(AN: In the last chapter, I had Bujold cut off the riekling chieftain's head and claim the kill as her own to reference yet another disappointing moment in gaming history: the treatment of Grom Hellscream in Warlords of Draenor. He's built up to be the big bad that everyone has to face at the end of the expansion [and potentially leading for some intriguing character development for Thrall], but then he's side-lined and becomes a coward who got imprisoned by Gul'dan, steals the credit for a kill you make for himself, and has his little line at the end to pretend like he wasn't the one leading the Iron Horde, invading Azeroth, and trying to wipe us all out. Shameful.)

(But we've spent enough time on Solstheim for now: here we return to Skyrim to see just what's up with the other half of our adventuring group.)

A Legacy of Lies II

From the docks at Windhelm, Jonna made her way up to the main thoroughfare of the city, and then north to the Palace of the Kings. The burden of the war was now upon her, and it was her responsibility to ensure that Eirik acted in the interests of Skyrim and her people. Before her mind started to second-guess herself, as it was prone to do in Sigrun's absence, she knew that she had to be Eirik's shadow. Wherever he went, she would go; whatever he did, she would be privy to. She had to know what he was doing in order to plan their next move.

Once she passed the gates again, she made a right turn instead of a left turn, thinking she had already come to the thoroughfare. Instead, she found that she was walking down a narrow corridor into a part of town she hadn't seen yet. The street was particularly crowded, and there were many shacks built on top of buildings, creating a dark atmosphere as the houses shut out the light of the morning sun. In the narrow streets, many figures in strange garb were walking about: all of them gray-faced and red-eyed. Some were busy on their own personal business, others were chattering in their own native tongue. Some were kneeling on rugs, with their faces eastward, praying for the 'Healing Mother, Lady of Mercy' to look down upon them with kindness, forgive them their sins against her, heal their ancient land, and lead them back to it in peace and safety. Yet as Jonna made her way through the streets, all eyes turned toward her: not a single one of them was friendly.

As she was walking, she bumped into a street vendor who was selling books. The Dunmer turned to Jonna and scowled at her.

"Watch where you're going, you filthy n'wah!" he snarled, then took his wares to another part of the street. Jonna noticed that, as he was leaving, one of his books had fallen out from his bag. Kneeling down, she picked it up and examined the cover: on it was written 'Dunmer of Skyrim' by Athal Sarys. Even as she was rising up, a stone hit her on the back of her head.

"N'wah b*tch!" another shouted at her. "Go back to your Stone Quarter! We don't serve your kind!"

"When we have this land as our own," another added. "You snow-backs will be our slaves and serve us! You, well..." He laughed, his tongue licking his dark lips. "...we have just the place for whores like you!"

"You take that back!" Jonna retorted.

"Why don't you make me, little n'wah whore?" the elf retorted.

"Get the fetch out of here, whore!" another added. "Or we'll do to you as Lord Vivec did to the snow-back demon Barfuck!" He then took his companion and demonstrated the incident in question from the ninth lesson of Vivec: shoving his head back and forth against his crotch.

Jonna turned to leave, but was hit on the back of her left shoulder with a handful of horse-shit.

"Like that, b*tch?" one mocked. "Does that remind you of home? Does it remind you of mummy?"

"Is it true that you people make armor out of shit and fur?" another one laughed.

"I heard they don't have souls," another one said, taking a step closer toward Jonna. She was now turned around and saw their advance: there were three of them, each one taller than her.

"Let's open her up and find out!" the first one threatened.

Jonna took off running back up the stairs as fast as she could. But she had to get up a flight of stairs with her short legs; and the Dunmer were taller than her. Within moments they were on her. Two held each of her arms, and the other came toward her from the front, seizing her by the chin and trying to force her mouth open. It seemed impossible that she would survive their hands.

Just then one of the assailants was struck on the back of his bald head by a stone thrown from further up the stairs.

"Gray-skinned scum!" a Nord voice cried out. "Why don't you pick on someone your own size?"

"Fetch off, bigot!" another one retorted. "Or you'll be next."

"This here is Nord country," the newcomer said, as he made his way down the stairs. "And we don't take kindly to gray-skins molestin' our women for the fun o'it."

"We do what we like to who we like!" another one shouted. "Now get stuffed, n'wah!"

"This how you repay the goodwill o'the High King?" the Nord said. "Pickin' on little girls to suit your sick fancies? Now piss off back to Morrowind, or I'll show you why they call me Stone-Fist."

"Why?" another one asked. "Do you fist your mother every night?"

