(AN: A new chapter and more information will be added shortly. I just hope i can get all of my ideas cohesively into this story. If you were attentive, more than a few hints were dropped in the last chapter about things that will happen or be mentioned. Plenty of seeds planted, let's just hope they sprout.)
(For those who were wondering what i have against Oblivion. Well, at a very superficial level, i just didn't enjoy the game. Aside from having to look at potato faces with their robotic eye and head movements, after i got out of the Imperial prison, i got lost, ran out of gold and was killed by the town guard ["Stop right there, criminal scum! Nobody breaks the law on MY watch!"] for having no money to pay whatever fine i incurred. At a deeper level, the user-unfriendly mechanics of the game reminded me of why i haven't delved deeper into role-playing games: the spirit of elitism. Every time i was interested, all the RPGers, like the metal-head community, acted like a high school clique. "Oh, you're not 'one of us', so you can't know what we know!", that kind of shit. I think it's also interesting that the elitist RPG power fantasy [in regular RPGs, it's "you're the savior of the world and get the girl", whereas in michael kirkbride's "vision" of the Elder Scrolls, it's "you are god", but essentially the same thing] is undermined in games like Oblivion and Fallout 3, where you're not the main focus of the story, and yet those games are beloved.)
(Which is why i pray once again...for reviews. My goal in the beginning was to make this story, and the lore thereof, somewhat accessible for everyone. I don't know if that's the case if i'm not getting reviews. Hell, even the negative ones will make me look back critically at what i've written to see if i can make it better!)
Mists and Shadows
It was some time around midnight when Sigrun finally awoke. The first things she felt were the intense throbbing in her head and the dryness of her mouth. Then came the stinging in her left eye, which was still swollen shut. Her right eye could see very little, only the flicker of a torch coming from the other side of the bars down the hall. As she tried to move, she found that her body was sore. Then it began to dawn upon her, bit by bit, everything that had transpired in the bar. The words Sjof had callously thrown about, talking about him like that: her father, the Dragonborn, First of the Sons of Skyrim. His words still stung her, even after the fight was over and done with. Not that she believed them, or even entertained the idea of wanting to believe them. Such a thing could not be farther from her mind.
And yet the words remained, like an evil worm gnawing at the insides of her mind. Making its way, piece by piece, to an old memory. A very painful memory.
Turning her head around, so that her good eye could see in the cell into which she had been placed, Sigrun saw Jonna nodding away at her left. An involuntary shudder in her leg sent a shiver through Jonna's body, and she swatted at the pile of hay upon which they were both sitting. The shorter girl wearily leaned back into her former position, her eyelids creaking open from the sudden jolt. It was then that she noticed her cell-mate was awake.
"Sig?" she muttered. "You're awake?"
"Hey," Sigrun whispered. "Are you alright?"
"Who, me?" Jonna asked. A wide yawn escaped her lips, but her hands were too weary to rise up and cover her mouth. "Oh, I should be asking you that question. That thing, that half-orc or whatever it was, slammed your face so hard into the bar, I thought it had broken something. Your eye is a mess."
"I'm alright," sighed Sigrun. "At least, I think so. I'm still sore from the fight, and I can't open my left eye."
"We'll get it looked at, once we're out of here, that is," Jonna stated.
"Where is here?" Sigrun asked.
"Dragonsreach dungeon," Jonna returned.
"We're in jail?" Sigrun queried, a hint of alarm in her voice.
"That's why I told you," Jonna stated. "Not to drag me into your little brawl."
"I thought you were never afraid of fighting," Sigrun retorted.
"And I'm not," Jonna shook her head. "And I'll be damned before I let you get into a fight without me having your back."
Sigrun hung her head, though at the moment she couldn't quite articulate why she felt ashamed. "I didn't ask you to have my back."
"And you'll never have to, sis," Jonna replied.
There was silence for a moment in the little cell. As Sigrun tried to fight off how badly Sjof's words made her feel, what Jonna had just admitted made her feel just as bad, if not worse. Nobody knew Jonna Jordisdottir better than she did, and at last she began to articulate in her mind what her heart already felt. They had left home together, with the unspoken promise to protect each other wherever they went. That she had doubted this at the beginning and had thought of turning back made Sigrun feel ashamed. She had thought she was better than this. Now, however, having been bloodied and beaten in her first encounter, and with negative emotions abounding in this dark, dank, depressive cell, Sigrun began entertaining the idea of going back home once again.
Another loud yawn escaped Jonna's lips nearby, breaking Sigrun's line of thought.
"Are you alright?" she asked again. "You never answered me the first time."
"I'm just tired," sighed Jonna. "I didn't sleep at all while we were here."
"Why not?" asked Sigrun.
