Skyrim: Legend of the Dovahkiin
Instruction 3
Middas, 1st week
The city of Riften was quiet, a dirty breeze filtered through the orange colored leaves passing over the wooden planks of its streets. Buildings stacked on top of each other like mounds of tinder and the two moons—Masser and Secunda—drifted lazily above the massive city's night sky. Underneath Riften's walkways was the lake the town had built around the sewers that dominated it. The Ratways.
The city was just the way Fenrir had left it all those years ago. Nothing, save a few new faces, had changed in the least since he'd last stepped foot inside the bustling metropolis, though Getting in had proven to be more trouble that he remembered. The two guards at the gates had spouted some nonsense about travelers needing to pay a visitors
tax for the 'honor' of entering the city.
Fenrir could almost hear the smirks they had beneath their helmets. However, once he pulled out the letter he'd received urging him to come to Riften and showed them who it was signed by, they quickly changed their tone. It would have been more comical if he could have seen the color drain from their faces with his own eyes, but he'd settled for the stutters and stammers as they apologized for wasting his time.
As he walked through the gate, Fenrir took a quick survey of the city. The large mob of citizens crowded the upper and lower levels of the city, looking over the wares of the stall vendors and going in and out of the shops, a strange thing to see at night. The upper level consisted of mainly wealthier upper class, upper middle, and middle class citizens. The uppity nobles swaggered about the city as if they were the most important people in Tamriel. Despite the overcast, their overpriced jewelry and finely made spider silk clothing shined brighter than a newly cut diamond.
Their personal bodyguards stuck closely beside them, hands forever grasping the hilt of their swords. They treated everyone who came across them as enemies, glaring away all in their path and overly proud at the menial achievement. Fenrir inwardly chuckled to himself. They way they carried themselves as real fighters was laughable. If their noble bosses ever crossed paths with a group of criminals looking for a ransom, they'd be in serious trouble.
Riften's lower level was where the struggling families and beggars resided. Skooma addicts ranted and raved about imagined happenings, pickpockets kept hungry eyes on potential targets while thieves waited in the darker corners to strike. Fenrir sighed to himself. Indeed, nothing about the city had changed since his departure. Then again, the hierarchy of society that made one person's life more important that another's was something that would stay until the end of time itself.
Ironically, that very day had all but arrived in the Form of the dragon Alduin, the World Eater. His return signaled the end of all life on Nirn, an end to mankind. Yet despite his return, there was still hope for the races of Tamriel. Just as the prophecy foretold the return of the World Eater, it also spoke of the one who would rise against him.
The Dragonborn.
To most in Whiterun the Dragonborn's identity was still a mystery, as only a select few within the Jarl's court were privy to the information. But Fenrir didn't need to be a noble to figure out who it was.
Deciding to let the thought go for the time being, the mercenary made his way towards the residential area of the city. Most of the homes were large mansions owned by the nobles of the city while few smaller, but just as grand looking homes lined area as well. After a few minutes of searching, Fenrir at last came upon the residence he was searching for. Entering the gate, he was immediately accosted by two men.
The first was a black haired Nord, clad in full steel plate armor and wielding a large Dwarven battleaxe. The second was a large, fierce looking Orc also clad in the same armor as his friend. He carried a deadly looking Orcish sword on one hip and a war axe of the same make on the other.
"Who in the nine holds are you, mage?" the Nord demanded, not trusting the strange masked man that stood before him.
"My name is Fenrir," the mercenary answered, raising his hands up in a defensive manner. "I'm a mercenary of these lands, same as you fine gentlemen."
"What do you want?" the Orc rumbled irritably. "This is private property you're trespassing on."
"I'm here to speak with the owner of this home, it's rather urgent."
The two mercenaries looked at each other in disbelief before turning back to the Nord.
"Do you know who's home this is?" the Nord mercenary asked.
"Of course," Fenrir said with a nod. "This is the home of Maven Black-Briar."
"And you must know that Maven does not, in any way, like unannounced visitors coming to her without an appointment."
the mercenary nodded again. "As does anyone with half a brain. But you must also know that Maven does not like it when the individuals she requests to see are held up by her ever doting security force."
The Nord then pulled the letter he'd received in Whiterun and handed it to his ebony haired kin. Upon reading the correspondence, the man paled and beads of sweat rolled down his forehead.
