Early in the morning, Jeanne was deployed again. Some of the other soldiers and officers had been taken aback by Western Skyrim seasoning, finding the spice too strong for the use of a chamber pot to be in their near future. Jeanne meanwhile was used to the spices, as cinnamon, cardamom, mace and others were common in High Rock due to trade deals, so she maintained her composure. Galmar looked at this and thought she was best for the assignment he had in mind.
Jeanne and a host of Stormcloaks rode to Rorikstead. Now, the town of Rorikstead was within Whiterun's jurisdiction, but they still needed to confirm their loyalty to the new Jarl. No one had been sent out to confirm it, and other officers were sent to confirm loyalty from the rest of the hold. Hopefully, it wouldn't come to violence.
Upon their approach to the same burg, they found it was a typical small town, with hay for roofing and crops on the sticks. It didn't seem out of the ordinary until they noticed there wasn't anyone on the grounds. A rather large thing not to notice immediately, but they had been worn from last night's feast; give them a break.
They checked around and found the largest building in town was the Frostfruit Inn. They figured it was the only place that would hold all the townsfolk. The party drew sword and prepared to investigate. The minute Jeanne open the door, a yellow shield bashed her in the face, causing her to stumble off the porch. Thankfully, no arrows flew out the doorway.
"You brigands are unwelcomed in my town!" came an older voice from the inn, "Leave now and you will live!"
Jeanne thought this was misguided. "Sire, we are Ulfric Stormcloak's men," she explained, "and we are here to confirm loyalty to Jarl Vignar Gray-Mane." She had to ask another soldier if she got the name right.
"That's even worse!" the voice cried, "I rebuilt my namesake city and now it's at the mercy of an old bastard that doesn't understand why Ysgramor doesn't visit him anymore!"
"Excuse me," a spine-chilling voice spoke, "what's going on here?"
Jeanne turned to the source and found two women, both in armor. One was dressed in uncolored guard's armor with pitch black hair and the other was in steel Nord armor with furs and brown hair. They seemed mercenary. The Breton was incredulous.
"A sellsword doesn't need to know Stormcloak operations," one of the soldiers, Barisen, stated, "Hawklsy, we should kill them."
Jeanne raised a hand to silence him. She didn't need any encouragement one way or the other. "What's your business in Rorikstead?" she inquired.
"Passing through," the seeming mercenary replied, "I'm heading to Riverwood."
Jeanne made note of that. "Do you think I could hire you to help with this?" she asked.
The stranger gave a confused look. "I'm not a mercenary," she explained, "What do you even need help with?"
Jeanne was hesitant to tell her any details. "Dealing with loyalty issues," she explained, "No need to concern yourself with something like this."
The Rorik of Rorikstead must have heard that. "I'll never bow to that backwards bastard!" he proclaimed.
"Sounds like a handful," the stranger remarked, "I think I'll leave."
Just as Jeanne was about to reply, she smelled the familiar scent of something burning. She turned around and saw a soldier, Runleif, with a torch moving towards the hay roof. She immediately bolted at this arsonist and tackled him to the ground. Of all the things she would be guilty of, this was one she could not stand.
"They're not listening to us!" the soldier explained himself.
"Then it's a bad thing I'm your officer!" Jeanne barked by.
She dragged him to his feet and had two soldiers hold him back. She had the soldiers hold Runleif in front of the porch while she took something from her satchel. It was a battle-axe given to her for one reason and one reason alone. She brought it over to Runleif and took his head from his body.
"This man tried to burn this inn to the ground!" Jeanne explained, "I didn't let him hurt your people and I won't let anyone hurt them as long as I live. I swear that as a daughter of Skyrim!"
Rorik of Rorikstead didn't immediately answer. As a Breton, she wasn't someone would consider a child of Skyrim, even in the Reach. As a Stormcloak, she would be an extremist, but only with Skyrim's interests in mind. She was a bizarre combination to most, and she knew it. She just hoped that meant Rorik would see this as a reason to trust her.
"You realize this isn't right, right?" he asked, "A Jarl is chosen by a moot of the people. I can't see anyway the people would want Balgruuf replaced, nor do we honor the right of conquest. This civil war is wrong and Ulfric needs to know this."
Jeanne was unfamiliar with Nord traditions, so she would have to take his word for it. The people deciding their leaders seemed easier to manipulate than the course of a war though, so she wasn't impressed with the moot. Maybe that was the High Rock in her thinking, but she knew politics were easy to anyone smart enough to use them. War is a little harder to debate.