"Those damn guards," Jonna began. "They threw us into the same cell and started making jests and taunting us. I think they thought we were lovers or something and wanted to see if we'd start fucking."
"Language!" Sigrun instinctively parroted her mother's words.
"They're not around anymore," Jonna retorted. "Anyway, seeing that we weren't getting busy, some of them thought we needed a little...persuasion. Don't worry, though: they got nothing out of us but a few swift kicks to the knees. That pissed them off, but thankfully their captain found the noise they were making too loud and came down to investigate. He sent them away for insubordination and placed new guards for us."
"You should have woken me up," Sigrun added. "I could have helped you."
"I tried waking you up," Jonna returned. "But that guard must have really put you under good. Then again, there wasn't much left to put under: you'd already started getting silly and after being smashed into the bar, it's a miracle you got out with only a black eye."
"Yeah, really miraculous," Sigrun sighed. She groaned from the aches in her stomach, then shifted to get a more comfortable position. "Jons, can I ask you something?"
"Sure."
"Last night is still...pretty fuzzy," Sigrun groaned. "Do you perchance know what's going to happen to us now?"
"Well, we're in jail, obviously," Jonna replied. "I remember that asshole captain talking about lashes. I guess we'll be whipped for starting the fight."
"You didn't start anything," Sigrun mumbled. "It was me who threw the first punch."
"And I stood up for you," Jonna added. "And that asshole ordered lashes for me too." Jonna sighed. "A fine time for our first day in Whiterun, don't you think?"
"I had hoped to join the Companions," Sigrun said. "Or at least talk to the Harbinger. Papa always spoke highly of her."
The dungeon was dark, and though her bruises ached, sleep was overcoming Sigrun. The last thing she clearly heard was Jonna wondering aloud where old Sori had disappeared to. He hadn't tried to stop the brawl from beginning and hadn't intervened throughout it. Indeed, he had strangely disappeared at some point between Jonna's talk with the town drunk and the onset of the brawl. Sigrun racked her brains, trying to see if she could place him, but her head throbbed like a beating war-drum. Under its agonizing rhythm, she surrendered to sleep.
In the twilight hours, the soft gasp of wind is often mistaken for the howling of a wolf or the whisper of some evil specter. In such times, those unfortunate enough to be enthralled by the doleful voices of the night find themselves robbed of sleep as alertness keeps them wary of dangers lurking for them in the shadows. In contrast, the Dragonsreach dungeon was rather quiet. The night-guards had fallen asleep, and the torches were burning low, uttering only a murmurous crackle and casting light only on their immediate surroundings. Ever and anon a mouse or rat would squeak somewhere from the darkness. The two women were fast asleep and did not stir at these clandestine noises.
So it was that the sound of footsteps on the dry stones of the dungeon floor was enough to stir one of them from sleep. At first Sigrun thought it was either the guards or Jonna, pacing about the cell. As far as she could recall, Jonna was still awake when she herself had fallen asleep and, for all she knew, might still be awake now. The warmth radiating to her left proved that she was mistaken: Jonna had also fallen into slumber. Sigrun was ready to resign herself to the fact that it was merely the guards and go back to sleep: then came into mind what Jonna had said about the guards earlier. The sound of booted footsteps was getting closer.
Her eyes darted towards the bars. The hall outside the dungeon was dimly lit, for the torches burned low, casting little light, and she could not see far. A dark shadow passed over the light, distorted beyond recognition. It was tall and long, but there was something wholly unnatural about that shadow: it seemed, to Sigrun's eyes, laden with sleep and alert from the sounds of the twilight, that the shadow danced and moved. Not as though the flame itself were moving to cause the shadow to dance, but as if the shadow itself was moving outside of that which cast it. Before she could get a second glance at the moving shadow, it had melded into the darkness outside of the flickering torch-light and was gone.
One of the torches suddenly was lifted out of its scone on the wall and began to move towards her. A figure there appeared, holding the light ahead, but it was too faint to discern who the figure was. Slowly it approached, its boots making the same soft, dull thudding steps Sigrun had heard before. Now the figure was at the bars of the cell: the clanking of a key-chain was heard. Sigrun pushed herself up against the wall of the cell as best she could, fearing what this newcomer might do to them. The rippling shadow had put her on-guard, and even the opening of her cell-door was not enough to assuage her fears. The key clicked in the lock and, with a loud, noisy groan of protest, the iron hinges let the door be pushed open.
The figure was now standing in the cell with them, holding the torch forward to cast light on the sleeping women. In its light, Sigrun could make out a face. The newcomer was a man, of adult years but still young: he had short, dark, wavy hair and no beard. The clothes he wore were not the garb of the Imperial guards, but their color was lost in the darkness that illuminated no farther down than the man's shoulders. The eyes stood out the most to Sigrun: bold and blue, they seemed to lurch out hungrily at her from within the man's face. They did not seem to be human eyes, but rather like the eyes of some wild animal. Years ago, Sigrun had seen a wolf lurking in the shadows of the forest one evening: it disturbed her how much this man's eyes resembled those of that wolf.
