Rena could hardly believe her eyes. Before her, Skathi had slain a dragon. Its skin had burned off and the flames had turned into the Nord but didn't burn her. She was even unaffected by the dragon's breathing fire. Her armor had been rent and parts of her hair were singed, but her skin bore no scar. How could anyone exist like this?

But then again, she could very well be in a haze from the flames. The heat and closing air could cause some delusions, right? Especially for her, who had such sensitivity to these things. Still, she should check if this was real or not.

Rena approached the scene and Skathi awkwardly put her sword away and descended the dragon skeleton. Despite being a dragon slayer, she still had the lack of grace she'd seen in Bleak Falls Barrow. She still acted like the awkward tall child, despite maybe being a year younger than Rena. She only hoped whatever horrors awaited her would be kind.

"So," the Imperial spoke up, "this was a thing."

Skathi seemed not to notice her at first and almost jumped. "I guess," she shakily replied.

Rena was about to ask if she was okay, but a Nordic voice came behind her. "I can't believe it!" one of the guards proclaimed, "You're... Dragonborn..."

Skathi's lip pursed and her eyes went wide with stress. "Dragonborn?" Skathi asked, "What do you mean?"

"In the very oldest tales, back when there still were dragons in Skyrim, the Dragonborn would slay dragons and steal their power," he explained, "That's what you did, isn't it? Absorbed that dragon's power?"

The outsider sighed and said, "I think you may be right."

"There's only one way to find out," he said, "Try to Shout. According to the old legends, only the Dragonborn can Shout without training, the way the dragons do."

"Dragonborn?" another guard asked, "What are you talking about?"

"That's right! My grandfather used to tell stories about the Dragonborn. Those born with the Dragon Blood in 'em. Like old Tiber Septim himself."

"I never heard of Tiber Septim killing any dragons."

"There weren't any dragons then, idiot. 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. You must be one!"

"What do you say Irileth?" a guard asked, "You're being awfully quiet."

"Come on, Irileth, tell us, do you believe in this Dragonborn business?"

Irileth, much like Rena, wasn't a Nord. She was a Dunmer, unlikely to know of any Dragonborn legends. Even if it was true and Skathi was one of them, why treat her with such reverence? She was a child with the body of a grown woman, not some great warrior. If anything, she was a worn doll on the verge of tearing. She had the look of it.

She hmphed "Some of you would be better off keeping quiet than flapping your gums on matters you don't know anything about," she remarked, "Here's a dead dragon, and that's something I definitely understand. Now we know we can kill them. But I don't need some mythical Dragonborn. Someone who can put down a dragon is more than enough for me."

"You wouldn't understand, Housecarl," a guard said, "You ain't a Nord."

"I've been all across Tamriel," she barked defensive, "I've seen plenty of things just as outlandish as this. I'd advise you all to trust in the strength of your sword arm over tales and legends."

"If you really are Dragonborn, like the old tales, you ought to be able to Shout," a guard asked Skathi, "Can you? Have you tried?"

Rena remembered the rumors of Ulfric Stormcloak, of how he shouted King Torygg apart. She doubted such a thing could be done, but seeing Captain Ansgar's display, perhaps it was possible. It was then that she remembered what happened to Captain Ansgar.

The Imperial bolted across the field. She passed burning grass and charcoal soldiers; the devastation of the dragon laid bare before her. The cries of frightened and dying horses pierced air, clouded by smoke. Medics tried to mitigate the damage, but arrived too late to save many poor souls, Arkay finding them too soon. This was only one dragon. And there were more. Rena prayed the Divines would grant them mercy.

Rena found Ansgar's mauled body by two Legionnaires that were picking him up. Quickly, it became clear he was still alive and conscious. Despite being worn by the Rift's dangers and being chewed and thrown a dragon, he looked none the worse for wear. It looked like nothing would kill him.

Well, maybe his wounds if familiar company had their way. Commander Caius was back. He had been clearly frightened by the ordeal, but the only effect on his demeanor towards the Legionnaires was just being far more awkward.

"I'm sorry, captain," he stated, "but you still need to clear out."

Ansgar looked like he was ready to kill them, but his Legionnaires held him back. They knew he would only hurt himself like this. Even if his wounds didn't betray him in one step forward, he couldn't do anything. Caius's bloody corpse would do nothing but inform the Jarl to send a company down to wipe them out, maybe even join the Ulfric's cause.

