How long was I out? Flokir wondered as he opened his groggy eyes.

He had eaten from his pack and washed it down with some watered down ale. After that sleep must have taken him.

Before him was a great cavern, naturally lit by few shafts of sunlight. A waterfall crashed down from above and flowed down the middle of the natural hall. Beyond it, he could see a huge curving wall with covered in writing that he couldn't make out dominating the far side of the cavern. Below it where most of the sunlight rays fell lay a lone sarcophagus. Beside it was a large iron bound chest that screamed ancient riches.

When was the last time someone else saw this place? To think that this place was sealed eras ago before the Empire came to be.

There was a strange and soothing feeling of peace in the air. Small wonder he had drifted off. He could hear a quiet chanting from the wall as he approached the the stone bridge that spanned over the creek, he climbed the steps to the wall.

A single word on the wall in a language he did not understand glowed a bright blue. As he got closer, he could feel a strange magic from it. Everything within him felt compelled to touch it, which Flokir did.

As he traced the word, the world around him seemed to light up. The magical force emitted by the wall suddenly hit him with a forceful current, and he staggered back. "Fus," screamed a word in his head.

Behind him, he heard the sound stone grinding against stone. The hairs on the back of Flokir's neck suddenly felt erect as he instinctively turned towards the source of the noise

Divines, no.

The great lid atop the sarcophagus slid away. For a moment, all he could feel was paralyzing fear.

A draugr, bigger than any he had seen, was armored head to toe in ancient Nordic steel and holding a great battleaxe. It was staring right at him with two hateful eyes that seemed to turn thin air into a frost. As soon as a foot found the stone floor, Flokir found the wits to run.

He raced down the steps and across the stone bridge.

"FUS!"

There was a shift in the wind, or so it felt like. A gust of something tried to hit him but for the direction he was running, it may well have been a boost.

He could hear the heavy lumbering footsteps of the creature. It moved surprisingly quick for something meant to be undead.

As it began to cross the bridge, Flokir let loose a gout of flame from both hands. The searing heat did little to slow down the draugr, but easily managed to blind the monster.

It raised it's longaxe and swung down in his direction. The blow was clumsy and easily avoided.

Flokir darted to the left and drew his steel. He saw an opening and slashed open some skin on the Draugr's right arm. It didn't even seem to feel anything and brought the two handed ax around for a swing at his torso, which he barely managed to avoid.

He gave ground dodging the heavy weapon until he reached the end of the bridge. Flokir went to the right and spun his way around his opponent, ducking under a swing meant for his shoulders.

From behind, his blade struck the draugr above the knee where it's withered flesh was exposed. It tried to turn around to face him, but he moved in close and thrust the blade through its throat as hard as he could...

And it didn't even kill the draugr.

Instead it simply paused to laugh, if the strangled cry through its partially open windpipe could be called that. It then tired to shout, but no words could come out.

He took two steps back, and threw his open palm forward. A blast of fire hit the undead lord at spitting distance. This time, it did not completely throw it off. A hit from the blunt side of the long ax knocked him from the bridge and into the creek below.

Flokir looked up in time to see it prepare to leap down from the bridge to where he was.

But suddenly, a sword sprouted from its bowels. The hateful blue eyes widened in shock, and an armored hand from behind grabbed the hilt of Flokir's sword and twisted the blade as hard as possible around the neck.

The Draugr finally went limp to reveal the victor to be a large figure in ornate steel armor. The patterns on his breastplate marked him as a companion.

The figure hopped down to the creek bed to get a good look at him.

The warrior's face was vaguely familiar. Dark warpaint crossed by scars lined his eyes, one of which no longer saw anything. His ugly face broke into a smirk.

"I remember you."

"I'm afraid I say can't say the same about you friend," Flokir answered as he tried to get up.

"That kind of thing happens when there's a bounty of seven hundred septims on your hide."

Flokir winced at that statement.

"That's a bit much don't you think? They only wanted me for burglary, forgery and lollygagging if I recall." It was a shame he was a companion and not another hold guard.

"It should be higher. Thanks to you, the Whiterun Guard nearly became the laughing stock of Skyrim"

Flokir laughed, as he managed to stand up. "Will I have to share a cell with Caius?"