"Knowing this one," the first one said, pointing to the newcomer. "He probably fists himself and licks his own hand." The three Dunmer laughed in jest.

But their laughter died on their lips as the stranger sent a powerful punch straight to the face of one of the ones holding Jonna's left arm. The second one dropped Jonna's right arm and went swinging at the newcomer. He parried the blow and sent another one straight into his face. Now that Jonna was free, she kicked the first one, who held her chin, in the groin with her knee. Howling he fell to the stones, crying and clutching his groin.

"Bigot! Racist! Bully!" one of the thugs shouted as he ran back into the Grey Quarter. "General Tullius will hear about this! Lord Sarys will hear about this!"

"Your kind's days are numbered!" the other one shouted. "You're dead, snow-back! I swear to ALMSIVI!" The third one could only howl and whimper in pain as he limped back after his fellows.

"Save your breath, gray-skins!" the Nord retorted. "The Empire doesn't exist out here, nor do your dead gods." He then turned to Jonna and offered her a hand-up. "You alright, kinswoman?"

"I think so," Jonna breathed. "Thank you for coming in when you did."

"I usually come down 'ere to give them gray-skins a piece o'me mind," he said. "It's lucky for you I came when I did. Name's Rolff Stone-Fist."

"Jonna Strong-Voice," she replied. "Say, could you show me the way to the Palace of the Kings?"

"You're not from Windhelm, are you, kinswoman?" Rolff asked. "Kinfolk 'round here would know better than t'take shortcuts through the Grey Quarter." He then pointed back up the steps and directed her back to the thoroughfare, where she'd find her way to the Palace of the Kings much safer than cutting through here. Jonna thanked him, then hurried on her way, eager to get out of the Grey Quarter before another accident happened.

The book was still in her hands.

When she finally arrived at the gates of the Palace of the Kings, Jonna took a moment to catch her breath near one of the lit braziers. She wrapped the book in her cloak, and to prepare herself for entering the palace, rubbed the back of her shoulders, then buried her hands in the bits of snow on the ground around the brazier, before breathing hard and stepping forward to the doors of the palace.

Inside, she saw Eirik and Mjoll sitting at a table in the middle of the great, stony hall with Ulfric Stormcloak: she had recognized him from Riften. With them was a bear of a man, large of body and wearing bear-skins as well. As she approached them, she heard that they were deep in conversation about what had happened in Whiterun. Remembering that she had to be aware of what was going on, in order to advise Eirik in the days ahead, she listened in to what was being said.

"I seriously underestimated you!" the bear-clad man growled. "Challenging Balgruuf's rule in the middle of Whiterun!"

"I wanted to convince as many as I could," Eirik replied.

"We can only wait and see if your words have any weight with them," Ulfric uttered. "Now, then, we have work to do. I'd wager if you went through the towns friendly to us, speaking as you did, men and women would be lining up to join us. Especially since you're the Dragonborn."

"I'd much rather be part of the preparations for war," Eirik said. "I'm not much of a speaker myself, truth be told. I'm a warrior. Fighting is what I should be doing."

Ulfric paused, sniffed the air, then turned to Jonna. "Can I help you?"

"If you're here to petition the Jarl, speak with his steward by the throne," the bear-clad man said.

"I'm with Eirik," Jonna said. "I want to speak to him as soon as possible."

"You can wait outside!"

"Patience, Galmar," Ulfric dismissed. He then turned back to Jonna. "I remember you from Riften. You were with our mutual acquaintance, the Dragonborn. You caused the commotion in the center of town that allowed us to take Mistveil Keep. You've done me a great service, for which I will not forget." He turned to Galmar. "She can stay. She's one of us." He gestured to a place at the table beside Eirik, where Jonna sat.

"Now, then," he said. "What was so important that you interrupted our meeting to say it?"

"This is for Eirik..." Jonna was about to say, then halted. "...but it concerns everyone here. Especially you Ulf...Jarl Ulfric, your highness."

"You call me Your Highness?" Ulfric asked. "Even though the crown is not on my head?"

"You are our High King, sire," Jonna replied. "It's only natural that I address you as such."

Galmar chuckled. "Well said, well said. If only more people were so quick to recognize their true king."

"I'm listening," Ulfric said to Jonna.

"Well, I think something needs to be done about the Dunmer in Windhelm," Jonna said.

"Yes, yes!" Galmar nodded. "My brother's been trying to get me to do something about them for years!"

"Why should we do something now?" Eirik asked.