And then something bizarre happened. Led by an officer in bear-skin armor, Stormcloak soldiers rode up to this meeting, swords sheathed and a cart behind them. The fact that they made it this far in the hold was improbable, but their passive approach was plain alien to the battle-hardened Legion soldiers. They and the Whiterun guard drew blades, but the officers did not match them.

"Stay your blade, warriors," the officer cautioned, "We aren't here for battle."

Caius was about to speak, but Ansgar beat him to the punch. "What in Oblivion are you doing here?" he barked.

"We were here to watch over your return to Imperial territory," the officer explained, getting off her horse, "but you have earned our aid."

Rena almost sighed a breath of relief, but Ansgar wasn't so happy. "We'll let ourselves be vulnerable to your lot," he growled, "We'll be going to safe territory on our own."

One of the soldiers propping Ansgar up, an Orc, chimed in, "Captain, we're losing horses and we're not equipped to head out right now; we need their help, or we'll die."

"We will not harm you," the officer stated, "You've fought a dragon. You have earned our aid and a place in Sovngarde at least."

Ansgar was ready to bark again, but Rena stopped him. "Captain," she interrupted, "we'll die without their aid."

The captain looked to his men, even to the yet silent soldier holding him up. The Bosmer gave him a look of dead honesty, almost like a mother disciplining a child. He sighed; his stubborn pride defeated this time.

The Stormcloaks brought a cart over and the injured were loaded up, including Ansgar. The soldiers that could still ride rode beside it down the road, the sunsetting to their right. It was certain they wouldn't make it far, just to Falkreath and they would follow the roads west to Markarth and north to Solitude. This was going through Rena's mind when something else bought her attention.

"Dovahkiin!"

A shout so powerful, everyone heard it. Whatever it said, it gave Rena a foreboding sense. It sounded important, but what did it mean?

Everyone was talking about one thing in Whiterun: Dovahkiin. No one knew what the word meant, nor did they know why it echo from the highest peak to the lowest valley. All they knew was some ancient forces were at work and they deserved attention, or all might suffer. They were unready for whatever awaited them, as most would admit, but they stand against any foe before them.

Skathi herself did not know what it meant either. She slew a dragon that could not burn her and was declared the Dragonborn for it. Then someone the mountain peaks declared "Dovahkiin" to the world, something she did not know the meaning of it, but it felt like she could almost understand it. Maybe it meant "Dragonborn," but what then? What would she do from there? Kill whatever other dragons still roam? It seemed too big a task for her.

She walked the same way up to Dragonsreach she did when she first came to Whiterun. It was quieter in the early evening than the afternoon. Probably because that damn preacher was absent from corner. She came to the citadel, all the guards looking at her strangely, and Proventus came to her as she entered the hall.

"Good. You're finally here," he remarked, "The Jarl's been waiting for you."

Skathi followed him to the throne and Balgruuf was speaking with this man in scaled armor, battle-harden from the looks of him. They did not seem to mind her damaged cuirass, though perhaps it was because only the sleeves were gone, her torso piece still intact. As she approached, she began to catch what they were saying. It was the obvious for this situation.

"You heard the summons. What else could it mean?" Balgruuf asked the man beside him, "The Greybeards."

The warrior turned to Skathi, having notice her entrance. "We were just talking about you," he stated, "My brother needs a word with you."

The Jarl turned to the outsider. "So, what happened at the watchtower?" he inquired, "Was the dragon there?"

"The watchtower was destroyed, but we killed the dragon," she reported. That was the most she was certain she could say.

"I knew I could count on Irileth," he remarked with a good friend's pride, "But there must be more to it than that."

"Turns out I may be something called 'Dragonborn,'" she explained, nervously. It felt like bragging, to claim such things. It was like bringing up your ancestor was a glorious warrior unprompted.

"Dragonborn?" he exclaimed, "What do you know about the Dragonborn?"

"That's just what the men called me," she muttered.

"Not just the men," he remarked, "The Greybeards seem to think the same thing."

"The Greybeards?" she asked. Skathi never heard of them before. Were they the ones that cried "Dovahkiin"?

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

"What do these Greybeards want with me?" she asked.

"The Dragonborn is uniquely gifted in the Voice," he exposited, "the ability to focus your vital essence into a Thu'um, or Shout. If you really are Dragonborn, they can teach you how to use your gift."

