Leif was having a bad day.

No, no that wasn't right. A bad day is when you try to get a cold, foaming tankard of sweet-honeyed mead; only to realize you forgot your coin-purse. When it rains, and you slip on a puddle, covered from head to toe in muddied filth. Or when an idiot can't hold his mead, and while your escorting him to the cells, the dumb bastard relieves himself on your boot.

A supposed dragon attacking the Western Watch-Tower?

Bad day doesn't even begin to cover it.

"Here," startled, the younger Nord looked up to see Wulfgeir, the old man holding out a bottle of ale to him. Muttering a quick thanks, the man took a small sip, eyes scanning the tavern. Most of the guards here were drinking, some smoking from their pipes or gambling, many chattering about the news like a couple of gossips. Nothing new there, but the atmosphere of the tavern had changed –

Fear was on the tongues of every man, every woman. The Civil War was something that everyone expected. Many were tried of shedding their blood for the Empire, sacrificing themselves in their wars.

When the Great War happened, many had marched off with the names of Talos, of Shor and Ysgramor upon their lips. The corpses of the fallen were still buried, far from the lands of their birth, beneath of foreign earth of Cyrodiil and Hammerfell.

Many had died at the hands of the Thalmor. Not just Nords, but Bretons, Redguards, Dunmer, Argonians, even those to defected from the Dominion and joined the ranks of the Legion. Countless lives lost – all to sign a piece of parchment with the same demands that led to the war.

Was it any surprise, that the signing of the White-Gold Concordat was so ill-received?

And now? Now they had to deal with the possibility of sodding Dragons.

"Hopefully Sindri and Svenja made it out." The old guards ears were still as sharp as ever, and Leif nodded in agreement. The newest members of Whiterun's guards were at the Western Watch-Tower, but with the way current events are, Leif can only hope they both made it out. He sent a quick prayer to Stendarr, just in case, as he drank more of his ale.

"Did'ja hear anything else?"

"No, nothing new. The Jarl had sent that housecarl of his with a small group. Freki- hold on," Wulfgeir glanced around the tavern, and hollered out, "has anyone seen Freki?"

"He's out back, takin' a piss. Why?" The reply came from Geri, the great brute of a man who was trying to chat with Ysolda. The young woman looked annoyed more than anything else, so getting the hint, the man lumbered his way to their table, sitting down in the empty chair.

"We're wanting to know if anything new happened." A quick shake lf the head, and Wulfgeir raised his tankard. Taking a long draft, Geri turned to the younger Nord, "What d'you think about all of this?"

"If it's a hoax, then whatever bastard came up with it, is going to have my boot up his arse." A bark of laughter came from Geri, and another who over heard them chimed in with a, "get in line!" and a gleeful yell of "me first!"

Another voice could be heard, questioning, "maybe its bandits?" The mutterings of the tavern changed, the buzzing of whether or not to believe the rumors was quickly silenced, when the doors were slammed open.

A haggard young man, red faced from exhaustion, sweat and blood dripping down his face; burst into the tavern. Everyone was shocked into silence, taking in his ragged appearance, his charred arm that he held to his chest. Blue eyes were wide, shock etched into his face, mouth moving with nothing coming out. As though realizing where he was, young Sindri managed to speak –

"They- it. It came, it came and its nothing but death with wings." The poor boy sputtered out, before stumbling to the ground. Many of the patrons rushed to help him, yelling for someone to get a healer or even wake up Arcadia. Leif couldn't make out what was said, but the word "fire" was said. One of the tavern-goers tried to get Sindri to let go of his arm, to check it – and upon letting it go, some burnt sticks he held in his hand plopped on the floor.

"Mara's grace, those were his fingers." Leif heard Wulfgeir speak, somehow over the din of worried and questioning voices. Some were spouting all manner of questions, while others were trying to help; it wasn't until a voice yelled out over all the others, "Move, get out of the way!"

Danica Pure-Spring, the priestess of Kynareth, moved through the crowd; and as she did, she began to survey the young man, taking note of his injuries. A touch of pity was seen upon her face, as the warm glow of Restoration magic gathered in her palms, she spoke. "Easy… Sindri, yes?"

The young man still spoke, "It came, fire and death with wings- it swooped down and, and grabbed Svenja-" Heavy tears rolled down his face, breath choking and throat constricting, "It, it grabbed her and- and I tried. I tried to save her, I-"

"You did everything you could Sindri." Wulfgeir spoke, and to Leif's surprise, was kneeling next to the young man. "Your sister-"

"-is dead! Because, because of that- that thing!" He yelled, spit flying from his lips, "We tried! Arrows, swords, axes, Irelith's spells – it shrugged them off! We were grabbed at with its, its teeth- tossed around like-" He sucked in a deep breath, a vicious litany of swears coming from him as Danica began to work in earnest.

As Sindri stared into the golden glow of her magic, his eyes… his eyes held a light to them. "But… it was slain. Not by us – but the-" Blue eyes looked around in wonder, at the faces of those who were listening intently. The dullness of his eyes faded, the tears still marked a trail through the blood and sweat that painted his features.

It wasn't an emotion that Leif was familiar with, but it sent a shiver down his spine at the sight of it.

All held their breath, their hearts stilling at the next words that came from Sindri – disbelief marked the faces of some, shock and awe in the faces of others. There were those who scoffed, who held denial on the tip of their tongues – but many had the spark of hope, the spark of childish dreams that are born from the tales of ancient legends and myths, of heroic stories and grand adventures.

Rekindled at the words of Sindri –

"By the Dragonborn."

Authors Note - Hello there, wonderful reader! I hope you enjoyed this small story of mine, although I still don't know whether or not to put an M-rating or a T-rating on it.

I wanted this to explore some of the NPC's that we usually pass by, normally because we have heroic stuff to do (or no-so heroic stuff.) We usually take on the role of the hero, its hard to remember that the normal people of Skyrim don't have the ability to have a shouting match with a dragon. (Even though in game, they try to attack a Blood Dragon with untempered Iron Daggers to help you out, bless their dumbass little hearts.)

I'm new to this site, and I hope to make more stories in the future. I would love to improve my writing, so please let me know if there are any errors. Constructive criticism is welcomed!

I hope that your day/evening is going well - stay safe out there!

Inquisitor Waffle