. "So it is true. The Greybeards really were summoning a Dragonborn."

"The… Greybeards?" Rhiannon echoed.

"Masters of the Way of the Voice," Balgruuf explained. "They live in seclusion high on the slopes of the Throat of the World."

"And they… summoned me?"

"Didn't you hear the thundering sound as you returned to Whiterun?" the warrior with the horny armor put in. Rhiannon had noticed him before, when she'd eaten in the hall the previous day, but they hadn't spoken and really only the odd armor had caught her eye. "That was the voice of the Greybeards, summoning you to High Hrothgar. This hasn't happened in… centuries, at least. Not since Tiber Septim himself was summoned when he was still Talos of Atmora."

"Hrongar, calm yourself," Proventus Avenicci said. "What does any of that Nord nonsense have to do with our friend here? Capable a warrior as she may be, surely 'Dragonborn' was merely one of the titles of the Septim line of emperors."

"Nord nonsense?" the big man, Hrongar, spluttered. "Why you puffed-up, ignorant… these are our sacred traditions that go back to the founding of the First Empire."

"Hrongar, don't be so hard on Avenicci," Balgruuf said. "He's an Imperial. He doesn't know our customs and our history."

"I meant no disrespect," Avenicci back-pedaled. "It's just… what do these Greybeards want with her?" Rhiannon decided that Proventus Avenicci fell into the classification of 'weasel'.

"That's the Greybeards' business, not ours," said the Jarl.

"Did I hear right?" Farengar Fire-Beard called, approaching at a fast walk. "The dragon is dead? And this girl is the Dragonborn? How exciting! I must talk with her."

"Later, Farengar," the Jarl said. He turned back to Rhiannon. "Whatever happened when you killed that dragon, it revealed something in you, and the Greybeards heard it. If they think you're Dragonborn, who are we to argue? You'd better get up to High Hrothgar immediately."

"Immediately?" Rhiannon managed to suppress a groan. "Where is High Hrothgar?"

"You don't know? It is atop the Throat of the World, the great mountain that you can see to the south-east. The base of the mountain is not that far from here, you could walk it in half a day, but there is no route up from this side. You need to go to Ivarstead, at the far side of the mountain, and climb the Seven Thousand Steps. I envy you, you know. I made that pilgrimage once. High Hrothgar is a peaceful place. Very… disconnected from the troubles of this world. I wonder if the Greybeards even notice what is going on down here. They haven't seemed to before. No matter. Go to High Hrothgar. Learn what the Greybeards can teach you."

Rhiannon waited for the Jarl's rambling to end and then went back to the point that mattered. "So, how do I get to… Ivarstead? How far is it?"

The Jarl pursed his lips. "You will need to go around the mountain. The roads are… not as safe as they were, before this war started. I would have said that the best route was the southern one, by way of Helgen, stopping there overnight and then setting off at dawn the next morning. A full day of brisk walking would have brought you to Ivarstead not too long after nightfall. But if Helgen has been destroyed… you would have to camp in the ruins, or else make camp somewhere on the trail. The northern route is longer. Much longer, if you stay on the roads, and the direct path is hard to follow and more perilous. The southern route, by way of Helgen and the road that leads past Haemar's Shame, may be the best after all."

This time Rhiannon wasn't quite able to suppress her groan. "I can't just set off on a journey like that," she protested. At least a day and a half of hard walking, and then climbing seven thousand steps – and she doubted that having been to Glastonbury a couple of times really qualified her for camping out in the wilderness.

"There is no refusing the summons of the Greybeards, girl," Hrongar said, sternly.

"I don't think that's what she meant, brother," said the Jarl. "It had slipped my mind that she lost all her possessions at Helgen. No supplies, nothing with which to make camp, we cannot expect her to set off into the wilderness with just what she has on her as she stands before us."

"That's it exactly," Rhiannon said.

"Well, the Greybeards cannot rightfully complain if you take a day or two to prepare yourself before you set out," Balgruuf said.