"They attacked me while I was returning from the docks!" Jonna answered.

"Divines, no!" Mjoll exclaimed.

"It's true!"

Eirik turned to Ulfric. "My Jarl...your highness, can't we do something about this? Maybe send some of the hold guards down there and teach them a lesson?"

"We have a war to win," Ulfric replied. "If I divest men and time into policing the Grey Quarter, we'll be vulnerable. Not to mention the capital of Morrowind is only four days' journey from here. If there's to be any action taken against the dark elves, it should be when Skyrim is whole and able to defend itself against any possible reprisals from Blacklight."

"What if we don't have time?" Jonna asked. "What if they're planning something? Something big, something that could spell the end of the war for us, no matter how much we've caught the Empire off-guard."

"They'd be fools to try anything," Ulfric retorted. "The High King of Skyrim let them live free and ungoverned in our land, beholden to no laws but their own: and a High King could revoke that welcome just as easily."

"Surely they can't all be bad," Mjoll commented. "Even so, it must be a difficult straight for the dark elves right now."

"Explain yourself, Lioness," Ulfric said.

"They're beholden to no one, save the Armistice," Mjoll continued. "If I remember it correctly, it makes them in all but name citizens of the Empire. If they claim that to give them right to live here, it would put them in the camp of the Imperials."

"I doubt the Dunmer would renounce the Armistice and swear allegiance to Skyrim," Ulfric answered. "It's allowed them to continue living after their own fashion. Besides, they've always viewed us as their enemies. Nevertheless, the war is our main focus." He turned to Eirik. "Now that Whiterun is in our sights, we should plan our next move."

"I intend to answer his challenge," said Eirik. "Once we've taken and barricaded the Valtheim Towers. I've been that way dozens of times: it's a choke-point between our holdings here and Whiterun. If we let the Empire take it, it will be difficult to get our men into a position to attack Whiterun: but if we have it, we'll not only control the pass, but we'll have a watch on the surrounding area. We'll be able to see what the Empire is up to."

"A fine suggestion," Ulfric stated. "Galmar, what do you think?"

"Taking Whiterun is our key," the bear-clad warrior said. "The Unblooded's plan might just work."

"Very well," Ulfric said. "I'll send word to my captains to prepare a company to take the Valtheim Towers. You, Eirik, will lead them, since this is your plan."

"When will we be ready?" he returned.

"Two days," Ulfric replied. "We have to send scouts to sound out the lands around our holdings. The Empire hasn't acted since the Rift, and it makes me nervous. Tullius is planning something, I can feel it."

Ulfric and Galmar dismissed themselves, then went off to the private war room to continue planning together. Eirik and Mjoll then went back to Candlehearth Hall, and Jonna followed along with them. They were both taller than her, and it took all of her effort to catch up to them.

"Um, excuse me?" she asked. "Do either of you know where one could have a bath around here?"

It was to Jonna's surprise that, once they returned to the inn, they found out that Candlehearth Hall had a basement with baths for their customers. Without a second thought, she headed downstairs, paid the extra twenty septim fee for use of one of the baths, then made her way to one in a secluded room. The assistants - all of them women - lined a large wooden tub with a soft white linen cloth, then dumped buckets of steaming hot water into the tub. Once it was full, they drew back the curtains on the small room and left Jonna to herself.

Jonna tore off her armor and let her clothes lie on the floor next to the tub, then she climbed inside. She let out a pleased moan as she immersed herself in the warm water: a hundred summer dips in Lake Ilinalta were nothing compared to a hot bath on a cold day up here in the north. For a moment, she forgot everything else save for the warmth of her tub, as her mind wandered here and there. She thought of her mother, and where she was in all of this: likely Solitude. Soon they would have to march on Solitude, and when that happened, what would become of her mother? She recalled Serana's warnings, and feared that if her mother or her infant self were harmed at all during the Siege of Solitude, she may very well die. It made her head ache for a good solid minute; she tied back her hair and pressed her face into the water. After coming out with a gasp, she felt slightly better.

As she let her hair down onto her bare shoulders, Jonna's right hand reached down to her garb. Before the bath, she had done her best to clean the shit-stains from her cloak and clothes, but the stench was still there. Now, however, her fingers alighted on the book that had been stored in her cloak. Curiosity coupled with boredom led her to pick up the book, open it, and read therefrom quietly. What she read was the most blatant example of the haughty arrogance of the Dunmer she had seen so far. Athal Sarys elaborated in most snobbish terms his race's slow invasion of Skyrim through Windhelm, listing off establishments where his people held the majority, where Dunmer customs were upheld, and where old names were replaced with new names to indicate how they, not the white-skinned yellow-haired "apes", as Sarys called Jonna and her people, were now in control. The last words of all were the most telling.