The big man seemed to look past him and gave a simple nod. Before he could react, a set of boots landed behind him. He tried to dodge to the side, but an arm suddenly snaked around his neck, and a soaked cloth appeared over his nose.

He walked in a sleepy daze. That is, if two unyielding hands that pulled him along the way could still be called walking.

Two men of the Wayrest City Watch were dragging him two the chantry of Akatosh. A knight of the watch, made a third member of his escort.

Akatosh was the chief of all the divines, the god of time, and the first of all the aedra. He was the most active of all the divines. By his hands said the priests, The Empire of Tamriel was allowed to exist. His blood of the dragon ran through legends such as Tiber Septim who not only sired a dynasty of dragonborn emperors, but became a divine himself depending on who you asked, as well as Alduin the world eater, the first born of Akatosh and god of end times.

Save for Zenithar, for whom guild membership was an act of blasphemy, Flokir had probably violated the commands of Akatosh more than any other divine.

All around him, was the city as he remembered. He had dreamed it again, and again, so many times. With so many beggars on the street, and desperate, hateful faces following him and every foreigner in the city, it was every bit as broken as the Grey Quarter of Windhelm. Except of course that the Bretons were still at their worst, much fairer to look on.

King Barynia's treason had only happened eight years before. The King of Wayrest had hired corsairs to plunder his own city in exchange for the elimination of political opponents to his rule. It mattered little in the end for him though. He found himself without supporters the moment corsairs entered the port, and disappeared in the aftermath of the sack.

They arrived at the Chantry, when an armored fist of the knight made a knock at the door. "Come in," He could the Patriarch. The door opened, and they came to stop on the threshold of the House of Akatosh.

He could see the knight hand over the sack to a familiar man of the cloth.

"Ah, here you are!" exclaimed the patriarch of Akatosh, looking at him. Any dread Flokir could feel coming here, increased two fold. "It is good to see you well, but what is this? I gave you the candlesticks too, which are silver much like the rest, and for which you could certainly get a hundred Septims. Why did you not carry them away with your forks and spoons?"

Few words in his life had surprised him more than what he had heard that day. Even a few years later, he still could not understand it.

"Patriarch," asked the equally astonished Knight of the watch. "You say that what this man said is true, then? When we found him, he was walking like an urchin on the run. We stopped him to look into the matter. He had the silver in that sack."

"And he told you," the old man grinned, "that it had been given to him by a kind old fellow of a priest with whom he had spent the night?"

One of his handlers failed to suppress a snicker which was met by a withering glare from the knight. Without skipping a beat, he turned back to face priest. "In that case, do we let him go?"

"Certainly," replied the Patriarch.

With a gesture from the officer, they released their hold him.

"Am I being released?" he heard himself ask aloud.

"Yes you are boy, do you not understand?' said one of the guardsmen.

"My child," resumed the Patriarch, "before you go, here are your candlesticks. Take them." He stepped to the table on which they rested, took the two silver candlesticks, and brought them with the sack to Flokir. The rest looked on without uttering a word.

Every bit of Flokir trembled. He took the two candlesticks automatically. Only after his shaky hand put them in the sack, did his hand feel strangely burned for touching the silver.

"Now," said the priest. "Go in peace. By the way, when you return my child, you can always enter and depart through the street door. It is never locked." He the turned to the guards "You may take your leave, men of Wayrest."

They did just that and left. His form struggled to stand up straight and threatened to topple. The Patriarch drew near to him, and pulled the ragged hood from his head.

"Do not forget," said the priest in a low voice "Never forget, that you have promised to use this gift in becoming an honest man. Flokir my brother, you no longer belong to evil, but to good. It is your soul that I buy from you; I withdraw it from black thoughts and the spirit of inequity, and I give it to Akatosh.

Flokir did not in the end become an honest man.

He could hear the turning of wheels. He could feel the world underneath tossing him about.

Something slipped in and out of a hole, jolting his eyes open. The sun was dazzling in his eyes, and he strugged to see the world around him. It was still light out, but the sun would not be out for much longer.