"What is it?" the Orc rumbled, curious but annoyed. "What in Malacath's name is wrong with you?"
The steel clad Nord folded the parchment back up and handed it back to Fenrir. "A sword in my back, and in yours if we don't let this man pass."
The Orc stared at his friend a moment before turning his gaze on Fenrir and back to his friend again.
The black haired Nord shot the Orc a glare when he didn't move. "Do you want to end up at the bottom of the lake? Then you'll take my advice and get out of this guy's way."
The Orc glared at Fenrir a final time before muttering a curse and stepping aside, allowing the shrouded mercenary to finally pass. As he ascended the steps that lead to the large oak doors of the building, Fenrir took the time to admire the large building.
The mansion stood over three stories tall, by far the biggest estate in the entire city. It's wood smelled fresh, like the had only recenly been built and the door handle was garnished in pure silver. The first thing Fenrir noticed as he entered the mansion was how neat and orderly everything was. No books were sloppily shelved in the bookcase, papers were not strewn about on the floor, and, most noticeably, nothing of value was out in the open.
That came as no surprise to the mercenary. Unlike the other nobles of the city Maven did not display her wealth for all to see. A trait he was sure she wished her sons shared. The second thing Fenrir noticed were the armed sell-swords who patrolled the estate as if it were the Jarl's palace. Each of them gave him a threatening look, warning him against any foolish action.
As Fenrir made for Maven's room doors, a Redguard woman stepped forward, hand tight on the hilt of her sword.
"Who are you? State your business."
While Fenrir was usually a patient man, the constant paranoia and badgering of Maven's private security was starting to ware on his nerves. Skipping pleasantries, the mercenary simply pulled out the letter in his pocket and showed it to the woman. After a quick look over she nodded before turning and knocking on the door.
"Maven, your guest is here. Shall I let him in?"
"He may enter." came the reply.
Pushing the large double doors open the Redguard women led the mercenary into Maven's private office. Nothing stood out to Fenrir as he studied the spacious room. There was nothing that would suggest he was standing in the private office of the most influential woman in all if Skyrim.
Fenrir had to admit he did like the fact that she was never such a show off.
"I take it you had a pleasant journey?" Maven queried, still going over the documents on her desk.
"As pleasant as one could expect," Fenrir said with a shrug, his eyes still studying the room. "I didn't run into any serious opposition if that's what you're asking."
Maven dabbed her writing quill in the ink well beside her and began jotting down numbers onto the parchment that lay before her.
"Even if someone with something approaching skill were foolish enough to face you I doubt they would last more than a few seconds in battle," she paused a moment. "Or have you discovered some new found joy in leading your opponents on?"
Maven could feel the smile through the mask that hid the mercenary's visage.
"I'm honored to hear such praise from Maven Black-Briar herself," Fenrir said as he gave an over exaggerated bow. "I do not deserve such laurels."
Maven finally looked up from her work, locking eyes with the mercenary. "Praise is not something I give lightly, not even to the best in my fold. But you are the exception. You have never once failed in any assignment I've given you, something not even the most skilled members of the Thieves Guild have accomplished."
Rising from her padded seat, Maven strode over to the large Window that overlooked the city, placing her hands behind her. "Not only that, but you are also the greatest assassin I've ever employed. Even better than the Dark Brotherhood. You have a myriad of talents, Ranging from swordplay, archery and stealth. Even the arcane arts are yours to command. You are—without a shadow of a doubt—my greatest weapon."
Fenrir shook his head. "This is a bit of a surprise," he said as he began removing his mask. "You were never much of a talker, unless it involved business."
Maven watched as the mercenary removed the hood and cloth that obscured his visage. Time had been kind to him. Despite the fact that he was by now in his early thirties, his skin retained a fair amount of its former youth. His silky, raven locks reached down a little past his shoulders and a light stubble of facial hair shadowed his once clean shaven face. But his most noticeable—and admittedly—most handsome feature were the two emerald orbs he called eyes.
Considering the way he used them to charm his targets to the point where they completely dropped their guard, they could be considered one of his most deadly weapons.
"So, where are your children?" Fenrir queried, placing his mask in the knapsack he carried. "I'm aware that Siggi is always off with some new woman or making a fool of himself among the nobles of the Holds and Ingun is busy with her Alchemical experiments. But to see Hemming absent from your side is more than surprising, I must admit. The way he clings to you, like a second shadow."