"If it's any consolation," the Breton remarked, "an older fellow Kodlak is unhappy with this whole affair."
"Wait a minute," Rorik said in shock, "Kodlak Whitemane isn't happy with the change in leadership?"
"Yup," Jeanne replied, confused, "Is this Kodlak Whitemane of note?"
And then a man in his middle years exited the inn. "If the Companions don't like it, it must be good," the man, Rorik it turned out, remarked, "Those mercenaries could be paid for anything."
Jeanne was confused but relieved this ended without bloodshed. She would have to do some research into why the name of the Companions was so reviled that they could change opinions so drastically like that, but she at least had something good to tell the Jarl.
The stranger was still there. "I guess I'll stay here for lunch?" she stated, just as confused as Jeanne.
The Falkreath graveyard was a strange place. Rena knew it was a place of the honored dead, as they didn't dig your grave here without good cause. Some warriors would face the full force of the Aldmeri Dominion's army to earn a place here and they did. Falkreath saw many battles and many warriors to defend the hold, so many believe being buried amongst them is a glorious end to life. Ask the residents of Falkreath if it's a great honor.
Rena took a walk in the graveyard. It's said you should visit it if you ever go to Falkreath, perhaps to find an honor ancestor or take a breath of Nord history. The Imperial knew she wouldn't find a Donton here, instead looking for a Wolf-Runner. Find one of Skathi's kin here would say great things of where she came from, Rena supposed.
In honest, Rena had little tolerance for ancestral bragging. Most children she grew up around would brag about being descended from this lord or that champion, but she would always be mocked for her family. A noblewoman from a respected family was her mother and a man many wouldn't talk about was her father out of wedlock. No one loved a bastard, and everyone knew it. How many people still deny Martin Septim's illegitimacy was crushing.
Still, Rena was doing this for a friend, knowing it would mean a lot to her. She looked around the yard for anyone with the name Wolf-Runner, but it was three thousand years vast, almost unending. However, she did find the name. Many gravestones bore that name. How common was this name that she only heard of one who bore it, but many of dead shared it? Was Falkreath her home?
Then there was a sound from the mist. The sound of a twig snapping. Rena drew her sword. She searched the fog carefully, for signs of life. She saw the forest at the yard's end. It must have been from there. She slowly approached the woods, hoping for an animal or a child exploring.
She found a bear staring at her. She was about to step back to not provoke the animal, but she found something off about it. Its head was easily visible, but not its body. If it was crouching, then it was hiding behind a bush it couldn't possible than a bear that size should. When she looked into its eyes, there was no life in them. And then she remembered how Stormcloak officers dressed.
Ambush.
Rena grabbed the horn at her side and blew hard into it. It was meant to summon reinforcements if need be and the Stormcloaks would surely the time for it. Not three seconds and an arrow pierced the fog and scarred her cheek. They missed once, but she wouldn't count on being so lucky the second time.
Knowing she wouldn't have an advantage in the open, Rena bolted, but an arrow to her leg made that impossible. She fell in pain as the Stormcloaks behind her got closer without needing to look behind her. She tried to crawl away, but she didn't get very far when a boot smashed onto the wound. Her biting pain went almost blinding.
She looked up to the Stormcloak soldier and fumed. She didn't see his expression, but assume it was one of pride for capturing and torturing an Imperial. It was pure impulse that compelled her to put draw her sword. It seemed like he was going to say something or move away, but it was cut short by the blade to his chest, straight through the heart. As he fell, his comrades looked shocked, but now prepared to kill her with no mercy.
Suddenly, from the other side of the graveyard was the sound of thundering footsteps. Rena looked and Ansgar was running toward the scene with Mariqa and seven Imperial soldiers in tow. The Stormcloak officer brought his war-hammer to meet him, but it broke as the mighty captain's Zweihander slashed through his handle and into his chest.
As the soldiers took her away, Rena couldn't help but think how useful Ansgar was in a fight. He read Nords like they were written in a dead language, but his sword arms could break them in half. His greatsword technique was solid and was hardly standard issue to any military. If they were to have a company of swordsmen like him, it could give them an advantage. Of course, a hundred Ansgars was probably the worst thing that would ever happen to the Legion. Just the technique would do.
As they brought her through town, Rena spotted a worrisome sight. Dengeir of Stuhn was rabble rousing. He was the former jarl of Falkreath, stepping down due to failing health in these trying times. At least, that was the public explanation. Privately, it was probably the same thing, or the Empire wanted someone who wasn't a Stormcloak sympathizer in charge of the region. That was the rumor but had little proof. That didn't stop Dengeir.