'So now, "children of Skyrim," you have the truth of it. You may call this province home, but you can no sooner claim to own it than a cow can claim to own its master's field. You are just another breed of domestic animal, grazing stupidly while higher beings plot your slaughter.'

With a look of disgust on her face, Jonna heaved the book against the opposite wall. And immediately after she did that, she realized that she shouldn't. She had to show this to Eirik immediately. This could be the turning point, which caused him to make up his mind. She smiled; Sigrun would be so pleased with her.

After the bath, she dried herself off at the nearby fire-pit, where the water was heated. She then went back to dressing herself, then picked up Dunmer of Skyrim and went off to find Eirik again. They weren't in their rooms, and when Jonna asked the barkeeper, she said that they had gone to the shops to buy supplies. Jonna thanked her, and then took off westward, where the innkeeper had directed her. At a small forge, she found Eirik and Mjoll looking over the wares of an old Nord man and his dark-haired assistant. Jonna ran over to them and placed the book in Eirik's hand, demanding that he read it immediately. He read it carefully, and Mjoll looked at the words at his side. When he got to the end, a tenseness filled the air.

"Gods!" Mjoll exclaimed. "I can't believe they'd say this."

"I can," Eirik replied. "I've faced there ire back in Raven Rock. And after what you said earlier, about being attacked, and what Sigrun tried to tell me. It has to stop now."

"What will you do?" Mjoll asked.

"I'm going to find whoever wrote this book and show him what slaughter looks like," said Eirik in reply. He walked away, on his way towards the Grey Quarter. Mjoll had to apologize to the blacksmith, then follow after him with Jonna in tow. Across the length of Windhelm they went, coming at last to the top of the steps that led down into the Grey Quarter, where Jonna had been accosted. At the top of the stairs, Eirik halted and cried out in a voice that shook the stones around them:

"Athal!"

Over and over he cried out his name, slowly making his way into the filth-ridden, crowded alleyway. Most of the Dunmer there shook at the sound of his voice, for it reminded them of the demons they had heard about in the stories of their Tribunal gods: they hid their faces, stuffed their hands over their pointed ears, and looked petrified. Some of the bolder ones glared at him with their red eyes and called curses upon him in their own tongue.

"Where is Athal Sarys?" Eirik demanded. "I must have words with him."

"What's it to you, n'wah?" one of the elves spat.

"I am the Dragonborn," he replied.

"And I'm Lord Vivec!" another elf mockingly replied. This sent peels of laughter from his fellows, as well as some of those around him.

"Fus...Ro Dah!" Eirik Shouted into the air. There was a loud clap of thunder, and the Dunmer cowered before his voice.

"I am the Dragonborn," Eirik repeated. "And I demand to speak to the one who threatens my people with slaughter and enslavement."

"You don't deserve nothing, s'wit!" one snapped. "Athal Sarys is a god among mer, second only to the glory of the Three-in-One."

"It's alright, I have nothing to hide," a Dunmer voice sneered. One stepped out of the building marked as 'New Gnisis Cornerclub' and entered the streets. He was clad in the clothes of a Nord peasant, with a long dark beard and long hair that fell down past his shoulders.

"There you are, ape," sneered the Dunmer. "You've been calling for me, now here I am."

"You're Athal Sarys?"

"I am."

"You wrote Dunmer of Skyrim?"

"Every word."

"In Skyrim, those are fighting words," Eirik returned.

"Is that so?" Sarys retorted. "And how else should the master race speak to the ignorant slaves who make war against their betters?"

"You've got some stones on you," Eirik returned. "To take advantage of our hospitality."

"The hospitality of a stupid white Nord?" sneered Sarys. "The tender mercies of an ignorant brutish enemy? We should be so honored that our ancient enemy, the least among the misbegotten race of men, would condescend to be so good to us poor, helpless little dark elves!" He let out a mocking laugh.

"I've just about had enough of you," Eirik said.

"Oh, please," Sarys mocked. "What will you do? Pray to your dead gods to save you? Bah! Unlike your Talos or all your other wester gods, the Three-in-One are real; the Three-in-One are alive. Through the power of ALMSIVI, they elevate the Dunmer people to the level of gods! So tell me, with whatever capacity you have for thought in that kwama-egg-sized brain of yours, Nord: what's a dead dog to a god?"