"That fool Sibbi is currently in Riften jail for murder," she informed the Nord, still staring out of her window. "He'll stay there until I have use for him. Ingun is, as you said, busy with those ridiculous potions of hers. Sometimes I wish I knew what was going through that head of hers."
"And Hemming?"
"That idiot is at my lodge east of here, directing a small force of my mercenaries."
At that, Fenrir raised a single eyebrow. "You gave, of all people, Hemming a group of mercenaries to command? Don't tell me you've given him control of your top fighters."
Maven scoffed. "Gods, no. I would never dream of wasting valuable men and women on that fool's ambitions. The force he commands are novices at best, more scouts than anything. Perfect for what he intends to do with them."
Fenrir tilted his head, curious. "And that would be...?"
"The fool searches for the Dragonborn."
Of all the answers Fenrir had expected to hear, that was not one of them. Why would Hemming of all people want to seek out the Dragonborn? The Dragonborn was an individual of immense power, and Hemming hated anyone who wielded more power than he did.
"Any particular reason behind his mad scheme of his?" Fenrir queried as he took a seat on one of the nearby chairs. "Other than getting himself killed, that is."
"His plan—should it succeed—would greatly benefit my own interests," Maven explained as she began to pace around the room. "He intends to find this Dragonborn and use them against those accursed Silver-Bloods."
Fenrir's eyes locked with Maven's. "The Silver-Bloods? So it is true. The Black Briars are in a blood feud with the Silver-Bloods."
"Yes, which is exactly the reason I've summoned you," Maven said as she returned to her desk. "Recently, caravans carrying important shipments to and from Cyrodiil are being attacked by Silver-Blood agents."
"You have many enemies, Maven," Fenrir reminded her. "What makes you so sure that it's the work of the Silver-Bloods?"
"This." Maven tossed a small, silver pendant over to the mercenary.
Engraved upon the object were the letters 'SB'. Without a doubt, this was the pendant all Silver-Blood mercenaries carried with them.
"One of my men managed to survive one of their ambushes and bring that back to me," Maven explained. "The culprits behind these attacks are without a doubt the Silver-Bloods."
Fenrir nodded in agreement but said nothing, prompting Maven to continue. "Not only that, but it seems they have intimate knowledge of the time and location of each caravan. Knowledge only someone who works in the meadery would know."
"In other words, you're saying that they have someone on the inside feeding them information."
"Precisely."
"And you want me to find out who the mole is, correct?" Fenrir sounded almost disappointed
A smirk formed in the corner of Maven's mouth. "Worry not, my old friend. There will tasks more suited to your talents, but we must first be patient and draw out our enemies, lest we give up the element of surprise."
The Nord gave a light nod. "Very well, when will I be dispatched?"
"Soon," Maven answered as she went back to her work. "I want the mole found as soon as possible."
"And when I find them?"
"Bring them to me... alive," she ordered. "I would have conversation."
Loredas, 1st week
Boring. That was the word Lydia would use to describe her week thus far. The only problem was that the word boring was a serious understatement. For the past week Lydia had done next to nothing other than help the guards patrol the surrounding area during her stay in Ivarstead. While in the beginning the town had been bustling with visitors and pilgrims from all across Skyrim, now it was but an empty, hollow shell, devoid of it's former excitement.
Not that it was strange. Ivarstead was known for being a quiet, boring little town. Mercenaries and adventurers usually used it as a rest stop before continuing on towards the city of Riften. Despite her dislike of the city of thieves and cutthroats, she found herself actually longing to travel there, if only to take out her growing frustration on some would be pickpocket.
An entire week had nearly passed and her Thane was still in the monastery of High Hrothgar training with the Greybeards. Lydia was aware that her Thane's training to master his Thu'um would take time, but it was beginning to wear on her. Sitting around doing nothing was one of the things she hated the most. She had always been restless. Even as a child, Lydia had always been the most active one in her family and amongst her friends.
Now she was wasting the days away in the backwards town of Ivarstead, with nothing to do other than get piss drunk. Not that she had gotten drunk at all. Unlike the lazy, indifferent and undisciplined guards that patrolled the town, Lydia made it a point to avoid alcohol. Not that she disliked a good bottle of mead every now and then, but for all she knew her Thane could return at any given moment, and she wanted to be nice and sober, lest he put her in a vice grip once again.