He spoke of how the Stormcloaks were only interested in this place because of recent events surrounding the Legion. A lie; Ulfric would still want this hold if it didn't let the Legion rest went it was hurting. He said that Jarl Siddgeir, his nephew, was a sloth and greedy creature and no true Nord. Probably, but appeals to purity are unwise if they find you're impure. And he was saying the Imperials would only defend Falkreath because it was on the only safe road to Cyrodiil. Perhaps, as it certainly wasn't for people like him.
At the Dead Man's Drink, Rena and Ansgar discussed the situation.
"They were scouts," Ansgar reported, "They were only here to observe."
Rena had her leg laid out on a bench and was downing a small potion, the size being to not put too much strain on her body. "They don't seem to have the momentum we first assumed," she remarked, "but that doesn't mean they aren't coming soon."
Ansgar nodded. "We don't have the soldiers for the siege," he stated, "Even with the hold guards, we wouldn't be able to hold out for long. We may need to pull out."
The Imperial regretfully nodded. They had less than two hundred soldiers, most were injured. They wouldn't last.
After an hour, the captains ordered what's left of the battalion bug out. The injured were loaded into the carts with care. Any soldiers that could ride were put on horses while those who could march were on foot, even Ansgar. Within another hour's time, they regretfully left Falkreath. Rena only hoped another battalion would reach them in time.
Skathi saw the things that happened to Whiterun Hold. The fields of Rorikstead wreathed in flames and the dead. Soldiers clad in Imperial steel, Stormcloak mail and the local scales crushed the grass beneath their fallen bodies never to rise again. What few guards still stood were on the porch of Frostfruit Inn, keeping anyone from the villagers inside. War came to this place and it left everyone its victim.
And then she saw the far less bloodstained Riverwood. Stormcloak soldiers patrolled the streets. While no blood stained the cobblestone or wood, it was still as quiet as winter in the woods. No chatting or conversation that could reach five feet, perhaps as not to draw the guards' attention. It felt strange, as if she entered a wake.
"Stop," one of the blue-clad guards ordered the outsider, "State your business."
"I am the Dragonborn," Skathi stated.
The guard took a step back. "My apologies, Dragonborn," he redacted, "I did not mean to pry."
A lie. The only reason she could evade his questioning was because the populous held the her with some regard. She was the one who slayed a dragon in Whiterun's shadow. She fought the beast, not the Legion or Stormcloaks, though both would value her. Perhaps too much. She did not deserve this attention. At least, that is what she believed.
The outsider dismounted her stead and went to the Sleeping Giant Inn. This is where she would find her quarry, even if Lydia was tight lipped about it. The seats were stuffed to the brim with so solders, it was as if entering a shack to find a barracks. They were eating and drinking, though some spat out the homebrew in favor of the "better mead." The waitress sniffed the unfinished drink and went to the man at the bar.
"Orgnar," she called over the crowd to no answer, "Orgnar! Are you listening?"
"Hard not to," the man snarked back over maintaining his customers' demands.
"The ale's going bad we need to get a new batch," the waitress explained. No reply. "Did you hear me?" she bitterly asked.
"Yep. Ale's going bad," he nodded.
"I guess you don't have potatoes in your ears after all," the waitress muttered, "Just make sure we get a new batch in soon."
Skathi decide it was best to ask the waitress, as the barkeep was busy between cooking and drinks. The woman seemed older, like she had full grown children out there that might be trying to have their own. Despite that, she seemed as lean as a veteran captain in the field. All this distracted from the fact she was most likely a Breton with her height being that of a Nord teen.
"Excuse me?" Skathi spoke up, "I'd like to rent the attic room."
The older woman's eyebrow went up, confused like she just heard someone's prat. "Attic room, eh?" she remarked, "Well, we don't have an attic room, but you can have the one on the left. Make yourself at home."
While Skathi entered the room, Lydia did not follow. The room seemed normal enough, nothing out of the ordinary as far as she could tell. Was this part of something? She could barely remember what she was here for, as the vampire business was taxing.
"So, you're the Dragonborn I've been hearing so much about," the waitress remarked, "I think you're looking for this."
In her hand was a horn, strange and unique. It looked scaled like a fish, or the tip of a dragon's tail had been cut off and hollowed out. It was ancient, a faint strand of cobwebs inside. It could only be the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller, so this waitress could only be the thief.