"That was the voice of the Greybeards, summoning you to High Hrothgar!" the warrior interjected, "This hasn't happened in centuries, at least. Not since Tiber Septim himself was summoned when he was still Talos of Atmora!"

So, Skathi was to follow in the footstep was Tiber Septim, the Red King, first emperor of Tamriel. It left her feeling uncomfortable. To be put on the same pedestal as a man that became Divine is frightening. While it was unsaid whether anyone would hold her in the same revere or not, it was understood she would still summon respect.

"Hrongar, calm yourself," Proventus insisted, "What does any of this Nord nonsense have to do with our friend here? Capable as she may be, I don't see any signs of her being this, what, 'Dragonborn'."

"Nord nonsense?!" the warrior named Hrongar exclaimed, "Why you puffed-up ignorant," he muttered as he took a breath, "These are our sacred traditions that go back to the founding of the First Empire!"

"Hrongar," his brother spoke in, "Don't be so hard on Avenicci."

"I meant no disrespect, of course," Proventus remarked, "It's just that what do these Greybeards want with her?"

"That's the Greybeards' business, not ours," Balgruuf replied and turned to Skathi, "Whatever happened when you killed that dragon, it revealed something in you, and the Greybeards heard it. If they think you're Dragonborn, who are we to argue? You'd better get up to High Hrothgar immediately. There's no refusing the summons of the Greybeards, it's a tremendous honor."

So, it was decided. Skathi would go to the top of High Hrothgar and do whatever the Greybeards asked of her. She was unsure if she wanted to do that. All she ever wanted was to be happy, and such a pilgrimage sounded unpleasant. The travel, mostly. She crossed a longer distance for sure, but she just disliked travel. A good, quiet place to rest and warm up with good food on her plate sounded perfect, but she believed it out of reach.

"I envy you, you know," Balgruuf remarked "To climb the Seven-Thousand Steps again." He became lost in good memories, but soon continued, "I made the pilgrimage once. Did you know that? High Hrothgar is a very peaceful place. Very disconnected from the troubles of this world. I wonder that the Greybeards even notice what's going on down here. They haven't seemed to care before." His face hardened at the thought, "No matter. Go to High Hrothgar. Learn what the Greybeards can teach you."

Then it was out of her hands. If she refused, they would know, and she would never hear the end of. She could leave them all behind; she did it before, but this made her feel worse. Why did she leave the world behind the first time? She could not remember, but it felt important, dark, wretched, repulsive.

"You've done a great deed for me and my city, Skathi Wolf-Runner," Balgruuf declared, "By my right as Jarl, I name you Thane of Whiterun. It's the greatest honor that's within my power to grant. I assign you Lydia as a personal Housecarl, and this weapon from my armory to serve as your badge of office.

A servant came and handed a great steel battle-axe none could wield with one hand. It looked as cumbersome as this position felt. First was the news that she was given this incredible power by the divines, second was some sort of court position. She never wanted this. She just wanted to be happy.

"I'll also notify my guards of your new title," Balgruuf continued, "Wouldn't want them to think your part of the common rabble, now would we? We are honored to have you as Thane of our city, Dragonborn."

The jarl turned to his steward. "Back to business, Proventus," he commanded, "We still have a city to defend."

"Yes, my lord," the steward replied.

Skathi left the court, this heavy burden in hand. She just wanted to be happy, but now was not the time. She hated this. She almost overlooked the armored woman by the doorway.

"The Jarl has appointed me to be your housecarl," the woman, presumably Lydia stated, "It's an honor to serve you."

Skathi really did not want this. "I'm a Thane," she mused, "What does that mean?"

"The Jarl has recognized you as a person of great importance in the hold. A hero," Lydia explained, "The title of Thane is an honor, a gift for your service. Guards will know to look the other way, if you let them know who you are."

"What does a housecarl do?" Skathi asked.

"As my Thane, I'm sworn to your service," Lydia replied, "I'll guard you, and all you own, with my life."

The outsider sighed. "Alright, follow me," she ordered.

Skathi stepped out the citadel to find guards and citizens alike surrounding. When they saw her, they rose their swords and empty fists, chanting, "Dragonborn!" When she descended the stairs down to the garden, more were there, chanting, "Dragonborn!" When she arrived in the market, even more chanted, "Dragonborn!"

"Dragonborn!"

Dragonborn!

Dragonborn.

She did not want this.