"There's a trap door under the hay you're laying on, Sigrun," the man spoke. He spoke cultured, as though he had been educated, but his voice had a slight drawl that suggested the patience of a hunter. "It leads to a tunnel that will take you all the way out to the Plains District."
This had been the absolute last thing Sigrun had expected. Not only from her guest, but to happen at all. She knew no one outside of her family and the few friends of her father and mother who had stopped at Lakeview Manor from time to time. Who was this strange man standing before her and why was he helping her? And how did he know her?
"I know, Sigrun, I know," the man said again. "Why is this strange man with wolf's eyes standing in your cell, offering to let you escape from jail?" He chuckled softly, but it was a haughty chuckle: he knew much more than he was letting on, and it pleased him to withhold that knowledge.
But his words made Sigrun's skin crawl. She hadn't spoken a word, and yet the man seemed to know what she had thought of him. Even more than that, the detail was beyond uncanny. Why had he used those precise words in describing himself to her? Words that he could not possibly have known. Yet for some reason he knew those words, even as he knew her name though they had never met.
The man tutted. "Poor, poor Lucia. You want to know where she is, don't you? Where your beloved sister ran off to, right? Well, here's your chance."
Sigrun froze where she lay. This man knew too much. She hadn't told anyone else about her desire to find Lucia, not even Jonna. Though they had grown close together throughout the years, Sigrun and Jonna, she always missed her older sister. There were memories, fond ones, that existed solely between Sigrun and Lucia. Good memories, ones so powerful in Sigrun's mind that they dispelled the painful ones. In her heart, she had hoped she might learn of Lucia's whereabouts on her journey with Jonna through Skyrim; yet she had spoken nothing of it to her, not yet.
But this man knew! How could he know? How in all of Tamriel, could this one fellow know things which Sigrun had not spoken to anyone in her family? The two eyes now seemed to be hiding some dark, portentous knowledge. Was this man even flesh and blood? There had been stories that the spirits of the dead, shut out from Sovngarde, wandered the earth in aimless, restless abandon, uncovering secrets no mortal could know. Even still there were other stories of beings of terrible power, beings that existed outside the world of the living but were not counted among the dead. Her father had rarely spoken of the daedra, the lords of Oblivion; but every time he spoke of them, his words were cautionary.
Meddle not with the daedra, my daughter, he had said. For they exact high tolls for their favor. Though they do not ask for payment immediately, they will collect their due in time. The cost, however, is greater than any can possibly afford.
Sigrun had never pressed her father as to how he knew such things. It was assumed that he learned of this during his many adventures. But the words gave her a great sense of foreboding every time the daedra were mentioned: which, thankfully, was not often. Now, however, her mind, stirred by the mysterious man in the shadows with the wolfish eyes, dared to wonder if this man was a daedra in disguise. How else could he know things the secret things of her heart, things which she had told neither man nor woman, mer nor beast, living or dead.
"Oi! Wake up, you!"
The voice that spoke was loud, so loud that it hurt Sigrun's ears to hear it after the silence of the darkness and the patient drawl of her guest. Suddenly she was soaked from head to toe in ice cold water. If the voice hadn't roused her from sleep, the water certainly had. Gasping and sputtering, she found herself lying on now damp straw in the cell with Jonna coughing and cursing next to her. As she looked around, Sigrun saw an Imperial guard with a bucket in his hands standing on the other side of the bars.
"You're free to go," the guard said bluntly. There was no anger or disappointment in his voice: only a cold statement of fact.
"Free?" Jonna asked. "Just like that?"
"Just like that," the guard replied. "Your bail's been paid."
The guard unlocked the door of the cell as Sigrun and Jonna slowly rose to their feet. The door was pushed open, and Sigrun heard the tell-tale whine of the iron hinges; the same noise that had sounded when the mysterious stranger appeared in her cell. But while she was still wrapped up in thoughts about her visitor, Jonna was surprised that they had been so suddenly released.
"What about the stripes?" she asked without thinking. "Didn't your captain say something about beating us for the bar fight?"
"Heh!" the guard scoffed. "Asking why you escaped punishment: not something a prisoner would often say. Just be grateful your worthless Nord hide got off so easily, if your kind are even capable of gratitude. Now get your arse up the stairs and out of the dungeon, before the captain changes his mind."