"We need to talk," the thief stated, "Follow me"
She threw open the wardrobe and revealed a secret passageway downward. The sheer logistics required to build this without anyone knowing was bizarre, so Skathi had to assume it was built decades before the waitress used it. Without questions as to the thief's motives, the outsider followed her down.
The staircase led to a secret room with the atmosphere of a vampire's resting place. It had the had weapon racks and shelves, almost a hiding place of the next politic insurgent. What sort of interests had this woman have and did they need a blade to the back?
"The Greybeards seem to think you're the Dragonborn," the thief remarked, "I hope they're right."
"So, you're the one who took the horn?" Skathi asked.
"Surprised? I guess I'm getting pretty good at my harmless innkeeper act," she chuckled, "I'm Delphine, by the way."
"What's with all the cloak and dagger?" Skathi asked.
"You can't be too careful," Delphine replied, "Thalmor spies are everywhere."
"You'd better start explaining," Skathi threaten, hand on her hilt, "Fast." She wanted to know everything.
"I'll explain what I want when I want, got it?" Delphine barked, "You'd already be dead if I didn't like the look of you when you walked in here. But I had to know if the rumors about you were true."
"I'm part of a group that's been looking for you," She continued "well, someone like you, for a very long time. If you really are Dragonborn, that is. Before I tell you anymore, I need to make sure I can trust you."
"How do I know I can trust you?" Skathi retorted. She found no reason to.
"If you don't trust me, you were a fool to walk in here in the first place," Delphine replied.
A moronic response, given she had no apparent allies to call upon if Skathi drew swords against her. "Why are you looking for a Dragonborn?" the outsider asked.
"We remember what most don't," Delphine explained, "that the Dragonborn is the ultimate dragon slayer. You're the only one that can kill a dragon permanently by devouring its soul. Can you do it? Can you devour a dragon's soul?"
"I absorb some kind of power from dragons," Skathi admitted, "That's all I can say."
"This is no time to play the reluctant hero," Delphine stated, not knowing a thing about Skathi in the slightest, "You either are or aren't Dragonborn. But I'll see for myself soon enough."
Skathi began to get suspicious. "So, what's the part you're not telling me?" she asked
"Dragons aren't just coming back, they're coming back to life," Delphine explained, "They weren't gone somewhere for all these years. They were dead, killed off centuries ago by my predecessors. Now something's happening to bring them back to life. And I need you to help me stop it."
"Do you know how crazy this sounds?" Skathi asked. To be fair, the dragons were coming back, which was mad in and of itself.
"Ha. A few years ago, I said almost the same thing to a colleague of mine," Delphine chuckled, though her face was soon dressed in regret, "Well, it turned out he was right, and I was wrong."
Skathi had to be sure about this woman's work. "What makes you think dragons are coming back to life?" she asked.
"I know they are. I've visited their ancient burial mounds and found them empty," Delphine explained, "And I've figured out where the next one will come back to life. We're going to go there, and you're going to kill that dragon. If we succeed, I'll tell you anything you want to know."
Skathi sighed. "So, where are we headed?"
"Kynesgrove," Delphine stated, "There's an ancient dragon burial near there. If we can get there before it happens, maybe we'll learn how to stop it."
The outsider did not want to go. All this travelling was already exhausting, let alone all the violence along with it. She was ready to rest, but the powers granted to her by the Divines demanded her responsible for this task. She had to, but the last time she fought a dragon, she was nearly frightened to death and her only friend almost died. She wanted out of her destiny, but that would not happen yet.
"Let's go kill a dragon," Skathi half-heartedly remarked. Yet another painful adventure ahead.
When Jeanne returned to Whiterun, the great stink was fervent. Of all the smells that could be in the air, this was powerfully overcoming everything else to the point that you couldn't smell lavender if it was shoved in your nose. Jeanne was unfamiliar with it but had a feeling what it was. That feeling turned out to be right when she passed the fields.
The fields of Whiterun were littered with corpses. They had not been slain there, but instead were being brought to be buried or burned. Priests of Arkay looked over the dead, took what was not uniform for Legionnaires or guards or Stormcloaks to carry and set them aside. They prepared the dead to be buried in a mass grave or burned.