Jeanne and Ravani stayed in Fort Kastav for the night, being too far from Windhelm to travel for the night. They found much discussion of what "Dovahkiin" meant, many believing it referred to the Dragonborn, but Jeanne believed that was impossible; how could there be a Dragonborn when there were no Septims left? No matter; it wasn't like this Dragonborn would decide the fate of the war.

In the morning, they set out to Windhelm. They arrived well before midday, but the town was still in conversation when they arrived. It was mostly about this "Dovahkiin" and what it meant with the dragons' return. This wildfire of discussion still allowed a candlelight: a party of Stormcloaks returned from Whiterun having helped Legionnaires. Jeanne decided to follow up on that.

The Breton and Dunmer entered the Palace of Kings and came upon a scene. Another figure with a bear head helm stood before Ulfric and Galmar, this one a woman. Again, Jeanne wondered why bear head helms were so popular.

"I am aware of my orders," the woman stated, "but my honor demanded I help them to safety."

"At the expense of an advantage?" Galmar barked. It seemed that was the only way he could talk. Like Wrothgar Bretons.

"No, savage!" the warrior barked back, "They fought a dragon and lost many. I found it the only honorable thing to do."

Ulfric stayed silent and unreadable this entire time. "You would call me a savage when you would give quarter to our enemy?!" Galmar growled.

"Galmar," Ulfric spoke firmly, "step away."

The officer went to the war room like a child being told to go to his room.

"Harling," Ulfric stated, "You have done what any Nord should do. We wage war, but an act of honorable kindness was the least you could do."

The warrior, Harling, breathed a sigh of relief before Ulfric spoke again. "But there's something more pressing: did you see the Dragonborn?"

Again, and again with this Dragonborn; why was this Dragonborn so special? "I believe so," Harling stated, "A wild woman, it seems. Do we try to recruit her?"

Ulfric shook his head. "With the dragons abound," he remarked, "it is better that the most powerful force against them be fighting them, not my shield-sister. I only hope her time with the Greybeards is brief or so will this war."

Harling nodded. "There's one more thing," she stated, "There seems to be a Legionnaire that can Shout."

The Jarl furrowed his brow. "Who are they?" he inquired.

"A captain," she explained, "he seemed both a Nord and an Imperial."

Ulfric went into a moment of silence. He clenched his eyes in deep consideration. "I can only hope he isn't a threat," he muttered, "Go. Rest."

Harling left the palace, visibly confused by Jeanne's presence, but not so much when she saw Ravani. Jeanne just brushed it off and the bizarre discussion of how a shouting Legionnaire was somehow a threat to the Stormcloaks. She went to Galmar in the war room and he had a surprised expression by her existence.

"You're alive," he remarked on the obvious, "I owe Ulfric a drink. I must admit, I didn't think we'd be seeing you again. I misjudged you. You're Stormcloak material. It's time we made this official. You ready to take the Oath?"

Jeanne stood there, confused. "Oath?" she inquired. There seemed to be a lot more to this than just joining.

"Before you're one of us," Galmar explained, "you must swear fealty to Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak, future High King of Skyrim. You must also pledge unswerving loyalty to your fellow Stormcloaks, to Skyrim, and to her people."

Jeanne should've known this. An oath was serious, witnessed by gods and unbreaking by mortals if they valued their brethren in this world and the next. It was said an oath breaker was fair game for the Daedric princes, but perhaps spread by cursing noblemen who got gipped. If she chose to leave, she would never be called honorably again.

But perhaps that was a small price to pay. She now had the choice on whether to leave or join this rebellion. If she stayed, she would be forever an enemy of the Empire and never return home. If she left now, she could go back to her own home and never worry for her life again. She could live without this war, but she couldn't live with herself if she left this war to fail and all their lives to be meaningless in their own eyes.

The answer was obvious.

"I'm ready to take the Oath."

She gave a silent apology to the family she would never see again.

"That's the spirit," Galmar remarked, "By swearing this oath, you become one of us. A heroine of the people. A true daughter of Skyrim. A Stormcloak. Repeat after me.

'I do swear my blood and honor to the service of Ulfric Stormcloak,'"

"I do swear my blood and honor to the service of Ulfric Stormcloak,"

"'Jarl of Windhelm and true High King of Skyrim.'"

"Jarl of Windhelm and true High King of Skyrim."

"'As Talos is my witness, may this oath bind me to death and beyond,'"

"As Talos is my witness, may this oath bind me to death and beyond,"

"even to my lord as to my fellow brothers and sisters in arms.'"