All the Dunmer in the Grey Quarter laughed out loud. Eirik drew his sword and gritted his teeth in retort. Some of them were silent and hid themselves from the one who had caused the sky to shake with his very Voice. Athal Sarys, meanwhile, was unperturbed.

"All that strength for nothing, n'wah," he sneered. "You can't bully us into silence, and you can't kill us."

"Try me, b*tch!" Eirik retorted.

"If you kill me, then I become a hero, a saint of the Dunmer people," Sarys taunted. "All the Dunmer of Skyrim will flock to my cause, and then..." He laughed. "...and then, wester: you will become our slaves, if we let you live, that is."

"Keep talking!" Eirik shouted. "Give me a reason to Shout every last one of you red-eyed bastards into the sea!"

"No, please, my lord!" the voice of a woman cried out from the crowd. To Eirik's surprise, he saw a Dunmer woman come running out from among the crowds and throw herself on her knees in the cold between Eirik and Athal Sarys. The type of clothes she wore he could not place: they didn't look Nordic or Imperial. Certainly the designs upon her sheer garments - the daedric letters Ayem, Vehk, and Seht repeated over and over - were not from anywhere local. But there was something in her round, pleasant face, pleading eyes, and simpering look of sincerity that disarmed him.

"Do not let the sins of one mer ignite your wrath against all of us!" the Dunmer woman begged.

"Get out of the way, woman!" Sarys demanded. She merely looked back at him, and he was silent. She turned back to Eirik, crawling forward on her hands and knees.

"I've heard about you, Dragonborn," she continued. "They say that you are strong and mighty, but also kind and merciful. I ask that you show mercy now to us, we poor, simple dark elves. We have nowhere else to go: they hate us back in Morrowind for our affiliation to House Hlaalu, they'd kill us all if we returned...if the Argonians and nix-hounds didn't kill us first. This land is all we have: you can't throw us out, you mustn't! By the old Tribunal and the new, and by your gods as well, I beg you, show mercy!" She threw herself at Eirik's feet, prostrate to the ground.

Eirik hesitated. His blood still boiled to avenge himself on the mer who had threatened him and his people. He also thought of Jonna and Sigrun, each of who had been abused by them. It would be right to ignore her words and strike them down. But as he looked down at this scantily-clad Dunmer woman, begging and pleading at his feet, he couldn't bring himself to do it. There was something in her face, beyond the red eyes, tapered ears, and gaunt skull-like features, that warmed his heart: something that reminded him of a home nestled in the woods of Falkreath, and a face he hadn't seen in twenty years.

He turned about and began walking away. Some of those in the crowd shook their heads and went back to their work; others hurled insults back at him, and some remarked about how a whore had saved the Grey Quarter. As for the woman, she was following after Eirik, kissing the ground he walked upon and thanking him over and over.

"Please," Eirik said. "It's not necessary."

"Oh, but it is," she replied. "You've saved my people. I am eternally in your debt. Let me know if there's anything I can do for you: I'm yours."

"How can you do this?" Eirik asked. "I didn't do anything."

"You restrained your wrath," the woman replied. "I may be a woman of the night, but I'm a religious mer. The Lady of Mercy looks kindly upon your deeds; the one who I have devoted myself to serving."

At this, Jonna walked down to where Eirik stood and whispered into his ears. As she was pulling away, she made a start. For half a second, a hideous apparition had appeared before the face of the Dunmer on the ground before Eirik. But just as soon as it had appeared, it vanished. Jonna shook her head, wondering what had just happened.

"Uh, thank you, miss, but we really have to get going," Eirik said.

"If you ever need anything," the woman said after them. "Speak to Luaffyn at Candlehearth Hall: ask for Serys Ulvan. Three blessings upon you, sirrah!"

From the Grey Quarter, they walked over to the Stone Quarter, into the marketplace. Eirik and Jonna made their way over to Oengul War-Anvil's smithy, where they had some business. On the way over here, Jonna had reminded Eirik of what Sigrun had told them: concerning the armor used by the hold guards as well as the rebellion. Eirik was amenable to this, and so decided to take Jonna to the smithy to see what ideas she could present.

"Master War-Anvil!" Eirik called out.

"Aye?" he replied. "Out with it, now. I'm a busy man."

"My companion here has something to ask you," he said, gesturing to Jonna. "A request of sorts."

"Let's make this quick, girl," Oengul said to Jonna. "I've got a lot of steel to forge for the Stormcloak army."