"And she can find time to tell me all about the dragon," Farengar added.

The Jarl laughed. "Patience, Farengar," he said. "I have not forgotten that I charged you with researching dragons. You will get your chance to talk to those who faced it soon enough. It is, perhaps, less urgent now that the dragon is dead."

Farengar's face fell. "But… there might be more dragons," he said, sounding almost hopeful.

"There are," Rhiannon confirmed. "The dragon at Helgen wasn't the one we just killed. The Helgen dragon was bigger. Much bigger."

0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0

"Fascinating," Farengar said. "The dragon's skeletal integrity must be, in some way, dependent upon the presence of its vital essence."

"Presumably," said Rhiannon, who was by this time so hungry that she was starting to wonder if Farengar would fit between two slices of bread, and so thirsty that she might even have accepted a cup of tea made by an American. "I picked up an intact bone before the skeleton turned into a Cadbury's Crunchie without the chocolate coating."

"A what?"

"Uh, a brittle and crumbly delicacy of my people," said Rhiannon, hoping that she wasn't actually drooling. "So, what will you give me for the dragon bone?"

"Two hundred septims," Farengar offered.

Rhiannon had no idea whatsoever if this was a fair price, or if she could get more elsewhere, but she thought she might as well try to haggle. Time to see if watching Bargain Hunt, Pawn Stars, and American Pickers had given her any ranks in the relevant skill. "Three hundred," she counter-proposed.

"Two hundred and twenty," Farengar raised his offer.

"I acquired a dragon bone too, my patron," Jenassa said. "Do you wish to sell it also?"

"Five hundred… and fifty… for the two," Rhiannon suggested.

Farengar stroked his chin. "You strike a hard bargain, Dragonborn. Four hundred and fifty, and a spell tome of Healing."

Rhiannon was tempted; being able to heal herself without potions sounded good. But she had a companion to consider… "Four hundred and fifty, the tome of Healing, and a tome of…" she searched her memory for what Delphine had called the spell she'd cast on Hadvar, "…Healing Hands."

Farengar hesitated for a long moment and then said "Agreed, on condition that you do something for me. I have some research notes that I need to deliver to my collaborator. If you will take them to the inn at Riverwood, and leave them with the barman there for collection, I will pay your asking price for the dragon bones."

"Done," said Rhiannon. The route to Ivarstead via Helgen would take her through Riverwood anyway, and so she could kill two birds with one stone, and she wanted to ask Delphine a few questions too. She gave Farengar her bone, Jenassa did the same, and Farengar counted out a stack of gold coins and took two books down from his shelves.

"Half of this should be yours," Rhiannon told Jenassa.

"No, sera, by the terms of our agreement it all belongs to you," Jenassa said. "If you wish to pay me a bonus I will accept, of course, but you are under no obligation to do so."

"Well, if fighting a dragon doesn't qualify you for a bonus, I don't know what does," Rhiannon said. She split the coins into two piles of two hundred and twenty-five septims and pushed one over to Jenassa. "What about the… spell books?"

"I thank you, my patron," said Jenassa. She scooped up the coins and pocketed them. "The books would be of no use to me. I have, alas, no talent for magic at all."

Rhiannon wondered if the same would apply to her. She still had the feeling that, if she tried, she'd be able to shoot sparks of electricity from her fingers but she hadn't put it into practice. Perhaps she, too, would prove to have no talent for magic and the spell books would be useless to her. It would be worth a try, though, and she'd come out of it with more money than Farengar's first offer even without counting the spell books. A successful use of a Haggle skill.

A thought struck her. When she had played D&D her character had been a Ranger but she had taken one level as a Thief in order to get Lock-picking, Trap Sense, Appraise, and Backstab. She'd used Backstab on the first person she had killed in Helgen Keep, she'd picked a lock in Bleak Falls Barrow, and the Appraise skill would have covered her negotiation with Farengar. As a Ranger she'd selected Combat Style: Two-weapon Combat. She hadn't quite reached the level that would have enabled her to cast spells but, if she had, it would have been Cure Light Wounds that she picked first. And now here she was, wearing a sword at each hip, choosing spell-books of healing. Had she actually turned into her D&D character? Had killing the dragon enabled her to go up a level? Or was it just that she'd chosen to play a Ranger because she liked to picture herself as a warrior in light armor, dual-wielding swords, and she was equipped that way now for the same reason?