"even to my lord as to my fellow brothers and sisters in arms."

"'All hail the Stormcloaks, the true sons and daughters of Skyrim!'"

"All hail the Stormcloaks, the true sons and daughters of Skyrim!" Jeanne vowed.

It was done. She was a Stormcloak of Skyrim, no Breton of High Rock.

"Now you're one of us," Galmar stated, "Which means you get to tag along on a little trip with me. Oh, and here." From a chest, he took an unused Stormcloak uniform. "You're a Stormcloak now, you ought to look the part."

Jeanne looked at the fresh uniform. She would need this. It was such a strange and terrifying idea that she would have need of it. Within the week, she would see more blood and death than in her entire life before. She knew this. It wouldn't make it easier.

Skathi found comfort in the woods. Early in the morning, she escaped the crowds of Whiterun to forests southward. They were many but were quiet and they could live on without her. Sometimes, that was all you needed.

Whiterun was far better when no one cared who she was. She was a traveler to them, strange, but welcome for work. Yesterday, she helped around town and no one bothered learning her name. Today, she reached this place after a dozen people called her 'Dragonborn'. Whenever someone began looking to her to solve their problems, it meant they knew she was there.

And so, she retreated to the woods. Animals barely registered her presence underneath a tree, those that did being easy warded off by the rank smell of piss telling them whose territory this was. The ways to trick wolves are few, but truly effective. Stinky, though.

She could still see Whiterun. It seemed so much more peaceful from this far. It lacked the crowds and cries she knew were there. She could see the farms, so small from this incline. They were so distant. And she saw Lydia approach with what she left behind.

"I know you're not used to civilization, so I'll ignored how inappropriately you acted back there," the housecarl stated, "But as your servant, I recommend you adopt some social graces."

While uncharacteristic, Skathi replied with, "Fuck you, Lydia." She did not want to take this.

Lydia held something back and explained, "Not what I meant, but you could at least not pretend to be crippled when you feel contempt for the crowd."

Skathi did no such thing. Last night, as the crowd continued, her heart and mind raced faster than her body and she lost her sense of balance. She held her hands to her ears to keep their chanting out and lack the ability to walk as she tried. Lydia had to drag her to the Bannered Mare, where she was thrown into her payed room to cool off.

She held no ill will towards the crowd but had no care for what they were saying either. They were too loud, and they seemed to rely on her. She could not comprehend why anyone would rely on her a week ago, but everyone seemed to want something from her now. It sat like rockjoint to her. She believed something was wrong when they were relying on her for what they needed.

"Listen," Lydia sighed, "Eorland Gray-Mane made these for you."

She took out a belt with a sword and dagger sheathed at its side. They seemed like steel but looked to have a finer luster. The housecarl also took out a bow of dark wood and intricate steel designs. It reminded her of the undeads' weapons from Bleak Falls Barrow, but newer and less decrepit. Yet another token from those who thought her better than she was.

"Those blades are Skyforge Steel," Lydia stated, "Only the Companions of Jorrvaskr ever wield them. Think about that."

"I don't need to," Skathi quietly replied as she fashioned the belt around her waist.

As the outsider stepped onto the road, the housecarl asked, "Do you have a horse?"

"No," her thane answered, "I'm scared of them and wouldn't have the coin anyway."

"Well, the townsfolk might have something to say about that," Lydia remarked as she took out a large coin purse, "They put this together last night to reward you for slaying the dragon."

Skathi took a long look at that purse. "Why are they like this?" she wondered, "I don't deserve this."

"Oh, pity yourself for being a hero later," Lydia snapped, "Let's buy some horses."

"You can," Skathi stated as she left to the fields. Her housecarl was still on her way to the stables.

Of the things Skathi believed, one of them was that she had no right to buy a horse. Such beautiful and powerful creatures did not deserve her as a burden, and they knew it. Any moment, they would throw her off and kill her. She could not buy one that did not agree to her, so that is why she was out here.

She went into the fields of Whiterun to find a horse.

The fields were stained with blood and scorch, but wild animals still roamed. Rabbits and birds, but no horses yet. She sat in the fields with whatever food Lydia would take to her, waiting for her steed to appear. It was calming. The wind was as cold as ever, but the sun was warm on her body. It was not the Jerall Mountains in summer, but still lovely.

In waiting, she was almost meditative. Few thoughts ran through her mind, all of which were about the field. It was so peaceful, not like the madness and fear of the deep woods. She felt good.