"That's why I'm here," Jonna began. "The army needs a new kind of armor."

Oengul looked up from his anvil. "New kind of armor? What's wrong with what they wear right now?"

"It's not going to be enough against the Imperial Legions."

"Worked just fine for the past year."

"Well, we need new armor to get an edge on the Legion just the same," Jonna continued. "Something similar to what they have before, but more protecting. Instead of a gambeson of leather scales, how about..." She thought for a moment, then began to demonstrate on her body with her hands as she explained to Oengul her idea.

"How about...some lamellar? Yeah, hardened leather; with a fauld going down to just above the knees. And a larger chainmail hauberk. And instead of fur boots and gloves, some steel plates around the wrists and ankles. And a different kind of helmet."

"What's wrong with the helmets they use now?" Oengul replied. "It's the stuff common to the holds of Skyrim: easy to come by, easy to make."

"But it hides the face," Jonna replied. "We have no reason to hide who we are: we're the sons and daughters of Skyrim, we should look our enemies in the face as we kill them, to let them know just who we are." She looked around the workshop and picked up a steel helmet from the armorer's workbench. "Something like this: a simple but effective cap of steel. Maybe with a bit of a spectacle here instead of a nose-guard."

Oengul seemed surprised at what he had heard. "You know a bit about armor, I take it."

"My mother was a huscarl," she replied. "She knew the ins and outs of armor and taught me all that I know. Now, can you do this?"

Oengul stroked his beard pensively. "Possibly. But to get so much metal for the gauntlets, greaves, helmets, not to mention all the rings for the hauberks, will take a lot of time. We might not have enough steel for the swords and axes."

"Then make spears," Jonna replied. "You'll save the steel and give our soldiers a long-range weapon they can throw or wield that should keep the Imperials off them."

"There haven't been spears in Skyrim since before the time of the Septims," Oengul stated. "Once the Empire took every corner of Tamriel, there wasn't much need for warfare."

"Well, now there is," said Jonna. "And Skyrim is going to be bringing spears back into use. Find all the usable wood you can get your hands on: use mattocks or pick-axes if you have to. Just make as many spears as you can get ready."

"And who are you to make such a large order?" Oengul asked.

"She's with me," Eirik replied. "I'm the Dragonborn."

"Dragonborn, eh? Well, that changes things. I'll have to see what the Stormcloak quartermasters can provide us. In the meantime, I expect some kind of compensation for this?"

"You will be well paid, of course. We'll be sacking Valtheim within the next four days, so you'll have your money then."

"Ah, if only a man's word had weight, as it did in the old days," Oengul replied. "Word of your deeds has spread far and wide, but you've yet to do much here in Windhelm: certainly not enough for me to take you at your word. No, I'll need a substantial payment up-front first or no weapons will be made."

Jonna turned to Eirik, who shook his head; they were a bit strapped on the septims, unfortunately. Most of what they had was in a safe in Breezehome, which hadn't been taken with them owing to their hasty departure. Lydia had a little bit, but she was unaccounted for since this morning. For the present, they told Oengul that they would consider his offer and then turned to leave the Stone Quarter.

"Where are we going to get that kind of money?" Jonna asked.

"I could do a few things around here," Eirik added. "I'm sure the people would welcome the aid of the Dragonborn."

Jonna then looked about. "Where's Mjoll?"

"I thought she was right behind us," Eirik said, looking this way and that.

"Oh, gods!" Jonna exclaimed. "We need to make sure she's okay."

"I'm sure she can take care of herself."

"No, it's not just that," Jonna returned. "She's carrying Sigrun...I mean, your Sigrun, not my Sigrun. If anything happens to her baby, my Sigrun will die."

"Good point," Eirik returned. "So, where do you remember last seeing her?"

"Well, I thought I saw her going down with us to the Grey Quarter," Jonna replied; her face suddenly became white as snow. "You don't think the Dunmer got to her?"

"If they did, I'll make them wish they hadn't," Eirik said. He and Jonna then started hoofing it back to the Grey Quarter. All of a sudden, out of nowhere came Lydia right into Eirik's path; he crashed into her and they both fell onto the snow-covered stone street. Jonna was able to stop herself in time and came to a halt beside the two fallen Nords.

"Oh!" Lydia exclaimed.

"Shor's balls!" Jonna returned. "What'd you do that for?"

"I was asking around Candlehearth Hall," Lydia said. "Trying to get some news for us. Now can you please get off me?"

Eirik rose to his feet and helped Lydia onto hers.