Her chain of thought was broken by Irileth entering Farengar's chamber. "Rhiannon Dragonborn, the Jarl summons you," she announced. "Jenassa, you also are included."

Rhiannon followed Irileth back into the main hall, hoping very much that this was an invitation to dine, and Jenassa followed a few paces behind. The Jarl was seated on his throne, cradling a one-handed axe in his lap, and Proventus Avenicci and Hrongar stood at his sides.

"Rhiannon Dragonborn," the Jarl greeted her, "you have done a great service for me and this city. By my right as Jarl I name you Thane of Whiterun. It's the greatest honor that is within my power to grant. I present you with this weapon, from my personal armory, to serve as your badge of office." He held the axe out to Rhiannon and she took it. "I'll inform my guards of your new title. Wouldn't want them to think you're just part of the common rabble, now, would we? We are honored to have you as Thane of our city, Dragonborn."

Rhiannon searched her memory for what little she knew about thanes, which mainly came from watching Time Team, browsing Wikipedia, Macbeth, and her minor role in Whiteblade, and which might not be relevant to this world. Would there be a holding of land involved? Or a commitment to military service in the Jarl's forces? She hoped not. Turning the honor down would be taken as an insult, she guessed, and there didn't seem to be any other option than to accept the title. "Thank you, Jarl Balgruuf, I am honored," she said.

"It is mainly an honorary title, although it does carry some privileges," the Jarl continued. "You have the right to act as an advisor in my court but I am under no obligation to accept your advice. I will, however, always give it due consideration. I would not lightly dismiss the words of one such as yourself who is, plainly, favored of the gods. And as a Thane you are entitled to a Housecarl. I had thought to assign you a Housecarl from my own retinue but, as you have already chosen a comrade-in-arms, you may prefer to take Jenassa as your Housecarl rather than just as a paid mercenary."

Rhiannon glanced at Jenassa. The Dunmer's face was impassive, unreadable, which seemed to be pretty much her default state. "That would depend on what she wants," Rhiannon said. "If Jenassa's happy about it, then I am too. I don't think I could ask for a better – what's the word? – Shield-Sister." Not that she had a lot to go on but fighting a dragon was a pretty severe test, after all, and Jenassa had come through it with flying colors.

Jenassa's face suddenly lit up with a smile. "You honor me greatly, patron," she said. She turned to face Jarl Balgruuf. "Serjo Jarl, I have already pledged my swords to Rhiannon. I would be happy to formalize that by accepting the post of Housecarl."

"Then so shall it be," Balgruuf said. "I shall let my guards know when I inform them of Rhiannon's position. And you, too, shall receive a weapon from my armory."

"Can it be a bow?" Jenassa requested. "I have little skill with an axe, serjo, and my swords are a matched pair."

"I see no reason why not," said the Jarl. "Irileth, take Jenassa to my armory and find a bow that suits her."

"At once, my Jarl," said Irileth, and then the stern expression on her face changed, for the first time that Rhiannon had seen, into a smile. "I am proud of you, kinswoman," she told Jenassa.

"Thank you," Jenassa said curtly, and she followed Jenassa to the steps up at the side of the hall.

"Now can Rhiannon continue to tell me about the dragons?" Farengar asked.

"You have had time enough, Farengar," said the Jarl, "and it grows late. The shops will be closing soon and I expect that there are things Rhiannon will want to purchase before she finds herself a room for the night."

So being made a Thane didn't entitle her to stay in the castle. And there was no sign that she was going to be invited to dine, either. Yes, there were things she wanted to buy. A comb, a towel, clean foot-wraps, clean underwear… and a toothbrush, assuming they had them in this world. Her most urgent need, however, she might be able to fill here and now.