"I think he's finally waking up." A figure to his left pointed in his direction.

The other figure looked him over. "How dangerous did you two say he was?" An Imperial's voice called over his head.

"He's harmless in that position, especially if he can't go wagging his tongue." Flokir recognized the hard voice of the Companion.

His mouth opened, and he tasted a gag wrapped around his head.

"Save it for the Jarl, you'll get a chance to speak soon enough." The balding Companion kicked against the binds on his legs.

"Fortunate for you that we happened by Riverwood when we did," came the more Nordic voice of a man from above him that Flokir could not see.

"Yeah, we probably would have had to make camp an hour or so out of Riverwood, if not for the carriage you hired."

"I suppose you should thank the dragon for that," he chuckled. "We were in Falkreath when it happened, so we took a carriage quick as we could. Keeper Carcette must be warned about Helgen, just as your friend did for Whiterun. By Stendar, the Daedra couldn't have hit Skyrim at a worse time."

The gag did not suppress the snort that Flokir made. The Vigilants of Stendar were reputed for being both well learned (at least by Skyrim standards) yet utterly lacking in sense. The order had been around since the Oblivion Crisis with the goal of rooting out the next Mythic Dawn cult wherever that might be.

They hunted monsters in the countryside and eagerly investigated crimes in the cities always hoping to find justification for their preachings. When they were found, the vigilants were legendary for the zeal they exercised. To them a priest of Azura was no different than say a champion of Molag Baal.

They made open war on the orc tribes in most places, and were known to persecute dark elves to the full extent of their often limited authority. They often felt themselves to be above hold law and became a common headache for most jarls when they went out of their way to create trouble. A previous Vigilant keeper had even been barred from Windhelm for stirring up racial tensions in the city.

Of course, there were other reasons for the emnity. Though it was a religious organization exempt from taxes, It operated a chain of immensly profitable merchant banks all over the Empire, which ensured that the order was capable of self-funding its smallish army of fanatics. In a sense, the order in some areas was a hold within a hold. Though a Jarl might have little legal authority in handling disputes with its members, A jarl could still bar his city at the risk of political pressure from the Imperial City.

One such place was Markarth, which was the only major city in Skyrim where they held any true power. Since the aftermath of the Markarth Incident Jarl Igmund relied heavily on the order to ensure that the influence of old gods of the Forsworn were driven underground. They roamed the streets of Markarth and the safer parts of the reach with an impunity just short of the Thalmor Justiciars.

"You think us foolish thief?" The Imperial asked him. That one was typical for a vigilant from Cyrodil, where the most hard line members came from. "Who else could conjure such an evil out of nowhere? Where except the planes of Oblivion could they have come."

"That's a bold suggestion Tyranus," interjected the companion. How they managed to get along with the companions as well as they did was just a little bit surprising. "Did you find anything at Helgen to suggest Daedric involvement?"

"Well no, but what else could it be?" The arrogant Imperial stuttered.

The Companion only shrugged. "Do you know there are Legionaries right now who think Ulfric called down a dragon?"

"That's foolish talk," he heard the Nord vigilant speak up, this one was a little different. "Ulfric may have shouted the high king to death, but no man can simply call down a dragon. The dragons and their ilk are gone and buried under the hills."

"Until now, it would seem." That vaguely familiar figure on his left pointed out dryly in a slight accent that he would prefer to hide. "But neither of you can guess on the why of things. Why did a great black dragon swoop down on Helgen of its own free will?"

"If it chose Helgen of all places to announce its existence, I'm of mind to say chaos personally." Spoke the Nord Vigilant. "Survivors on the road say the dragon could have wiped out many once they were outside of the castle and out in the open, but instead, it looked on and continued on burning. Even bothered to fly low to the ground when it decided the fun was done. Oh, and Ulfric is free to return to Eastmarch and bring his shadow rebellion into the open."

The cart shifted, and he could feel it pick up speed as it started down hill.

"What was Ulfric's justification for killing the High King?" The stranger with the slight accent asked.

"I can't rightly say. To hear the Stormcloaks talk about it, it's only about freedom to worship Talos."

"But you don't quite believe that do you ... Adalvald?"