The two women made their way out of the cell. Sigrun spared a quick glance at the guard: his face was broader than that of her visitor, and his voice had no drawl. Though in the darkness of night she had decided that her visitor had not been of mortal-kind, the sudden and unexpected release in the light of day caused her to look about in curiosity. Had it been a dream, or had her visitor been real?
Jonna's concerns, meanwhile, were on the things of the moment. She didn't trust the guards as far as she could kick them, and she noticed that more than a few of them were glaring at the two women as they made their way out of the dungeon. Jonna kept her hands clenched, but made no move against any of them. Even so, it stung to endure their howls, whistles, drawling mockeries and taunts when she knew she could shut at least a few of them up before they got to her.
Out from the dungeon they went up a flight of stairs into an open-air courtyard ringed with a wall of wood and stone: they were inside the Cloud District. There they saw the captain of the Imperial guard standing beside the door. Next to him were Sori and Dag: the older man had a look of quiet distress on his face when they first saw him, while the young man seemed rather bored with himself. The old man's face changed when he saw the two women, lighting up with relief that they were here without complications. Then his eyes fell upon Sigrun's face and his countenance fell yet again.
"There y'are!" he exclaimed. "Gods be prai...oh, no! Sigrun, what happened to ye?"
"They started a bar-fight in the Bannered Mare," the captain stated.
"Thank ye, cap'n," Sori said in an aside, his eyes fixed on the two women. "If it's all th' same to ye, I'd like to hear it from them."
"Why? My word ain't good enough?" the captain asked. "I'm an Imperial officer, mind you. A soldier of the Red Legion: a man of honor. Is my word held in less regard than the word of two Nord b*tches?"
"I know exactly what y'are, cap'n," Sori muttered through clenched teeth.
The captain scoffed. "Watch yourself, old man. If word ever gets out that you've been dealing with Nords, as I suspect, I'll personally string you up from the walls of the city."
"Good day, cap'n," Sori nodded.
Once they met, the old man led them away from the doors of the dungeon and toward a flight of stone steps that led down from the Cloud District.
"So, what happened?" Sori asked, once he guessed they were out of earshot of the captain.
"A bar-fight," Jonna replied. "Some big, ugly beast bashed Sigrun's face into the bar." With that, the women went into a quick recount of the fight, with details about their two belligerents.
"Ah," Sori murmured in a disapproving tone, once they had concluded.
"We didn't start the fight," Sigrun clarified. "This hairy bastard was insulting my father."
"Him and half o' Skyrim, no doubt," Sori replied. "Do ye plan on fightin' half o' Skyrim over account of a few hurtful words?"
"He's my father!" Sigrun retorted, raising her voice. "Doesn't honor mean anything anymore?"
"Not what it used to," Sori sighed. "Nevertheless, the two o' ye are still in my employ. If ye keep startin' fights in every tavern we visit, I'll have to reduce yer pay. I've already put meself out by puttin' forward yer bail money."
"For which we're extremely grateful," Jonna added.
"And so ye should be!" Sori retorted. "Punishment fer pickin' fights with half-Orcs is high, very high."
"Why is that?" Jonna asked.
"Because they 'protected' by Imperial law," Sori stated. "Worst part is most o' 'em don't look no different out-wise than Nords. Maybe a few Orcish features: slopin' brow, big lower jaw, tusks, that sort o' thing. But it's rare to meet one that looked like y'all said."
"Why are they protected?" Sigrun asked.
Just as Sori was about to answer, he suddenly went quiet, looking ahead at the path before them. The main drag that led through the Wind District and back down the hill towards the lower Plains District was filled with people. Two groups seemed to be meeting in the middle of the street, blocking traffic for everyone else. The two groups were so on edge that it seemed there was going to be a confrontation between the two of them. On their right were men and women of various races, led by a tall, golden-skinned mer dressed in black: both him and those behind him all wore badges of a black and white kite shield backed by two crossed swords. On the left was a group of similar diversity, though there were more Nords in this group than the other: they wore no badges or any indicators of rank. At their head was a middle-aged Nord woman with flaming red hair and green war-paint upon her face.
"What are you doing here, Ardorin?" the woman asked.
"Trust me, woman," the elf called Ardorin replied. "There are an infinite number of things I'd prefer doing this early in the morning than coming within wind of your filthy mead hall. As it so happens, I have business with you."
"Is that so?" the red-haired woman returned. "Well, I have business with you."
"My business is more important than yours, Eela," Ardorin stated authoritatively. "Or is it Ayalla?"
"It's Aela, you preening fuck!" the red-haired woman stated. "My business is blood: our blood. Two Companions were killed on assignment near the border of Haafingar."
"Bah!" Ardorin dismissed. "Two fewer Nords in Skyrim? That's a blessing, really! You should be paying me for the service we've done for Tamriel: in fact, you should just pay me anyways. After all, your little band of thugs raided a cart of supplies meant for the Fighters Guild Hall."