"Tomorrow, perhaps, if she can spare you the time," the Jarl continued. Farengar pouted, not an expression Rhiannon would have expected to see on a wizard; Gandalf wouldn't have been impressed. "Now we have other things to consider. It is not enough that there are dragons; I have had a report that Ulfric Stormcloak has been sighted, heading for Windhelm, so he did not perish at Helgen. The war is still on. I feel this is not a matter in which the Dragonborn should become involved. Concern yourself with the dragons, Rhiannon, and leave the war to us. Go to the Greybeards as soon as you are ready. Is there anything else I can do for you before Jenassa returns and you leave Dragonsreach?"

That sounded like a dismissal. But there was something Rhiannon wanted before she left. "My Jarl," she said, "how does Dragonsreach get its water?"

The Jarl's brow creased. "There is a spring," he said. "Water bubbles up from deep within the ground. It was here before the castle, before the city, perhaps even before the Skyforge. Clean, and fresh, and enough to supply the whole city so that our supply is assured even in the event of a siege."

Rhiannon sighed with relief. "In that case," she requested, "may I have a drink of water?"

0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0

"A hot bath? Yes, you can have one, for twenty septims," the innkeeper told Rhiannon, "but I'm afraid I won't be able to spare the staff to heat the water and fill the tub for… at least an hour, I would say."

"I can wait," Rhiannon said. Twenty septims for a bath seemed excessive, considering that renting a room for the night was costing only ten septims, but then it occurred to her that heating water over a fire, and carrying the hot water around in buckets or jugs, must be pretty labor-intensive in a world without piped water.

"Will you be wanting a meal?"

"I ate at the Drunken Huntsman," Rhiannon said. She had hoped to stay there, too, but it only had three guest rooms and all were occupied. Jenassa's room was tiny, with a single bed and not even enough space on the floor for a bed-roll, and so Rhiannon had had no option but to look elsewhere. It had been a choice between the sort of laborers' boarding houses that would be called 'flophouses' in America or this inn, the Bannered Mare, that catered to the more prosperous section of society.

The innkeeper brushed a stray strand of greying hair back from her face. "Just as well. We're busy tonight and Saadia is struggling to keep up with the meal orders. I'll show you to your room." She called over to a waitress. "Olfina, take over at the counter for a minute while I go upstairs."

A few minutes later, after stashing her bulkier items in her room and combing her hair, Rhiannon went back downstairs. She still hadn't found out if tea was known in this world and, if it was, she wanted some. Failing that, or a non-alcoholic cold drink, she'd make do with the weakest ale available or, possibly, watered wine. Getting drunk in this world, when she was feeling her way through unfamiliar attitudes and customs, didn't seem to be a terribly good idea. There were still things about American culture that baffled her, even after working in that country for two and a half years, and this place was far more alien.

The fight that was going on when she re-entered the inn's main room only emphasized that point. For a moment she regretted having told Jenassa that she didn't need a bodyguard for the evening, and that she should stay in the Drunken Huntsman, but a longer look told her that she didn't need to be worried.

It was a fist-fight, so presumably non-lethal, and the inn's clientele didn't seem to be worried. Some were shouting encouragement and some appeared to be ignoring it altogether. It didn't appear to be an organized contest, though, as the two combatants had been just part of the crowd when she'd passed through earlier. One was a fairly tall and burly man, clad in an iron cuirass, who wore a horned helmet. The other was a woman, just as tall and solidly-built, in full plate armor but with no helm. Both wore the gauntlets that went with their armor and the result was… brutal.

The man was swinging wildly, putting a lot of power into his blows, but achieving little. The woman was taking him apart with crisp, precise, left jabs and vicious right crosses. She wasn't completely unmarked, a bloody graze on one cheek showing where one of her opponent's blows had struck home, but Rhiannon guessed that the woman had blocked the punch at least partially and was barely hurt. Before long the fight reached its inevitable conclusion and the man measured his length on the floor. His helmet came off and rolled away.