Lydia was torn from her thoughts by the sound of approaching footsteps. She looked up to see a guardsmen standing near the table where she sat looking down at her.
"Can I help you with something?" she asked, slightly annoyed at how close he was standing to her.
"You're a fighter, am I correct?" the man queried, ignoring her question completely.
Lydia suppressed the urge to scoff at the guard. "My weapons aren't for show."
The man stared at her through his helm for a long moment before he continued on. "If it's not too much trouble, we'd like to ask for your assistance in an important matter."
"That depends, what's the job?"
The guard crossed his arms over his chest. "What makes you so sure I'm offering you a job?"
"Don't act coy," The elite told the man. "Absolutely nothing ever happens in this town. There's almost nothing of value in the surrounding area and the people here are so poor that even the bandits don't bother with raiding. The only thing I can think of that could possibly happen in this place is an animal attack of some kind."
Lydia wished she could see the flabbergasted look the guard no doubt had plastered on his face.
"Look," the man began, tone indignant. "Do you want the job or would you rather spend your time wasting the day away doing nothing?"
Lydia gave a wave of her hand. "Fine, what's so important that you ask for my assistance?"
"We've been getting reports of strange disappearances near the road leading to Riften," the guard explained. "We sent two guards to the area few days ago, but they never returned. I want you to go to the area and investigate. If so, try to find out what happened to those people and my men too, huh?"
Already, Lydia had a good idea about what exactly was behind the attacks. She considered telling the guard about her hunch but decided to keep it to herself. Though she was almost certain of what was behind the disappearances, she knew she could be wrong as well, and the last thing she wanted was to look like a fool in front of a simple town guard.
With swift efficiency, the elite gathered her weapons a provisions and headed out of the Inn. "I'm off, be back soon," she told the guard as she left. "Make sure you have my payment ready by the time I return."
The guard watched as she left the building, stunned by her casual acceptance of a task that could quite possibly kill her. It seemed that the stories about the Whiterun elite guards where true.
Sundas, 1st week
All throughout the halls of the stronghold the sound of hammers striking hot steel echoed. Swords, shields, spears, arrows, hammers, axes and even throwing knives were in the process of being forged into existence. Silver weapons. The trademark tools of the hunters of Hircine's children, the Silver Hand. The strained grunts of training men and women resonated through the stronghold.
Perched high above the sounds of work and toil stood the man all lycanthropes knew as "The Skinner."
It had been some time since his encounter with the three Companions back at their base of Gallows Rock. Krev wasn't the type to waste time dwelling on his past battles with the mutts of Hircine, he was always only moving forward towards his next target. But his last encounter had left him shaken, and had almost killed him. The encounter left him with a mark that would forever humble the hunter, as well as strengthen his resolve to hunt down the foul Children of Hircine.
He'd lost scores of men and women that night, many of whom were old friends. So many lost... and all to a single person. Krev's fists clenched in barley suppressed anger as he recalled the events of that night. One of the inner circle of the Companions, Skjor, had managed to make his way to the inner chamber of Gallows Rock. A pitched battle soon broke out between them. They appeared evenly matched at first, even despite the silver weapons and their superior numbers. Eventually, their numbers proved too much for the veteran warrior, and they quickly subdued him.
After the battle, Krev realized as he lay broken and near death that his insistence to brutalize the wounded dog was what probably caused their downfall. As the Companions lay bloodied across the floor and they prepared to deliver the killing blow, all Oblivion broke lose. A volley of steel tipped arrows sailed forward and imbedded themselves deep into his comrade's heads. Even without turning to look Krev knew the identity of the aggressor: Aela The Huntress.
The redhead was well known throughout the holds for her prowess as a hunter, tracker and if need be, infiltrator. But what made her truly dangerous was her skill with a bow. It was said she could hit a doe in the eye at one-hundred yards away. If it were anyone else , Krev would have dismissed such claims as exaggerated rumors, but his previous encounters with the Huntress had taught him better.
It was a full two minutes before he and his men rallied themselves, but by that time the she-wolf had already killed nine of his men. Just as they moved to close in on the accursed huntress, her young companion came bursting through the large double doors to their left. The bastard kicked the doors so hard that the splintered wood came hurling into him and his men. Krev was thankful to his steel plate armor for protecting him from the wooden shrapnel but watched in horror as it tore through the hide armor of his men.