"Raiding your pathetic caravans?" Aela retorted. "We don't need to raid your supplies. We have plenty of our own."
"Lies fall from your lips so easily, Huntress," Ardorin retorted. "Perhaps I should take it up with the earl, or whatever you savages call your local leaders."
"Watch your tongue, you Thalmor dog..."
"Or what?" Ardorin laughed. "You'll cut it out? You know the law."
"Aye, I know the law," Aela retorted. "And you've broken it!"
Ardorin threw back his head and laughed a loud, mocking laugh. "In what way have we broken the law?"
"Killing members of the Companions," Aela stated. Those behind her gave cries of agreement.
"The Fighters Guild keeps this land free of beasts," Ardorin replied, taking a menacing step towards the Nord woman. Though they were both tall, the elf was taller and glared down his thin, pointed nose at the Nord woman, whose eyes looked as though they would have burned holes into the elf's skull.
"One day," he said. "Your secret will be known to all and your little gang of thugs won't have anywhere left to hide in all of Tamriel."
"Is that a threat?" Aela replied.
"Oh, I don't threaten anyone," Ardorin replied with a condescending chuckle. "I merely inform the ignorant rabble of the truth." He took a step back, a smug smile on his face. "They told me fierce tales of you Companions when we first set up here in this wretched country: likely cautionary stories to send us packing. A pity the tales were all lies." The red-haired woman spat at the elf's feet, then the two groups slowly dispersed. Once the road was clear, the little group of four made their way down the road.
"Was that the Companions?" Jonna asked Sori.
"Aye, what's left o' 'em," Sori replied.
"What do you mean?" asked Jonna.
"Ever since th' Emperor brought th' Fighters Guild to Skyrim," Sori began. "There's been nothin' but trouble. First it was little things: quarrels over contracts, over who could pick up jobs in which place, little stuff. Then the killin's started happenin'. A Companion got into a quarrel in broad daylight in the streets of Skyrim, and was cut down. In front o' everyone!"
"Wait, how is that possible?" Sigrun asked. "We had our weapons taken from us the moment we tried to enter Whiterun."
"So we did," Sori replied. "And th' Companions also were forced to submit to this law as well. The Fighters Guild weren't. They said that because they have 'professional training rings' in their hall, they need an exception to the weapons ban."
"So the Fighters Guild can carry weapons wherever they go?" asked Jonna.
"Aye," nodded Sori. "And they killed a Companion because o' it. Naturally, the Companions wanted blood, but they weren't allowed to kill the offender. As for the Guild, they got off with a nominal fine fer the incident. Bah!"
"Isn't anyone else upset by this?" Sigrun asked.
"To be sure, some are," Sori replied. "Takin' away o' folks traditions ain't never gone down well in the history o' Tamriel. But what can they do? The poor folk can't fight without weapons, and there ain't many o' th' clans left who ain't in th' Empire's pocket. Clan Battle-Born, for instance. They was one o' th' most renown families in all o' Whiterun. Then the Great War came and they accepted th' Empire's money to support th' White-Gold Concordant, or whatever the fuck it's called. They got richer 'cuz o' it, but they throw out th' old traditions whenever 'convenient.'"
"Surely there must be someone willing to help," Sigrun added hopefully. "Someone with the means to turn things around and the desire to do it."
Sori scoffed. "Those with th' means ain't lookin' out for nobody but theyselves. And those with th' desire end up dead ere long. Now hurry along, we've gotta long day ahead o' us."
They made their way down from the Wind District in sullen silence. Sigrun was especially struck by what Sori had said. The stories her father told her about the Sons of Skyrim made her believe that there were some dedicated to protecting Skyrim and her people: many of whom were still alive, since 'business with the Sons of Skyrim' often took Eirik away from home. Yet the bleak picture painted by Sori and supported by what she saw in the city of Whiterun - even as they were leaving the Wind District, she could hear another prisoner behind them pleading for his life as he was taken away to be executed - seemed to shatter all hope of what she had been told.
But the dark, hopeless cloud did not linger long in the heart of Sigrun Eiriksdottir. Nor did she, as Sori, merely curse the darkness and turn away with head bowed in defeat. Within her mind a candle was lit: only the smallest tongue of flame, so fragile that even the gentlest winds of the mountains threatened to extinguish it. More than seeking adventure, even more than finding Lucia, Sigrun wanted to find someone, anyone, who would no longer tolerate the injustices of the Empire and her Legions. Perhaps it was the optimistic naivete of youth, inexperience with matters of political reformation, or faith in the Nine Divines that made her believe that, if people could be found who were willing, the means would come in time.