For a moment, she closed her eyes. When she opened them, a black and white mare appeared before her. There was no saddle on her back, nor any sign it had ever been domesticated. A wild creature that seemed to just approach her unprompted.

On the inside, Skathi was full of fear like she had just been approached by Molag Bal. On the outside however, she appeared as calm as Kynareth. She raised herself up to lay a hand on this mare's long mane. It was soft like Cyrodiilic silk. She listened to her breath and heartbeat, unbroken or risen with the outsider's presence. They were calm.

"Do you wish to follow me?" Skathi asked.

She blew her nose at the outsider. Skathi had no knowledge of what that meant, but it seemed positive. As such, she led the mare to the stables to outfitted. Lydia was already there, waiting for her with her own horse. Skathi was sure it was a mare as well.

"Where did you find that?" the housecarl asked.

"In the field," her thane answered, "I was out in the field and she just approached me."

The stable master approached and took a good look over Skathi's mare. "She'd be a good stead; she seems to already be broken in," he remarked, "Just a few things and she'll be perfect."

He tried to lead the mare to the stable, but she began to squeal and rear. In an instant, she went from tranquil to nearly crazed. Skathi could not abide by this and soothed the horse down. It calmed down.

"Horse don't act like that most of the time," the stable master remarked, "You must be special."

"To a girl afraid of horses?" Lydia questioned.

"The dragons have returned," he replied, "I've just accepted things are going to make less sense as my life goes on."

They worked out that Skathi would be necessary to keep the mare calm as they prepared her to be ridden. As they nailed on her horseshoes, Skathi stroked her mane like a mother. While they calmed her, the outsider's fears fell away and at least this horse seemed like it would tolerate her.

"What's your name?" she whispered.

No answer was heard, but one came to mind.

"Kili," Skathi proclaimed. A tear left her eye.

Once Kili was saddled up, Skathi mounted her and she rode down the cobblestone with Lydia in tow with her own horse, Queen Alfsigr. And so, the ride to High Hrothgar began.

It had taken the better part of a day to reach Solitude, capital city of Skyrim. It was made longer by trying to avoid going through Whiterun hold as much as possible, but it was inevitable; many roads passed through Whiterun. The Stormcloaks kept their word and followed them to the edge of Falkreath hold, where they were left in the Jarl's care for the night, but off to the capital the next day.

Solitude was General Tullius and the Legion's headquarters in Skyrim. It's place as capital made it ideal for any military governor, but it also spoke to how it was much unlike anywhere else in the province. It had by far the warmest climate, buildings were built with stone and a love for the finer things was prevalent. It was more like an Imperial city than Nordic.

Something quite Imperial was something that caught their attention as they entered the city. To the right was an execution of a criminal, if he could be considered as such. It was of Roggvir, a guard whose duty as a gatekeeper was only superseded by his Stormcloak sympathies. He let Jarl Ulfric escape Solitude when he killed High King Torygg. For this, he was branded a traitor and sentenced to execution.

But Rena knew better. Typically, the likes of him would only be sent to the dungeon until the served their time, at which point they could never hold the same position as before. However, they needed an example, and Ulfric was long gone. This wasn't for his crimes; this was to show the law was still the law. Almost a waste of life.

The soldiers went to Castle Dour at the peak of the mountain perched city. It was the most defensible position in the city, with its own walls and gates, and the headquarters for the city guard and General Tullius. The Legion and the guard had a good working relationship, enough to trade some equipment and use the barracks until open war began.

Rena and Ansgar, worn from travel, just wanted to rest, but there were regulations to uphold. They entered General Tullius's war room to report. The governor saw them and quickly took in their dirty and wounded visages with a look of guarded sympathy for them. He was their superior officer; they were his subordinates; there was chain of command they had to uphold.

"You two look like shit," Tullius stated.

Rena nodded. "We were unable to capture Ulfric," she reported.

"Not surprising," the general remarked, "he was never going to be easy to capture. The first time required a delicate operation to force him into an ambush. A chase without a plan was always going to fail against guerrilla warfare."

Ansgar grimaced. His superior officer continued, "What happened to your men?"

"Stormcloaks, wild animals and a dragon," Ansgar reported, "we're lucky to be alive."

Tullius grimly nodded. "We've heard about the second dragon," he stated, "we're putting intelligence on it." He continued, "You're dismissed."