"Oh, I do," admitted the vigilant. "It just conveniently leaves out a few things."

"Such as?"

"There's a been a smoldering fury in the old holds these last few years. Every Nord from the lowest beggar to Ulfric themselves talk like they've been cheated at every turn by anyone who isn't one of them, which is at least partly true. Certainly the Empire has not been good to them."

"So taxes?"

"That's a big part of it," replied Adalvald. "Taxes are high, and I fear that Solitude is going to find more ways to separate coin from it's people."

"So how did the Empire manage to keep a lid on it all this time?" Asked the man who was not of Skyrim.

Wait a Moment. He knew that voice.

The mysterious man with the Companion had gotten him captured at Darkwater Crossing not a few days ago by pushing him down a waterfall and into the hands of the law just as the legion closed in.

"Well armies are expensive, so the Empire just chooses to pay off the jarls and their friends to make sure the common Nord will sod off whenever a bad harvest comes around. It's not too different from how they deal with your people in Stormhaven, excepting the subtlety of it all. The Jarls here are pretty blunt so the Emperor can save his pretend shame for those flowery hypocrites running your homeland."

"If I didn't know better, I'd say your heart is with the Stormcloaks with that passion," ventured the man.

Flokir could see a sad smile in the corner of his eye. "We Nords are a passionate people, and our anger has been left to simmer too long. While the Empire takes the clothes from our backs, and the Thalmor defile our sacred traditions, the rich come in from every corner and buy up our land for nothing. They work our children to the bones for a pittance while calling it progress. Imperials are good for business and business is good for Skyrim, they say in their manor homes over the Solitude Arch. You want an argument against the empire? Spend five minute minutes in the Blue Palace." The Vigilant despite his political neutrality was frothing at the mouth.

Or maybe five minutes with Maven Black-Briar, thought Flokir. Ulfric did promise to curb the influence of many who just happened to be clients of the Guild. Given his ties with the Shatter Shields and the Cruel-Seas though, Flokir wasn't quite ready to believe that.

"But I'm not a fool," his tone softened. "The Thalmor aren't simply going to give up the influence they have in Skyrim. Will continue their raids here no matter how high the cost. I'm glad the Vigilants are neutral, because I feel like a little boy watching my parents fight. Any Nord who supports the Empire has no heart and any Nord who supports Ulfric has no brain."

"As a companion, I'd say that's the best argument for not taking a side," The big sellsword chimed in.

"Your companions, are they sworn to neutrality in such conflicts?" Asked the Imperial. "I imagine there would be much gold to be earned."

"There was a time when Companions were hired as soldiers." The Companion replied. "A true warrior finds his own path and stands for people and places he holds dearest, but sometimes that path stood in the way of their shield brothers and the honor that bonds us to one another. There are few rules in the companions except to honor your shield siblings. A war is a great time to earn coin, but it would both tear our brotherhood apart and much of our image. I'll have to ask Vilkas about it when I get back, but I'm pretty sure its the reason you won't find a Fighter's Guild north of Bruma anymore."

"What ever happened to the Fighter's Guild up here Skjor? I hear they used to be as numerous as the Companions centuries ago." The question came from Adalvald. Before Skjor the companion could answer, they heard a roar.

A roar like that dragon in Helgen. He swore he could hear the flapping of wings.

The cart was jerked in a direction it probably wasn't intended to go. He could hear curses from the driver who was trying to get the wagon under control.

Flokir strugged against his binds. Once again he was in bondage while it roared overhead. The uneven road made the carriage shake violently at the current speed and tossed him between the ends of the wagon bed faster than he could breathe.

Something snapped, and the weight of the wagon tipped to one side spilling the other passengers before it would be ground to a halt.

Instead of slowing down something else broke up front and sent the broken cart off the road if they were still on it. This time, he nearly sailed over the railing, and found himself pressed against a vigilant hanging on for dear life.

The wagon slowed, and their combined weight on was enough to tip over what remained of it. He rolled clear of the wagon and landed on the grass knees first, then his stomach.

His heart beat with a fury that would have dulled him to the world which was already a blur around him.