"Now, what did you find out?" Eirik asked.

"The usual," Lydia said. "Bandits, trolls, giants, a killer on the loose, some kid contacted the Dark Brotherhood..."

"Wait, what did you say? A killer on the loose?"

"Yes," Lydia replied. "Here in Windhelm. They say he preys on young women."

Without a second thought, Eirik and Jonna both seized Lydia and dragged her along as they darted across the street towards the Grey Quarter. More than a few heads were turned at their approach, and more than a few tongues wagged and mocked them for their hurry: they didn't care. As they came to the end of the street, near a cluster of houses, they prepared to turn north and east into the Grey Quarter. But as they did, Eirik stopped. Before them, standing on the side of the street, wrapped in a warm woolen cloak, was the Dunmer woman he had encountered in the Grey Quarter earlier today.

"You!" Eirik exclaimed.

"Yes, sirrah," she replied.

"What are you doing here?" he asked. "Were you waiting for me?"

"Yes and no," she returned. "This isn't my normal beat, but I've been keeping a closer eye on the folks in Windhelm. The Butcher could be anywhere, they say: a mer has to be careful."

"The Butcher?" Jonna asked.

"That's the name for the killer," Lydia whispered to her.

"Well, did you happen to see my wife?" Eirik asked. "A Nord woman, close to my height, long reddish-blonde hair, a stripe of blue woad on the left side of her face."

"Oh, that was your wife?" asked the elf. "Three blessings upon you! She's quite a looker, even if I do say so myself. Yes, I saw her. She went into that house over there." She pointed to a house on the corner near where they had stopped.

"Thank you, miss...uh, what was your name again?"

"Serys Ulvan."

"Miss Ulvan."

"Please, call me Serys," the elf replied with a smile and a wink.

They went to the house the Dunmer pointed out. Eirik and Jonna went in first, and Eirik gave Lydia specific instructions to wait out here for them and not run off: she rolled her eyes, but agreed to his request. Inside, they saw a tiny house that had been turned into a kind of museum of sorts. Glass cases sat on nearly every shelf, with various things from all corners of Tamriel sitting inside them. They found Mjoll speaking to the owner of the museum-house: a nondescript Colovian man with a short, neatly trimmed beard. When he saw the newcomers, he turned to greet them with a smile.

"Hello there," he said. "Welcome to Calixto's House of Curiosities. I'm your host, Calixto Corrium, retired adventurer and connoisseur of rare oddities from all corners of Tamriel."

"Hello, dear!" Mjoll said, turning around to Eirik. "I saw this man's shop was open and wanted to see what he had. Ah, this really takes me back to my days of adventuring."

"What kind of things do you sell here?" Eirik asked.

"Oh, this isn't a shop," Calixto replied. "This is a museum: everything here is on display. Now you, my good man, you look like a true traditional type of Nord. I think you might find this rather interesting." He stepped over to a display case, which he unlocked with a key from his belt, and presented a dry-rotted fork.

"An old fork?" Jonna asked.

"This is an item of legend: the soup spoon of Ysgramor himself," Calixto replied, holding it aloft with a kind of reverence. "Now, I know what you're thinking: it's a fork, right? Nobody eats soup with a fork: but you don't know Ysgramor."

"Well, actually..." Eirik began.

"Ah, and here's another one from your ancient history," the museum-curator said as he placed the fork back into its case, locked it up, and continued speaking. "A rather distasteful tradition, at least to the eyes of us modern, civilized folk. Just goes to show you how much the elves have influenced our lives." With that, he opened up another display case and gestured his audience over to it. Inside were a collection of old, rusted tools.

"These were found in a crypt here in Eastmarch," Calixto said. "Scholars dictate that the old Nords used them to prepare the bodies for burial." His voice softened as he spoke next. "One has to wonder what macabre mysteries these tools would say...if they could speak." He then cleared his throat and continued in his normal fashion. "Still, they must have been effective. The remains of the ancient Nords are well-preserved, even up here in the cold and damp."

"Remarkably so," Eirik added with a knowing look to Mjoll.

"Ah, but you're not here for the ordinary, no," Calixto said. "I can see that in your eyes. You want something extraordinary. So here, let me show you something truly...special." He led them away to another corner of the room, and opened up a case with two locks upon it. Once the locks were opened, he showed them a book resting inside the case: on its cover were written the words: The Book of Fate.

"Smuggled out of the Arcane University," he said with an air of pride. "Right out from under the nose of the College of Whispers. They had it in a secret room. The writing in the book describes the fate of each reader, so it's different for every person who reads it. Go ahead, take a look."