The soldiers were relieved and left. They went to the mess hall and had a full dinner of salmon and carrots. It was good to have solid food again. Rena left her armor and weapons at the foot of her bunk and went straight to the bathhouse. The barracks was relaxed around the bathhouse, as everybody needed to clean, and it was nothing to be ashamed of. Ansgar looked embarrassed to be there though, as though he'd be more comfortable bathing in his armor around his comrades.

Once she was clean, Rena went to maintain her equipment. Every night before bed, she would clean her sword and every time in a barracks, she would clean and repair her armor. It was only what she had been taught to do as a soldier. Ansgar soon joined her in his own management of his gear.

Rena got a chip on her shoulder thanks to Ansgar. The way he treated the Stormcloaks' offer was almost as though they asked if they could drag him through the streets naked and have cow pats thrown in his face. While he should've kept his guard up, he just seemed recklessly vengeful, a terrible trait for a commander to have.

"Explain yourself," Rena asked.

Ansgar looked up from his work. "How so?"

"I don't expect Legionnaires to treat Stormcloaks like kin," Rena remarked, "but I don't expect a commander to be that reckless with the lives of his men."

Ansgar raised his eyebrow. "How do you think that was reckless?" he inquired.

"Are you kidding me?" Rena replied, somewhat shocked, "Had you refused their aid, you could've killed whatever was left of our company. We were injured, dying, low on supplies. Had the Stormcloaks given not escorted us to the border, brigands could've come across us and killed us all. Why were you so eager to decline?" Her voice was beginning to drip with venom, "Pride? Hatred? Tell me."

The northern captain looked up from his work. "To save face," he explained.

Rena was confused, but he continued. "My men wouldn't accept their commander accepting Stormcloak aid. We train to fight for the Empire and its interests. They see me as a strong leader who give no quarter and they seem to respond well to that. If they saw me immediately accept their enemies' aid, they would think less of me. Being talked into it makes a better narrative."

Interesting. So Ansgar was eager to keep up an image of who he was, and he would maintain it under pressure. Rena knew people like this. A cousin of hers equally eager to keep his true opinions and feeling to himself in favor of appealing to the local lord. In private, he was a glorious, but his public identity was duller than a butter knife. Eventually, her old cousin was completely gone from all the effort to maintain his public identity. She missed him.

However, Rena wouldn't lead with that. "So, you thought making me look bad in front of you men was better?" she inquired.

Ansgar sighed, putting his armor aside. "It's not like we'll be working together for long," he remarked, "In two days' time, we'll be on opposite sides of Imperial territory and never have to see each other again."

The Imperial smirked in disbelief. "We're two officers with no assignments in a war where casualties could mount in the hundreds," she explained, "It's far more likely we'll be in the same battalion, maybe the same company."

Ansgar scrunched in shock and embarrassment. "We'll cross that bridge when we get our assignments," he said as he set his equipment aside and rolled over into bed.

Rena would let him off. Hopefully, he wouldn't go down her cousin's path. She hadn't seen much of him outside of his persona, but he seemed decent enough. When last she checked, her cousin wasn't in a good place.

In ancient days, a crown of dragon bone was forged called the Jagged Crown. For centuries, it was a sign of the monarch's right to rule. However, it was lost to the ages in the First Era. Fortunately, it was found again in the crypt of Korvanjund. If Ulfric were to acquire the crown, it would be taken as a sign of his right to rule all of Skyrim.

Enter Jeanne. She and a party of Stormcloaks led by Galmar was assigned to ride to Korvanjund. Their objective was to keep the Jagged Crown out of the Legion's hands and return it to Ulfric. It was to be her first mission, so a failure would be disappointing to her peers. She didn't disappoint them but prove herself. If she died here, it would be a moronic fate for her.

Part of the detachment was Eoni, Ravani and Mikaela. Mikaela turned out to be a detriment to the ride, stopping to help a jester on the road. He was not out of place in the courts of High Rock, but the Skyrim natives noted how strange his presence. Not wanting to stop for anyone, Galmar led the rest to Korvanjund and left Mikaela to sort this out.

When they came upon the crypt, shadowed by a ridge, the Legion was already there. A handful of soldiers patrolled the entrance, stepping around the corpses of bandits they were assured were Korvunjund's soul occupants. Galmar cursed this but knew what had to be done. If Ulfric was to claim his crown, they would need to cut through the Legionnaires.