When he finally felt the strength to lift his eyes, he could make out the shape of a watchtower up ahead. He could see the distant outlines of guards in frantic motions trying to avoid the dragon. It swooped down and let loose a torrent of fire on the guards at the top.

Flokir lowered his head closer to the ground. Maybe the best thing he could do was lay low and wait for it all to end.

As if the divines had read his mind, a pair of strong arms pulled him up.

"Get moving, we stand at the tower!" The Companion bellowed and prodded him towards the battle. Flokir wanted to run as far away as possible, but he was in no shape to elude both his captors and the dragon out in the open. Instead he hobbled as quick as a bound man could go.

He could see the vigilants heading for the tower as well, everyone was running faster than him. Maybe that was the point.

Flokir managed to reach a pile of rubble in front of the tower after everyone else had taken up positions and took cover. He scanned the scene of battle for a weapon.

A pair of hold guards were fleeing from the tower towards the direction of Whiterun. It was only a few moments after he noticed them that Flokir felt a shift in the wind. He heard the wings and saw the great shadow moving in to shroud them. The dragon screamed and fire left its maw bathing one of the guards as it passed. From where he watched, he could hear the burning victim scream until something took away his ability to do even that.

The surviving guard tried to change his direction and make for the nearest cover. The dragon turned around for another pass, but this time went low to the ground and caught the fleeing guard with its teeth. With it came the sickening sound of bone and mail crunching under the jaws.

In the time it took Flokir to piss himself, the guard fell from the sky, his body nearly torn in two. A sword fell with him and planted itself in the earth. Come and take me, it seemed to call out.

Flokir cautiously crawled to the blade, hoping not to draw any attention while bound. He braced his knee against pommel and crossguard and let it hew at his bonds. He grabbed the blade which was reasonably sharp, and went to work on the looser ones that held his legs. Finally he removed the gag on his mouth.

There was something strangely reassuring about steel in his hand, he decided as he cut the last strips away. He might as well be holding a kitchen knife for the good it was worth right now, but it came with an illusion of control. Mastery over one's surroundings, or at least the ability to react to them.

The great beast landed on the ground before the tower entrance and Nirn itself seemed to shudder in fear as all encircled around the dragon were.

It was lighter skinned than the one that had destroyed Helgen and much smaller too, now that he could actually see it. Gold and grey covered its scales, and a row of horns jutted from its back. That was nothing though, compared the great horns over its head that followed the streamlined skull like the ears on an angry Khajit.

"I had forgotten what fine sport you mortals can provide!" It spoke boastfully with a rumbling voice that effortlessly carried, then lunged at the Companion who somehow managed to hold fast against its teeth with nothing but dual blades.

"You think us game, you stupid worm? Retorted the companion.

Stendar turn you to ash!" One of the Vigilants rushed in with a screen of fire managed to get in a swing with his mace. He didn't have time to avoid the tail that swung around and knocked him into a guard.

The other vigilant threw an ice spike at an exposed wing. It was light and fast enough to just barely pierce the skin. In response the dragon took to the sky to shake off the spike.

Flokir saw an opening and sent a lightning bolt of his own aiming for the hamstrings. It flew further up before the arc made the mark and claimed a scaly heel instead. The bolt was just strong enough to numb the senses of most for at least a few moments and cut off the flow of magicka to any who victim needed it all the while.

For a dragon though, was enough to earn a roar. Half in fury, half in shock, it left the dragon as it circled around to breathe fire on the circle that formed around him. All had scattered and this time, not a soul was in the burn path.

A strange and deadly dance took form between the dragon and everyone else. With strong flesh and the ability to fly, it easily outmanuevered the lot of them despite attacks in every direction.

But it couldn't be everywhere at once. No matter where it went, someone would find the blind spot and have enough time to land a blow. All the while, archers from the tower began loosing arrows aimed at the wings when the dragon wasn't pausing to breathe fire on the those atop the tower. Sometimes the arrows actually pierced the skin on the wings.

Before long, it had to come back down. The ground shuddered again with its landing, and the dragon swung its neck around the field to unleash more fire.

The flames came at him and it was all he could to outrun the monster's breath running over a pile of rubble. He jumped from the edge and felt his ankle twist on landing.