They arrived at the stables outside of Whiterun, where a rather flustered-looking Breton gave them their weapons. Sori asked him what had happened to Lloryth, but the short, middle-aged man ignored his questions. Instead, he rambled on about how the guards were going to have his hide if they discovered the stables were unmanned and then went about his business, making sure that the horse for Sori's wagon was groomed and well-fed. Then he returned the weapons to Sigrun and Jonna. Once they were thus ready, Sori opened a barrel of salted venison, brushed off as much salt as he could from a small cut, and offered it to Sigrun.
"Place this here on yer eye," he told her. "Should 'elp with th' swellin'."
They then climbed aboard the wagon and, after Sori urged the horse with a click of the reins, they were on their way down the hill. For the first few minutes they rode in silence, not daring to look leftward, towards the walls of Whiterun. After a while, they reached a fork in the road and turned the cart left. This path, Sori told them, would take them northward, towards their final destination in the Pale. A journey of two or three days was ahead of them, most of which would be through bitter cold; the Pale was clad in snow all year around.
As they passed along the eastern wall of Whiterun, Sigrun, seated in the back of the cart with Jonna, who was going over their gear, was musing on their sudden departure. She knew that they hadn't killed the dark elf at the stables, so why was he missing? It then dawned upon Sigrun that she hadn't ever killed someone before in her life. She had killed more than a few animals: that slaughter-fish, a rabid wolf that had attacked the animal pen at Lakeview Manor, whatever had been caught during hunting trips (she was never very good at hunting; archery was not her strong suit and as soon as she missed a deer or rabbit, they would often get away before she could fit an arrow to the string for a second shot), and a few rats that made the basement their home. All of those, however, were necessary: the fish bit her, the wolf was rabid and would have harmed both their domestic animals and anyone it might have bitten, the rats were pests, and those who didn't live in the affluent counties of Cyrodiil relied on gathering and hunting their own food.
But never before had she killed a person, whether man, mer or beast-folk. Fighting with Jonna had been almost a game, something they did for enjoyment.
"Jons?" she asked.
"Hmm?"
"Do you ever think we'll run into any trouble along our way?" she asked.
Jonna scoffed. "Of course we will. It's Skyrim, after all. Half the stories we've heard about it being dangerous can't all be untrue, despite what your mother says."
"Then," Sigrun continued. "Do you think we'll be forced to kill someone? I mean, not just wild animals, but someone...you know, a person?"
Jonna nodded. "Yeah. What do you think your sword's for? Not everyone we meet will be as easy to chase off as those 'Sisters of Strife'. What's the matter, having second thoughts about coming along?"
"No, not that," Sigrun dismissed. Going back had been put out of her mind a while ago, and their stay in the Dragonsreach dungeon had only solidified that reality. "It's just, well, I never really thought we'd be killing someone. After seeing those people up on the walls...I don't know if I could do it."
"That's why my master said don't look," Dag interjected.
"Keep your nose to yourself or have it broken!" Jonna retorted, then turned back to Sigrun. "Look, my mother told me a thing or two about fighting. Probably the same shit you heard from your mother and father. But I think it will do you good to hear this."
"Why?" Sigrun asked.
"Because my ma didn't have the same lifestyle as your ma and da," Jonna began. "Both of your parents were on their own at young ages. My ma grew up in the court of Solitude. Granted, our home isn't exactly Solitude, but she didn't see battle until she was in her twenties. A lot like you, really."
"Alright," Sigrun returned. "So what did your mother say?"
"Pretty much the same thing you're saying, too," Jonna replied. "Living in the comfort of the Blue Palace, she never thought she'd actually have to kill someone: that's what the guards were there for. Then the moment she faced real battle, there wasn't any thought about whether she would be able to kill or not. There was just her, the enemy, and the fire that burned in her veins every time their swords met or she blocked a blow with her shield."
"Fire?" asked Sigrun.
"Yes," Jonna nodded. "Ma said that it could make one cower beneath their shield in fear, or go berserk in the thickest lines of the enemy. She said that if you mastered the flame, in the thick of battle, you'll know what to do. Besides..." She patted the little pile where the sword, axe and shields were laying. "...your da didn't train us for nothing. We know how to defend ourselves, right? Don't you even remember last night? You bit off that Sjof's nose!"
"His whole nose?" Sigrun chuckled painfully, her ribs aching from last night's blows.
"Well, maybe not the whole nose," Jonna returned with a shrug. "But you bit off a pretty large piece of it. He was bleeding and cursing so much, I thought you'd taken off more. And besides that, we're still together. It'll be alright."
"If you say so," Sigrun replied, adjusting the meat slab on her face.