Despite this, many corpses remained unburied or burned. Specifically, Stormcloaks. The Stormcloak warband struck with ten thousand soldiers and lost around a fifth of that. Untrained, most were, relying on their trials instead of experience to carry them. They fought for the glory of Sovngarde and had met it. She wasn't sure what that was, but she would learn. Odd that they weren't further in on burying them, as the Whiterun and Legion dead were by far the larger task.
Jeanne arrived in the city to find the Stormcloaks patrolling the streets. She thought through things and that, in order to replace the Whiterun regulars and factoring in the losses, they had seven thousand to continue the war. That wasn't that much compared to the Legion's numbers, but the fact they attacked as one was their advantage. They were on the offensive; they had no need to conserve their numbers, but she was concerned that they would run out.
She spotted Galmar talking to someone. Jeanne didn't know who it was but was certain he was important, so waited for him to leave before giving her report to her commander.
"That was the new captain of the guard, Sinmir," Galmar explained, "If you need anything in the way of law and order, go to him. Now, what happened at Rorikstead?"
Jeanne explained what happened in every detail she could parse. Her soldiers added things she forgot or missed. Galmar was disappointed that Runleif died, but more of why he had to die. He knew some of his men didn't live up to the standards he or Ulfric wanted them to, but he wasn't sure how to keep them from being the way they were. Discipline would be needed somehow.
"I've been meaning to ask," Jeanne stated, "what's the deal with the Companions?"
Galmar looked like he'd been asked to describe his favorite and most hated subject. "The Companions carry the name of Ysgramor's five hundred warriors that he brought from Atmora to wreak revenge for the Snow Elves' betrayal," he explained, "Had it not been for them, Man would not earn their place in Tamriel." His look of pride at his forefathers turned to disappointment. "Now, they are nothing more than mercenaries."
Jeanne knew something of the Five Hundred Companions. After massacring the ancient city of Saarthal, the Snow Elves had made an enemy of the Men who settled there to escape trouble in their homeland. Ysgramor, one of the few survivors, went back to Atmora and brought back five hundred warriors to for revenge. They were well known for this, and the Snow Elves were forced to become servants of the Dwemer. Elves don't live Ysgramor and Jeanne had to admit his history was far too bloody than it had to be, but what's done is done; what's next?
"I guess you can't blame the Companions for becoming sellswords," the adopted Nord remarked.
"True," Galmar sighed, "We all need to eat, but it just feels disappointing. The Five Hundred Companions of Ysgramor left a legacy for all mankind. The nine sellswords who inherited that name will leave coin purses slightly lighter. The fact they act like little has changed, like they're still as honored as Jeek of the River, Meksim the Walker and Vust the Smiler, that leave much to be desired."
Jeanne supposed as much. In High Rock, many houses still claimed they were great honor despite the fact they'd spend their tax money on pleasures of the flesh, they hadn't accomplished anything of note in generations and cared for their children like they grew out of the ground. They were jokes in court, even when they attended. If the Companions didn't live up to the legacy they had been granted, nor create any impression of note, they nothing pretending to be something. A familiar tale but sad when they did come from something.
After that train of thought, Jeanne decided to change the subject. "What's with the bodies?" she inquired, a slightly grimmer topic than legacies becoming a joke.
"Well, we underestimated how many requested to be buried in Falkreath," Galmar explained, "Considering most of them were young men that threw their lives away like fools, I'm not sure they've earned it."
"Are we attacking there next?" Jeanne asked.
"Yes," he answered, "If we can cripple their ability to deploy Legion forces into Skyrim, we'll have a far easier war. I suppose we can get a few distinguish warriors in the Graveyard, but not the lot of them."
"Then what's with the fields of corpses?" Jeanne asked.
Galmar sighed. "We're waiting word from their families for permission to either send their bodies home or bury them here," he replied.
What made the Falkreath Graveyard special escaped Jeanne, but she knew not all of them deserved to be buried there. If it was the Nord dream to die in battle, rest in Sovngarde and be buried in Falkreath, many would wish it without having earned it. It's a common story to want what you have not or cannot earn.
"So," Jeanne inquired, "how are we going to claim Falkreath?"
Galmar seemed far more excited to talk about that than fallen honor or soldiers. "Ulfric always knew we would have the numbers to take Falkreath, but they're far too used to invaders for numbers to matter to them," he explained, "But if we strike quick and quietly, we'll have a far easier time taking the hold. We took Whiterun with ten thousand. We plan on taking Falkreath with two hundred."
That sounded fantastic. Then Jeanne found out they would be fighting eleven times that many soldiers. Thank the Divines Falkreath had a graveyard.