Before he could curse, he caught the mysterious foreigner looking in his direction with a spear. The man went into a sprint and headed for him.

Flokir rolled out of his path, and watched him ram the spear through the Dragon's hindquarters. The crack of the shaft snapping was almost as sweet as the Monster's wail of fury.

It took to the skies again throwing the foreigner back. There was less force this time, and most of the blood dripping down the scales was its own now. An ice spike assembled in his hands and he threw it at the underbelly that had turned to face him and the foreigner. This time it did nothing.

Flokir found cover before the dragonfire found him. When the stream fizzled out, its wings took it further into the air. The tower shook a few moments later, and renewed screams of pain reverberated across the plains. The dragon boasted in its language when they settled down. One did not need to know the language to understand the challenge in his voice though.

"You are brave, your defeat brings me honor." It switched to a familiar tongue.

Across the plains he too echoed, and again the ground trembled as it had. This time though, he could feel the ground trembling long after the dragon shouted.

A warhorn sounded in the distance. Between himself and Whiterun shadows climbed up a hill. the outlines of men on foot, two score shadows against the fading light to the west came into view. For just a few slow moments, he almost believed they were saved.

From the tower guttaral laughter filled the air, while they ran over the hill he could see their full profiles heading for them. The sound of beating wings came closer, then flew over his head. The loose formation scattered themselves thinner. Archers unslung thier bows and took a knee. Flokir could only watch the scene that felt so close and yet far away.

Some nocked their arrows, but none could loose them before it swooped down and knocked a hole in the ranks. Panic struck and those closest to the center who seemed to push at each other to get out of harm's way. The line broke fast enough to save, or at least prolong the lives of many.

The dragon turned and for a moment its magnificent wings cast a great shadow against the sunset. It would have been beautiful had it not been trying to kill them.

It swung around and shouted as it did before it spewed fire. Starting along the right flank, it raked the line or what remained of it with a shower of fire and death.

Some ran, some cowered. A few fought the dragon and died in the last lights of day. The horn blew twice, and all those daring or terrified enough to run went for the tower.

"Horses of Whiterun, to us!" Flokir recognized the bellowing voice as that of the Companion. "Take cover!"

The dragon had sat on the doubtlessly blood stained hill watching the guards flee. Only when they got within pissing distance of cover, did it spread its wings, great and terrifying. It took off blotting out the sunset for a moment, then made chase.

It's talons came down and grabed a guard who would have been flung from the ground but for the invention of two other guards. A spear came from somewhere in the cover and went straight for an opened mouth.

Whatever happened, it stunned the monster at the perfect time. It lost hold of its current victim and landed roughly beyond the cover. Like a wounded saber cat, it thrashed around its surroundings unpredictably.

Flokir drew on his magicka reserves for another lightning bolt. He likely wouldn't have enough for another so he had to make it count. Sparks swirled around his fingers, then his hands. Hot air and colder air rushed towards him and a storm field began to form around him. The hairs on his arms began to stand and he knew he was ready.

He took a step forth, and threw his hands forward to unleash the lightning bolt. It struck quick and true against an exposed wing. The purple shock coursed through the thinner flesh of the wing.

In response, it somehow managed to snap its wing around with its form to face him. Two armored figures were knocked down in the process for being too close.

Flokir dived behind his cover in the rubble in time to see the wings spread, but they were slower than they had been. They descended back down, but this time the dragon could not stay in the air before they came back up.

No sooner than it had landed back down, a figure ran up from behind with almost inhuman agility. Scaling the damaged wing with little but sheer force, the warrior ran up the length of the very beast.

The dragon's senses were greatly dulled and before it could react, the warrior planted himself on it's neck and gripped the horns.

"Buck me if you can lizard!" shouted the man on the dragon. It obliged him, or it least tried to. The dragon shook its head violently, but the man didn't even seem to flinch.

"YEEEEEE-HAAHHH!" the warrior screamed with an accent he could not place.

Sensing opportunity, others closed in, weapons at the ready. With the dragon distracted and losing blood, it could only focus a few threats of many. Renewed battle cries rang around the circle formed. Longswords and maces hacked away at the now vulnerable monster.