The morning passed slowly. In the east there were dark clouds and vapors that hid all lands beyond the Valtheim Towers. Upon the heights of the mountains north and east clouds lingered, but here in the valleys the skies were cool and clear. On the north rode rumbled the little cart with its four passengers. They might have enjoyed this bright, shining morning were it not for the events of last night. Sori was giving the two women a piece of his mind.
"Didn' get no trade fer all the trouble I went through in Whiterun," he stated. "Nothin' sold, nothin' gained."
Despite the constant assault of comments on how Sori had financially lost in their visit to Whiterun, Sigrun and Jonna seemed not to be paying much attention. Jonna, who had come off no worse for wear from the bar-fight, was whistling merrily. Sigrun's eye still stung, but the swelling was starting to go down.
As the morning gave way to noon, they all began to feel a rumbling in their stomachs. However, Sori insisted that they hold off their afternoon meal until they reached Heljarchen Hall. The lord of Heljarchen, he said, was a friend of his, though absent from home more than present due to differences with Idgrod, the Jarl of Morthal: one well compensated by the Emperor for her cooperation in both the Civil War and the enacting of the current set of laws. The servants were always there, however, and kept the order of the house and were permitted to welcome Sori and Dag if they happened to stop by.
"Who is the lord of Heljarchen?" Jonna asked.
"Only met 'im once," Sori began. "Never saw 'is face or 'eard 'im speak. We met in secret on a dark night in some place I can't remember. 'e was hooded an' cloaked an' we spoke through one of 'is servants."
"How do you know it was a he, then?" asked Sigrun.
"Don't," Sori shrugged. "Just made 'im a 'e in the tellin', you know? Like th' 'ero o' Kvatch: no one remembers nothin' about 'im or 'er, so they paint 'im or 'er as they see fit, see? Anyhow, long story short, I tell 'im, or 'er, about what I do and 'e must 'ave liked it. Told 'is servants to let me stay at 'is 'ouse if I 'appen to pass through."
"What do you know about him?" Sigrun inquired.
"Must 'ave been someone important," Sori continued. "What with all th' money they raised to build Heljarchen Hall."
"Okay, we understand," Jonna sighed. "We lost you money in Whiterun. It won't happen again."
"Damn straight it won't," Sori replied. "But never you mind that jus' right now, then; I'm tellin' a story. Th' lord o' 'eljarchen must 'ave 'ad the coin to build th' 'all. But as it goes, there must 'ave been some sort o' fallin' out with th' Jarl and th' Imperial Legion. Elsewise why always on th' run?"
"You never asked?" Sigrun asked.
"Eh, trust be told," Sori returned. "Wasn't exactly me best moment, that time we met. Seein' as 'ow I ended up in what looked like a prison, I was jus' grateful to be a free man th' next day. Didn' ask 'o it was that plucked me out o' what I was in at th' time. But that's that, then."
"Are you sure there's nothing else you know about him?" Sigrun asked.
"Why you wanna know?"
"Well, if he's been on the run from the Empire," Sigrun continued. "And if he has money, perhaps he would be willing to do something about what the Empire's been doing."
Sori chuckled. "Good luck findin' i'm. Never leaves so much as an address to find 'im at every time I visit."
At last the cart came to a stop at the bottom of a hill on the edge of the northern mountains. Near the top of that hill, nestled among the mountains, was Heljarchen Hall. They turned the cart off the road and braced themselves as they galloped up the uneven, bumpy foot-path that led from the main road up to the hall. One of the servants hailed them down, and Sori returned the greeting. Sori, who had been here before and trusted the servants of the lord, handed the reins of the wagon to the servant who greeted them, asking him to feed and tend to the horse while they went up to the house to introduce themselves to the servants. This done, they walked uphill the rest of the way - shorter than the ride up here - to the doors of the hall. They were welcomed into the hall and, since it was the afternoon meal, allowed to eat something of what the servants had made for themselves. Sigrun was impressed that even the servants of the lord of Heljarchen ate as well as their lord.
"The master is rarely home," the head servant explained. "But we have orders to always prepare hot meals. Should the lord, or his friends, arrive, there will always be food for them. If not, the lord has told us to eat it ourselves, so that we are strengthened in our duties and that the food be not wasted."
"Sounds like a decent fellow, your master," Jonna commented.
"Thank you, milady," the servant bowed. "Now, if you will excuse me..."
"Just a moment, now," Sigrun interjected. "Would it be possible to send your master a message?"
"I'm sorry, but that's not possible," the servant replied, his voice suddenly measured and wary where, a moment ago, it had been warm and cordial.
"I don't want to know where he is," Sigrun added. "I can't say here. See, we have business in the Pale, so we have to be going soon. But if you do see your master, I wanted to tell him something."
"And what would that be?" the servant inquired.
"The daughter of the Dragonborn," she spoke. "Seeks those of means who have an interest in protecting Skyrim and her people. If your master is of the same mind, I would ask him to seek me out."