"Had enough?" the woman asked, her voice harsh. The man tried to climb to his feet but she kicked him in the ribs and knocked him down again. None of the bystanders raised any protest and Rhiannon made a mental note that kicking a man when he was down didn't seem to be frowned on here. His armor would have taken the brunt of the kick but, even so, it seemed to have knocked the breath from his lungs. "Well? Do you give up?"

"I… yield," the man croaked out. "You win."

"Pay up, then," the woman demanded. "One hundred septims."

Rhiannon didn't bother to listen further and headed for the bar to find out if she could get a cup of tea. The answer was no, unfortunately, but she did find out where she might be able to find some at another time. For the moment she made do with a drink made from 'snowberries', which tasted rather like a mixture of cranberry and blueberry juice, and which cost twice as much as mead. The loser of the fight stumbled his way to the bar, asking through pulped lips for a healing potion, and Rhiannon moved out of his way and looked for a seat.

There were no unoccupied tables at all and Rhiannon followed the same principle she'd have used back on Earth; she saw a woman and child sitting at a table and asked if they minded if she sat with them. The woman welcomed her with a smile, Rhiannon sat down, and at once the woman, whose name was Carlotta Valentia, engaged her in conversation.

What Rhiannon wanted to know was where she could buy those necessities she hadn't managed to find in twenty minutes of frantic shopping before the last of the shops bordering the market had closed. What she found out was that the price of farm tools was rising, as the blacksmiths were all busy making weapons, and that this rise was affecting the price of the produce Carlotta sold at her fruit and vegetable stall in the market. This was harming her business and, to make matters worse, Carlotta was being harassed by an unwanted suitor.

"It's getting to the point where I won't come in here unless Mila is with me," Carlotta said, referring to her nine-year-old daughter. "He restrains himself in front of her, at least to some extent, but when I am alone he can be… obnoxiously pressing. And he wrote a book, A Gentleman's Guide to Whiterun, and he included some… overly familiar references to me. It was acutely embarrassing."

This wasn't the sort of conversation you'd strike up with a random stranger unless you wanted something. And it was pretty obvious what Carlotta wanted. Rhiannon was well aware that she looked pretty badass; it wasn't just the studded leather armor and the two swords, projecting a 'don't fuck with me' air was part of her job and she was good at it. Not as good as Sasha Banks, of course, nobody could project attitude like The Boss, but good enough. And she'd been projecting like mad ever since she came downstairs and saw the fight going on. It wasn't surprising that the market trader woman saw her as the answer to her problem. Although it was surprising that Carlotta hadn't turned to the tough chick who'd just won the fist-fight.

The reason became clear after Carlotta revealed the identity of her harasser. His name was Mikael and he was the resident bard at this tavern. And he had dedicated the song he was playing, a comic ditty about a braggart named Ragnar the Red, to 'my friend Uthgerd the Unbroken, who has once again confirmed her position as undisputed fist-fighting champion of Whiterun'. Obviously Carlotta wasn't going to ask a friend of Mikael's to intimidate him into leaving her alone.

Now Rhiannon had to ask herself if she was going to do it. She didn't want to get conned into beating someone up without good cause and she didn't know either of the two parties outside this one conversation. What made up her mind was the little girl, Mila; she was a polite, well-behaved, child, obviously well brought up, and Carlotta's statement that she had no time for men because her daughter was her main priority rang true.

"I'll… have a word with him," Rhiannon said, "and see if I can make him see reason."

"If you would, I would be grateful," Carlotta said, "but I can't afford to pay you much."

"Don't worry about it," Rhiannon said. "If you can give me a little… advice about where to buy some things, that will be payment enough." What she wanted to know was, primarily, what women in this world used as sanitary protection; it wasn't an urgent matter, as her last period had finished just a week ago, but she wanted to be ready. She couldn't guarantee that Jenassa would be able to advise her; Rhiannon had read at least one 'Lord of the Rings' fanfic in which it was specified that Elven women didn't menstruate and the author's rationale for that had made perfect sense in context. And there was nothing about it at all in either Tolkien's works or the Forgotten Realms game setting.