The officer raised his hand and Ravani nocked an arrow. She looked straight at a lone soldier and loosed an arrow into her throat. She fell over, gasping for air as she died in six seconds. Jeanne was unnerved by this quiet death, one that didn't scream to the soldier's comrades that she was dying. Would that be her some day? Would she die because no one cared? If so, would they even remember her?

Jeanne shirked these fears and prepared herself for another arrow sent into a soldier's eye. That caught the other Legionnaires' attention. They drew swords and checked their fallen comrade's eyes. One soldier even found the first to fall. They knew what was going on and raised shields to the ridge.

Galmar raised his war hammer and ran off the ridge and onto a Legion shield. Jeanne and the rest of the Stormcloaks followed their officer and landed on Legionnaires, crushing them beneath a warrior's weight. These tactics were useful in disorienting their foes, letting the Stormcloaks gain an advantage and carve a swath into the crypt. Jeanne suddenly felt a lot less conscious about her diet.

Into Korvanjund, the Stormcloaks fought shield to shield. Jeanne cut down many a Legionnaire, but not without remorse. She wondered who these men and women were that she was carving through like dinner. Who were their families? Did they still have their parents? Did they have siblings to survive them? Had they found the love of their lives? Were their children to suffer in poverty because of her actions? What right did she to kill them? Had her oath been in vain?

Cutting through Legion's defenses, not many notice their surroundings, but Jeanne found something bizarre in the chaos. On the stone floor was a corpse, ancient, but not covered in cobwebs and dust. It was as though he had sprung to life just to die again. It wouldn't be as strange if a Legionnaire's body wasn't fallen right next to it with a wound that, at a glance, looked like it came from the corpse's weapon.

Eventually, they came upon a scene that caught everyone's attention. In what Galmar called the Hall of Stories, a hall of many myths and gods etched in stone, there were two dead Legionnaires at the end. Their torch was still burning. Beside them was a dragon claw statuette made of ebony glass. The dead end looked to be a door if the design on it was a lock that would only open with the claw. Jeanne worked its mechanism and the door was open.

Down the passageway, they found themselves in an open room with no way out. There were doors, but they were either blocked or the mechanism to open them was unseen. They knew there was a way through, just not what it was.

"Come on, boys," Galmar ordered, "Let's spread out and see what we've got."

Jeanne and the others poked around the chamber. It wasn't long before they found a lever to one of the doors. Galmar was about to say something when the coffins' lids fell open. Any thought of age was quickly dissuaded when the corpses inside walked out of their resting places with weapons drawn. What horror beheld them?

"Steady now!" Galmar assured, "They may be uglier than Imperials, but they'll go down just the same."

But they didn't. Whenever a blade and blunt was beaten against their skin, it wouldn't kill them. These were the dead, not Legionnaires. Jeanne was cornered by one such creature, her sword useless and her shield rent when she threw fire on it form and it quickly burned to death. That was an advantage they could use.

"Kill them with fire!" she yelled.

The Stormcloaks followed this advice and smashed torches and strangely still lit crypt candle into the dead warriors. Eoni raised her hand and cast fire magic against them. Jeanne wasn't aware that there was another mage in their presence. The dead were burned like swigs in the desert.

Once they were through with that room, they came upon a different chamber. At the epicenter was a throne with a corpse sat upon it. On its head was the Jagged Crown. One of the Stormcloaks noticed this and went over to take the crown from the corpse. Its hand took his wrist.

"Ralof!" Galmar gasped, "Get away from there, fool!"

Ravani loosed an arrow into the corpse's wrist and its hand broke from it body. Ralof ran off and Jeanne and Eoni unleashed fire at the corpse. It was burning, but not as fast as they should. It didn't take its weapon from sheath and shouted a foreign tongue that was so powerful that it threw the two mages to the floor. This wouldn't be an easy battle.

Galmar engaged the corpse with his war hammer and it didn't break its will. It would shout again, but he seemed more used to the strange magic. He smashed and smashed the corpse, but it hardly wavered either. Ravani, though, was less impressed and ran around to chop the corpse's head off. She managed to succeed, and it fell, dead, with the still crowned head in the Dunmer's hand, held by the spike.

The officer took a moment and bear hugged his soldier. "Get to Windhelm with the crown as quick as you can," he happily ordered, "Tell Ulfric he owes me a drink. We'll stick around here for a while and see if we can find anything else useful."

"Got it," Ravani replied.

Jeanne was pleased. Her first mission was a success. She would dine well tonight. Or not.