"I see," the servant said in return. "I will see what we can do about that."
They finished their meal in relative silence, and Sori saved a warm bowl, a slice of cheese, a water-skin full of clean water and a small loaf of bread for the rest of the journey. Once they had eaten, Sori paid his thanks to the servants of the lord of Heljarchen, then took the women with him and, returning to the wagon, rode it back down the hill to the road and continued on their merry way.
The further into the mountains they passed, the colder it became. Soon little flakes of snow were drifting lazily down from the sky. Sori and Dag donned thick, woolen cloaks and the women wrapped themselves in the blankets they had brought with them: both of them thankful that they had prepared for colder weather. As they went, Sigrun was looking all around them at the frigid land. There were still trees here, fragrant pines, full firs, and hardy ironwoods, that were dressed in snow like shimmering garments of silver. The air also was clear and cold and she breathed deeply, feeling refreshed and invigorated with each breath: the slab of meat she threw away, for the pain and swelling were now no longer bothering her.
Jonna, however, was a little concerned.
"I thought we were going to Dawnstar in the Pale," she spoke up.
"That we are, now," Sori replied.
"By way of Morthal?" Jonna asked.
"No, can't go that way," Sori shook his head. "Our journey'd be twice as long, seein' as we'd 'ave to go through all o' th' plains o' Whiterun. An' it's far too close t' Haafingar. We'd run into plenty o' Imperial patrols down that ways. Then there's th' mists, as well."
"The mists?" Jonna inquired.
"Morthal's surrounded by 'em," Sori stated.
"Don't listen to him," Dag interjected. "He's been listening to too many stories in drunken bars."
"Shut up, lad!" Sori grumbled.
"Sir, it's a city in a marsh," Dag stated. "Of course there's mists around it."
"Aye," Sori nodded. "But no other marsh-borne cities 'as mists as snatch ye up an' drag ye away into th' blackness."
"When did these mists start?" Jonna asked.
"No one knows," shrugged Sori. "A lot o' folk blame the Ravencrone family: see, they's th' ones rulin' Morthal. They's a strange lot an' no mistake, cavortin' with wizards an' such."
"You don't trust wizards?" asked Jonna.
"I'm wary o' everythin' these days," Sori stated. "But in Morthal, there's a story about a wizard as came t' town over eighteen year ago. Since then, strange things happen in Morthal. A lot o' folk said 'e was th' start o' all their troubles. But whether 'e was th' start or no, 'e certainly wasn't th' fix o' th' problem. No one's been able t' lift th' mists from Morthal."
Just then, the cold wind that had been whistling through the trees on their right-hand, carried the softest howl that was not of the wind.
"There be wolves about these 'ills," Sori muttered. "We may meet 'em ere nightfall. Time t' earn yer keep, ladies."
"Good," Jonna grinned. "I've been itching for a fight. Sigrun, you hear that?"
But Sigrun did not answer. While they were talking of the mists, she was looking about them at the beautiful landscape. As the howling of wolves was heard, she noticed a familiar figure, hooded and cloaked and bearing a staff, briefly flit between the trees behind them.
"Sig, did you hear that?" Jonna repeated. Sigrun grunted her reply. "What's the matter?" She told Jonna about what she had seen.
"Do you think it's the same one we saw at the stones?" Jonna whispered. "Do you think he brought the wolves with him?"
"I don't know," Sigrun shook her head. "But there's something about him I don't like."
"Then keep your hand on your sword," Jonna advised, a hint of battle-hunger in her voice. "We might be in for a fight soon."
(AN: Ulcerative colitis recovery and World of Warcraft take a lot of time away from writing. Not just me, but my brother [he doesn't have a laptop, so he has to use mine to access his characters]. And with low energy from UC, getting to the library is probably out of the question.)
(And just to be clear, my brother did NOT suggest the "what if Skyrim was good" video series. That was not him! Like the creator of said video series, he worships Oblivion, but it was not him. I didn't refer to that person by name because i didn't want to start anything with either him or those who agree with him)
(I try to use everything i put in my stories, so even though i discovered that the path that led near Heljarchen Hall would put them out of the way of Morthal, i do intend on using that as well. And yes, i know that, legally, Heljarchen Hall is in the Pale. But I would also imagine that it is a point of contention among the three holds, Hjaalmarch, the Pale and Whiterun. It lies on a place that is relatively within striking distance of each hold, but it is also remote enough to be semi-autonomous from Dawnstar. That is why we have a 'lord of Heljarchen', someone who owes allegiance to the Jarl of Dawnstar but is a semi-autonomous noble, who is close enough to Morthal to cause problems. More on this in future chapters [which i hope will be coming sooner])