Still chuckling inwardly at the thought of Professor Tolkien including references to periods in 'Lord of the Rings', and possibly having the slaying of the Witch-King being a result of Éowyn being powered by PMT, Rhiannon approached the bard.

"You have a request, fair lady?" Mikael asked. "A lively jig? A ballad? For a mere five septims you can hear any tune of your choice."

"Play Skinny Love," Rhiannon responded. "Either the Bon Iver original, or the Birdy cover version, I'm not fussy."

Mikael's forehead creased. "I am not familiar with any song of that name," he said. "Perhaps you might like Sweet Maiden Fair from Hadleyshire?"

"Actually, what I'd like is for you to stop pestering Carlotta Valentia," Rhiannon said, satisfied that she had thrown him off balance. "Apologize for putting her in your book and then leave her alone until she tells you otherwise."

"What? Is that the sound of jealousy that I hear?" Mikael said. "If you want to be in my book you'll have to wait until I write a second edition. But that won't be until after I have conquered sweet Carlotta."

His choice of words made Rhiannon bristle. "Watch it, pen-coc," she said. "You don't 'conquer' women. Not if you don't want me to hurt you."

Mikael recoiled slightly but then seemed to gather his nerve. "Are you threatening me? Attack me with a sword and you will go to jail," he warned.

"I wouldn't need a weapon to hurt you," Rhiannon said. "Now see sense. Carlotta doesn't want you and you're just annoying her. And putting her in that book was out of order. Back off."

"It's none of your business," Mikael said, "and if you think you can make me, you're welcome to try. Put down your swords and put up your fists."

"You don't know what you're getting into," Rhiannon warned. "You will get hurt."

"A true Nord doesn't back down," said Mikael, "and I do not fear you. It's not as if you are Uthgerd, or Aela the Huntress, or even Njada Stonearm."

Rhiannon unbuckled her sword-belt, walked back to the table where she had been sitting, and put the weapons down on her seat. All the time she was scanning her surroundings and marking where there were obstacles, potential hazards such as the fire pit, and things that she could use to gain an advantage. She returned to face the bard and raised her hands. "Ready when you are," she said.

Mikael laid down his lute on a nearby table, raised his fists, and faced Rhiannon. She took a step toward him and at once he swung a punch that appeared to strike Rhiannon on the side of the jaw. She spun around, toppled to the ground, and lay unmoving on her back.

"Hah!" Mikael exclaimed. "That was even easier than I thought."

Rhiannon grinned, raised her legs, and whirled them to generate the momentum for a spectacular Black Dragon spin-up back to her feet. "My turn!" she called, as Mikael's jaw dropped in surprise, and then she lashed her right hand around in a simple slap to his face. Hard. And then she reversed the move and caught him across the other cheek with the back of her hand.

Mikael winced and tried another punch. This time Rhiannon didn't interpose her hand between the fist and her face, as she had done the first time without anyone realizing; she caught the striking arm, turned, and threw him over her shoulder. She could have applied any one of several arm-lock submission holds but, as he was a bard, she didn't want to risk inflicting serious damage to his lute arm. Instead she released her grip and, as he rolled over and tried to get to his feet, she bent and seized him by the left foot.

She stood up straight, brought her other arm around, and applied a standing ankle lock. In the ring, where the main objective was to make a hold look good whilst avoiding real injury or serious pain, she would have used a variant that was only moderately painful. In these circumstances she applied the hold to put as much pressure on the ankle joint as possible and, to make things even more agonizing, she planted her right foot on the back of Mikael's right heel and put most of her weight down on that leg.

"I yield! I yield!" Mikael cried, after only a few seconds of futile struggle.

Rhiannon lifted her right foot from his heel and slackened off the pressure of the ankle-lock slightly. "So you'll apologize to Carlotta? And then leave her alone?"