Mjoll was the first one to pry open the book. It didn't seem very old, or at least it was in good condition.

"'A lioness must defend her cubs, and a queen will have many,'" Mjoll read aloud. "Hmm, I'll have to consider that."

Eirik was then urged to read the book. When he took it in his hands, he was amazed to see the words shifting right before his very eyes. Now they read:

"'The Jagged Crown awaits the Dragon of the North; he need only reach out and take it.'"

"Hmm, curious," Calixto commented. "I've only ever heard Tiber Septim referred to as the Dragon of the North. And the Jagged Crown!" He whistled. "Now there's a rarity I wouldn't mind adding to my collection: a shame it's lost."

Eirik said nothing; he remembered, many months ago, when the Greybeards of High Hrothgar called him as well 'Dragon of the North.' What did all this mean? Just who exactly was he? He was the son of Bjorn and Signy, that much he knew. But he had slain dragons, walked in the realms of the dead twice, been both a werewolf and a vampire and returned to his humanity alive. Who was he really and what was his mission?

"What's this, then?" Jonna asked, turning to Calixto. Eirik was roused from his thoughts. Jonna was now holding the book and looking at it, but she seemed confused.

"There's nothing written on here."

"Most curious," Calixto said. "Some have noted that they've seen nothing in the book either. No one knows precisely why: some say it means the reader was born with no predetermined destiny..." His voice lowered again. "...or maybe it signifies an imminent death?" Jonna looked at him with unease: he was making her more than a little uneasy.

Just then Lydia came into the museum. She stood in the open doorway and called for Eirik.

"You're needed at the Palace," she said.

The four of them made their way from Calixto's museum-house and back to the Palace of the Kings, avoiding the Grey Quarter this time. They made good time and were approaching the gates. But no sooner had they passed through but they realized that something was wrong. Ulfric's voice was raised as he was shouting at several Stormcloak quartermasters: something had gone terribly wrong.

"How can they just disappear?" he shouted.

"All the store-rooms were locked, my lord," one of the quartermasters said. "I would swear before Shor himself."

"I suspect the Dunmer could be involved, sir," another one stated.

"And just how did the dark elves steal into the storehouses if they were locked?"

"My lord!" Eirik called out.

Ulfric told the men to wait as he approached Eirik. "Dragonborn. I'm glad to see you came as soon as I called you. There's been...an incident."

"What do you mean?"

"Our storehouses have been emptied," Ulfric replied. "The ones for the army. We have no supplies to give our men here, or to send north and west to Winterhold and the Pale. Also our supply of weapons are gone as well. This puts us back by at least a month or so."

"What?" Eirik asked. "Emptied? But how?"

"My thoughts exactly," Ulfric said. "We're stretched pretty thin right now, trying to resupply and track down the thief, but unfortunately that means Valtheim will have to wait."

"How long will it be?"

"Jorleif and the quartermasters will need two days to assess what was lost, and what we need for ourselves and our allies in the other holds. Then, who knows how long it will take to get ourselves battle-ready. An army marches on its stomach, and ours have just been emptied."

"Do you think you'll be ready before the first of First Seed?"

"I gave you my word, didn't I? I hold that as good to you as I do to the rest of Skyrim. One way or another, we will be in Whiterun before then. It'll just be more difficult. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to address the damage done by the theft of our supplies."

Eirik bowed, then turned to Mjoll, Lydia, and Jonna; there was a heavy look on his face.

"Looks like we'll have to settle in at Candlehearth; we're going to be here for a very long time."

(AN: This chapter, like the one before it, is where things start to go south for our heroes. Since I threw Calixto in there, there's a high chance that we're going down the murder mystery sub-plot. Hopefully we can complete that before the Dark Brotherhood finally shows up.)

(I'll try not to give away anything that's going on so far, so as to not spoil the mystery. I will only say these things. The design of the new Stormcloak armor is based on the Guard Armor Replacer mod variation for the Stormcloak armor. As far as the spear thing goes, there really isn't any "concrete" evidence for why spears went out of use [except for Kirkbride's self-insert M'aiq just telling people they're stupid for wanting them: you know, like with throwing weapons, crossbows, and multiplayer]. I'm sure one of my dedicated reviewers [all two of you] can come up with a better reason for why spears disappeared than I did. The line about turning mattocks or pick-axes into spears comes from John Wycliffe's translation of the Bible, particularly Joel 3:10)