Whoever landed the killing blow, he could only guess.

"Dovahkiin, Nooo!" A final feeble roar left the maw of the mighty dragon, and it slumped into the blood soaked dirt. It's body went limp and it seemed to stare at him as the life left its eyes.

For a few moments the world felt frozen. The fury and desperation of the battle vanished like mist. It was over as quick as it had began. Or so he thought.

The cool of dusk had settled on them, the breeze kissing his sweat covered skin and his soiled clothes when he saw smoke rising from the dragon. It's gold scales seemed to glow while the grey turned the color of ash.

"Fucking shit!" The one on top swung a leg over the neck and fell off the dragon's corpse. He landed clumsily and twisted an ankle. "AAuuuGGHhh, Shit tacos!"

The corpse erupted in a great fire that bore no heat. In mere moments the Dragon was consumed in a pyre of its own. A glow around the body burned brighter, as the fire consumed all but bones. Suddenly the glow left the corpse...

And went right for him.

An overwhelming sensation came over him. The glow poured into him penetrating his flesh and his very soul. An alien force seemed to fuse with his very being. It was as if senses he did not realize he had were suddenly overloaded in an orgasm of something he could not describe.

"I don't believe it. You're ... Dragonborn!" A guard stammered as if he was forming his thoughts aloud.

"Dragonborn?" Asked another of Whiterun's finest. "What are you talking about?"

"Do you know stories about the Dragonborn. Those born with the Dragon Blood in 'em. Like old Tiber Septim himself."

Flokir was aware that all eyes were either on him or the two guards.

"I never heard of Tiber Septim killing any dragons." Said another guard.

"There weren't any dragons then, idiot." The first guard chided. "They're just coming back now for the first time in... forever. But the old tales tell of the Dragonborn who could kill dragons and steal their power, just like what we saw!"

"Hey Irileth! You look deep in thought, what you think?"

Oh shit, thought Flokir. He looked around for a free horse. He wanted out of here quick.

A familiar dark elf stepped into view. "Hmph. Some of you would be better off keeping quiet than flapping your gums on matters you don't know anything about. Here's a dead dragon," she pointed at the giant skeleton. "That's something I definitely understand."

She turned to face him with crimson eyes of disapproval. "I'm not sure I how I feel about the idea of some mythical, divine favored hero also being familiar criminal in our hold."

He gulped.

"We caught him while tending to that bounty." The Companion stepped in, his ornate wolf armor covered in blood. "Dragon came down while the wagon was taking us to Whiterun."

She gestured to the cluster of guards closest to her. "In that case, the Dragonborn will need to be escorted to Dragonsreach, in irons if need be."

He found himself surrounded by four men of Whiterun who wasted no time in prodding him from the scene, and in the direction of Whiterun.

"If you really are Dragonborn, like the old tales," One of the men at arms spoke in a low voice when they were slightly out of earshot. "You aught to be able to Shout. Can you? Have you tried?"

He thought about the shout. Ulfric had used the voice in battle and more recently, to kill Torygg. Could he actually use it?

"Fus!" a newfound force shouted inside him. The sight of the glowing word in the barrow lept in his mind.

Flokir let out a deep breath and let the word bubble up from within, much to the surprise of himself and the guard he was facing.

"FUS!"

Author's Note: This is officially my longest fic. May it grow ever longer and thicker.

Flokir is the Dragonborn. I'll bet that surprised nobody. I really don't want a Dragonborn who is portrayed as some manner of paragon (at least not without massive character growth). That would be boring and wouldn't jive well with a cast of POVs that are either raging hypocrites, or just ethically challenged depending on viewpoint.

Before I put out last chapter, I revisited my rough outline and wondered if I could not only explain the what, where, and how of the storyline to myself but also the why of things. Had to rework the plot quite a bit, but with all new the webbing between threads and questlines, I came out with something that feels a little more true to the original spirit, and a hell of a lot more satisfying.

Special thanks to the bottle of [freshly drained] huckleberry mead that more or less co-wrote half this chapter.

If you've made it this far, then please for goodness sakes do drop a review. I fucking love those.