"I will," Mikael promised. "On my honor. I will never bother her again."

"There's tidy," said Rhiannon, and she released his foot. "Now if you'd just been sensible in the first place you could have saved yourself a lot of pain."

"I know that now," Mikael said. He sat up and rubbed his foot.

Rhiannon turned away and made her way back to the table. Several people offered to buy her a drink, as she passed, but she declined all offers with a smile. She sat down, took a sip of her snowberry juice, and told Carlotta "He won't be bothering you again."

"Are you all right?" Carlotta asked. "I saw him knock you down."

"He hardly touched her," a female voice cut in, before Rhiannon could reply. Rhiannon turned her head and saw the fist-fighter, Uthgerd the Unbroken, approaching the table. "That's right, isn't it?" Uthgerd continued. "You took that punch on your hand and just made it look as if he'd felled you."

"That's right," Rhiannon admitted. "You have sharp eyes."

"Fist-fighting is my business," Uthgerd said. "And yours, if I'm not mistaken. What do you say to a little match? I have a hundred septims that says I can beat you."

Rhiannon considered the challenge. Uthgerd wasn't quite as tall as she was but looked heavier. The armor made it difficult to judge how much of it was muscle but, on the basis of the fight she'd witnessed earlier, Rhiannon could tell that the other woman was seriously strong and not slow. It would be like fighting Nia Jax without a script. And there was the armor, making kicks to the body pointless, and the steel gauntlets. Getting hit by those, when the wearer knew how to throw a punch, had the potential to do serious damage. Really, taking up the challenge would be foolish.

But she was Rhiannon the Dragon, WWE Divas Champion, and a true champion didn't back down. "You just won a hundred," she pointed out, "so you must have two hundred to bet."

Uthgerd grinned. "So I have. Two hundred, then. No weapons, no magic, no crying. We fight until one of us gives up or can't continue."

"You're on," said Rhiannon.

"Don't do it!" Carlotta hissed. "She… killed someone in a fist-fight once. That's why they threw her out of the Companions."

Uthgerd flushed. "That was an accident," she said. "They wanted me to prove my worth, so they put me up against a young whelp of a lad, hardly old enough to grow his first chin-hairs. I guess they thought a woman wasn't strong enough to hurt him. I didn't know he couldn't defend himself. I never meant for him to die. Why would I want that?"

"It happens," Rhiannon said, thinking of a couple of instances in which things had gone wrong in the ring and wrestlers had died, and then remembering the bandit woman she had killed with a wrestling move. She clenched her teeth, trying to put that incident out of her mind, and stood up. "Let's do this."

She would have preferred it if there had been more clear space for the fight but you had to work with what you had. And the obstacles might work to her advantage. She knew she could leap up onto a table from a standing start, backward if necessary, and she doubted if that applied to her opponent. She surreptitiously checked on the solidity and stability of the tables as she headed for the relatively clear area where she had fought the bard. Satisfactory. And the pillars that held up the upper floor of the inn looked like tree-trunks that had just had the bark removed and the surface sanded smooth. They seemed to be well sunk into the floor and should stand up to any impact. Excellent. She had a plan.

Uthgerd faced her and adopted a boxing stance. The fist-fighting woman was plain, to put it kindly, with a square-jawed and rather masculine face. In fact, Rhiannon thought, Uthgerd bore something of a resemblance to Clint Eastwood at around the time of Every Which Way But Loose. Hopefully she wasn't as good a fighter as Eastwood's character in that film; if she was, Rhiannon might be in trouble.

And after the first exchange of blows Rhiannon began to think that indeed she might be in trouble. She caught hold of Uthgerd's left arm as she threw a jab, and went for a shoulder-throw, but Uthgerd slammed a right-hand punch into her kidney region. Rhiannon gasped as pain shot through her, her grip slackened, and Uthgerd pulled her left arm free. Then Rhiannon drove her elbow back into Uthgerd's jaw simultaneously with getting punched in the back again. Rhiannon winced as they separated and moved apart; served her right, she thought, for using the same move again when Uthgerd had seen it already. Next time she needed to do something different.