There was a split second before the battle where Krev and the young warrior locked eyes with one another. The Skinner had seen many things hidden deep beneath the eyes of his opponents. Fear, hate, anger, cowardice... it was always the same. Yet in this young boy's eyes he saw something else. Something... dangerous. He couldn't explain it, but Krev knew the boy was not to be trifled with.
He couldn't remember much of the battle that followed soon after. So much had happened all at once that it was hard to keep up with any one individual, all he could recall was the boy. Krev had fought many skilled warriors during his years in the Silver Hand, but this one boy was on an entirely different level from his past enemies. His speed, agility, reflexes and skills were leads and bounds ahead of anyone he had ever come across.
By the time the battle had ended, most of the Silver Hand lay dead on the stone floor. Krev himself had barley managed to escape, suffering a large laceration across his body that would have bifurcated him if not for his steel plate armor taking most of the damage. An entire month would pass before he was able to stand on his own again. As he lay in his stronghold regaining his strength, he ordered an attack on the Companions base of operations, Jorrvaskr.
That single order resulted in the death of Harbinger Kodlak Whitemane... and the near extinction of the Silver Hand. The Companions' retaliation was swift and brutal, and in the course of a few weeks, the Silver Hand was nearly destroyed. Krev, thanks to the information his scouts had provided was moved to a secure location to continue his healing and rebuild the Silver Hand.
It had taken time, hard effort and almost all of their coin, but the Silver Hand had finally been reborn. Now they were fully prepared for their eventual assault on Jorrvaskr.
Krev was pulled from his thoughts by the sound of heavy footsteps approaching. The Skinner turned to see his second in command, a lithe, blonde haired Nord by the name of Alorn.
"I trust everything is in order?" The Skinner asked.
Alorn nodded. "Of course. We've received the nobles weekly contribution of coin and silver, and the mercenaries training of the newer recruits is going smoothly."
"And what of our scouts? Had they anything to report?"
Alron placed his hands behind his back and began pacing back and fourth. "Whiterun has suffered from two recent attacks. One by some ancient creature according to the reports and the other by—of all things—a dragon."
Alron paused a moment before continuing on. "These attacks have significantly weakened Whiterun's fighting force as you would imagine, and the Jarl has started recruitment for more guards."
"Our men are in place then?" Krev queried.
"Correct. Half of our forces make up the newly bolstered Whiterun force, with many posted at the city's gates. You need but give the order and we have instant access into the city."
"No, not yet," Krev said as he ran his fingers down the large wound that crossed his torso. "Have the scouts keep tabs on the activity around Jorrvaskr, I want to know what they're doing at all times. If possible, try to get one of our agents on the inside."
Alron nodded. "It will be done. Sir, if I may ask, why do we hold back our assault on the Companions? Our forces are twice that of their own and our warriors are not the same weaklings they're used to dealing with. So why wait when we have the most opportune moment to strike?"
Krev leaned against the railing that overlooked the training area below. "I made the mistake of underestimating them before, and it nearly cost me my life and that of the Silver Hand. I don't plan on making that mistake again. They may be fewer in number than we are, but the Companions are not to be trifled with."
The Skinner then turned to his second and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Rest assured Alron, we will see the members of The Circle dead, and the true name of Ysgramor's Companions restored to it's true glory."
The two men turned and stared down at the large fighting force they had gathered after months of work and effort, sinister smiles forming on their lips.
"Very well, sir," Alorn began. "When the time comes, we will reveal ourselves to the Companions... and take our revenge."
You are not dreaming, this really IS the 16th chapter of Skyrim: Legend of the Dovahkiin! As I've said in my apology letter, I'm truly, deeply sorry about the long wait you readers were forced to go through. Thing is, on top of serious personal matters, I just recently got back into Monster Hunter and I've got my long awaited Watch Dogs game which I have been on nonstop, so those have been a huge factor in the wait time.
Also, while I'm not abandoning the story, the inspiration for the chapter just left me for awhile. Plus I realize that I tend to take a long time explaining things in certain parts of the story, therefore from now on I plan on shortening parts of the story while at the same time keeping up the juicy parts of the story. By the way, If the reviewer known as 'Cool Guy' would make an actual account, that would be awesome. Another thing, PLEASE for the love of Talos hold any questions regarding Aela and Spartacus, lol. It will happen when it's meant to happen.
Well, until the next chapter!
~Bang