Uthgerd attacked again, delivering jabs and crosses that Rhiannon blocked or parried, and then she threw another left jab that Rhiannon managed to catch. This time, however, she didn't turn for a throw. Instead she spun and Irish-Whipped Uthgerd into the support pillar. She hit with a thud that seemed to shake the whole building and bounced off. Rhiannon met her with a clothesline across the jaw and swept Uthgerd from her feet.

At once Rhiannon followed up by dropping down on top of her, only remembering at the last microsecond not to lead with an elbow to the – plate-armored – stomach, and went for an arm-lock. Uthgerd wasn't out of it, however; the armor must have absorbed much of the impact from the collision and she wasn't winded. She fought back, quite effectively, and Rhiannon had to work hard to avoid getting pinned under the heavier woman and subjected to the 'ground and pound' tactic that won a lot of MMA matches.

It was Rhiannon's superior grappling experience that saved her. She was able to wrap her legs around Uthgerd's mid-section, turn her to face the floor, and then take hold of her right wrist. Rhiannon brought her left hand around her opponent's arm, took hold of her own right wrist to form a figure-four shape, and began to exert pressure.

This was the Kimura arm-lock, named after the judoka who had used it to break the arm of Brazilian Jiu-jitsu founder Hélio Gracie, and which was one of Brock Lesnar's favorite holds. The armor did little to protect Uthgerd from the inexorable pressure. Rhiannon applied more and more force, utilizing the considerable leverage the hold granted, but Uthgerd didn't submit.

"Give up," Rhiannon urged.

"Never!" Uthgerd grunted, trying to use her left arm to push herself up, but she succeeded only in putting even more pressure on her right arm. She couldn't hold herself back from crying out in pain.

"Your arm is going to break," Rhiannon warned. "Submit. Is a two hundred do… uh, septim… bet worth a broken arm?"

"No," Uthgerd conceded. "I yield. I cannot best you."

Immediately Rhiannon released her grip. She disentangled her legs from around Uthgerd's waist and did another Black Dragon spin-up to rise to her feet. She bent down, extending a hand, and Uthgerd took it and was helped up.

"That was the best fight I've had in years," Uthgerd said. "I have never faced anyone who fought like you. You are greatly skilled."

"I've been training since I was nine," Rhiannon told her. "You're not bad yourself. I haven't had a fight like that for a long time." Because the WWE would never have allowed it. Rhiannon's back hurt where she had been punched, her arms were sore from where her blocks had contacted armor and then she'd pressed against the armor as she applied the Kimura lock, but she felt great. A real, unscripted, victory against a formidable opponent. And an opponent who was gracious in defeat.

"You are the champion of Whiterun now," Uthgerd said, "and a worthy one. If you ever need an extra blade at your back, just ask. I wouldn't mind seeing how you handle a few trolls."

So Rhiannon was a champion here. Somehow she doubted if winning a brawl in a tavern counted as being 'a champion somewhere where it would really mean something', as she had stated in her ill-judged wish, and she suspected that her being this 'Dragonborn' thing had more to do with it. Still, a title was a title, even without a belt to go with it – and the stupid pink butterfly emblem that was the current Divas Championship belt wasn't much better than no belt.

But… trolls? Were they like trolls in D&D, rubbery monsters nine feet tall and regenerating from any wound unless struck with fire or acid? If so, Rhiannon didn't want to meet one. Did they have Flame Tongue swords here?

"Share a bottle of mead with me," Uthgerd went on. "I always say, you don't know a woman until you've had a strong drink and a fistfight with her. We've had the fistfight, now have a drink."

"I'd like that," said Rhiannon, "but just the one. It's been a long day."

0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0

English meanings of Dovahzul (Dragon language) phrases:

* Fus = Force

* Dovahkiin = Dragonborn

English meanings of Welsh phrases:

* pen-coc = dickhead