It is difficult for me to succinctly describe the interior of the blacksmith's home as anything other than Nordic. Everything from the rough-hewn furniture to the thick, planked floor and walls bespoke a certain kind of rugged heaviness that was absent in even the meanest of shacks that can be found in Cyrodiil. The fireplace was no less imposing; it was composed of massive, uneven blocks of stone held together by some sort of truly heroic adhesive, and in all, the fireplace somehow contrived to appear monolithic even in its simplicity. Those furniture pieces in the home that could not be made of wood or stone were instead composed of animal skin. Hides appeared to be very much in style for the modern Skyrim home, as they were everywhere; they served as rugs, as wall coverings, even as bedspreads.

At first, I had thought that these (and here I must once again use the word) Nordic furnishings were born of poverty; as it happened, I could not have been much further from the truth.

Luxuries as I understood them, such as rich food, opulent furniture, and an easy life, were of only passing interest to the average inhabitant of Skyrim, as I eventually came to learn. Luxury as it was understood in Skyrim was quite different. Nords didn't care much for soft fabrics; instead, they preferred warm skins of the animal persuasion. Nords turned their noses up at rich food, instead, they opted for heavy food that stuck in the ribs and kept one warm. Nords didn't have much use for opulent furniture; they desired furniture that could survive a strong blow from a heavy weapon or, in a pinch, being used as a heavy weapon to strike a strong blow.

Nords didn't care for leisure; instead, they sought glory.

We were seated around the simple yet sturdy table that dominated the small home. The blacksmith that introduced himself as Alvor was seated across from me, his face grim. Sigrid, a crimson-haired woman with dainty hands (I later learned that she disliked this trait) placed a bowl full of a thick stew in front of me. I breathed my thanks and tucked in. I normally dislike venison, but you couldn't have gotten me away from that food with another dragon attack, that day.

My chair was, like the rest of the wooden furniture, roughly hewn from wood, despite the lumber mill not fifty paces from the blacksmith's home. Nevertheless, it felt as if I was sitting in the finest of cushions. Over the course of the last two days, I had undergone more forms of physical and mental trauma than I had earlier been able to imagine, let alone experience, and my body was still reeling from the catastrophe. Somehow, even my hair contrived to ache.

"Now, then, boy," Alvor said around a mouthful of potato. "What's the big mystery?" He swallowed mightily and spoke more clearly. "What are you doing here, looking like you just lost an argument with a cave bear?"

Hadvar, who looked as if he was processing his thoughts with as much difficulty as he was processing the large chunk of venison he was chewing, spoke. "I don't know where to start," he admitted, sounding more shaken than I had ever heard him, even in the face of death by cremation. "You know that I was assigned to General Tullius's Guard. We were stopped in Helgen when we were attacked...by a dragon."

Alvor and Sigrid furrowed their brows in matching expressions of disbelief. "A dragon?" Alvor asked. "That's…ridiculous. You aren't drunk, are you boy?"

Sigrid didn't look as if she believed Hadvar any more than Alvor did, but she said, "Husband. Let him tell his story."

Hadvar shook his head. "Not much more to tell. This dragon flew over and just wrecked the whole place. Mass confusion."

I nodded. "It just burned and destroyed everything," I helpfully supplied. I shuddered as images entered my mind's eye unbidden. "Everyone."

Hadvar nodded as well. "I don't know if anyone else got out alive. I doubt 'd have made it out myself if not for Sedgwick, here."

If I had been swallowing something, I would have choked on it.

"I need to get back to Solitude and let them know what's happened," Hadvar added. If he had noticed my surprise, he didn't show it. "I thought you could help us out. Food, supplies, a place to stay."

Alvor looked at me appraisingly, and I could almost see his opinion of me improving even further. "Of course!" he said. "Any friend of Hadvar's is a friend of mine. I'm glad to help however I can."

We finished the meal in silence. Though both Alvor and Sigrid had expressed nothing but relief at Hadvar's safety, everyone's faces were grim, and I couldn't blame them. No amount of silver linings could do much to improve a cloud that entailed the total destruction of an entire village.

Hadvar was playing with a girl, his younger cousin, when Alvor gave me a meaningful look and gestured to the door. I nodded my understanding, and we both wordlessly filed out of the house and into the late afternoon air.

To my surprise, Alvor clapped me on the shoulders, a gesture that turned out to be a common sign of solidarity in Skyrim. "Like I said, I'm glad to help in any way I can," he said, his jaw still set in that grim manner that I had seen all through the meal. "But I need your help." He glanced around, and I immediately learned that Hadvar's unique brand of appearing inconspicuous was not inherited from Alvor. The blacksmith was quite subtle, in his own way. "We need your help," he said.

I was taken aback by the blacksmith's tone. His entreaty was so passionate that I had to stop short of automatically doing something heartless, like doing anything other than saying, "What do you need?"

Alvor turned his gaze to the north. "The Jarl needs to know if there's a dragon on the loose. Riverwood is defenseless," he said, and immediately my mind was again filled with the memories of corpses burning to ash, of the sound of screams, of the horrible voice the dragon had…

I realized that Alvor was still talking. "…word to Jarl Balgruuf in Whiterun to send whatever soldiers he can. If you'll do that for me, I'll be in your debt."

Immediately, he had his answer: "Where do I go?"

To my astonishment, it was me who had said it. I felt as if I couldn't so much as cross to the other side of the road, let alone trek through miles of unfamiliar wilderness to deliver a message. I quickly added, "I'll need a couple of supplies, too."

A short time later, I was crossing the river and heading north. Alvor had told me I'd be able to see Whiterun as I passed the falls. In either hand, I held a vial; the first was red, yet another potion of healing. This one was from Alvor's emergency crate, and considerably more potent than the watered-down slop that I had scavenged from Helgen. I wrinkled my nose as I tossed the bitter liquid down my throat, but almost gasped in relief as my fractured ribs began to knit and the numerous miscellaneous cuts, bruises and burns that I had gotten while scrambling through the burning village mended themselves before my eyes.

The second vial, a green one, was the Stamina potion that I had gotten from Helgen. It was undoubtedly as poorly mixed as the weak red potion that had barely closed the gash on my leg, but I didn't care; it's almost impossible to ruin a Stamina potion, and even the most amateurishly brewed ones would still grant a few hours of energy, at least.

Though there were mixtures that could make a giant invisible or a blind man capable of shooting a fly with a longbow at five hundred paces, I had always believed that Stamina potions were Alchemy's greatest gift to sapientkind. They weren't substitutes for sleep, and "running green" nonstop would kill you after a couple of days, but there was nothing better for quickly rejuvenating tired muscles and adding a few hours of alertness. I drank the thick green mixture gratefully; it tasted of chilled honey and pine needles. Immediately, I could feel color return to the world.

And so, for the first time since what felt like an eternity after the first time I was clubbed on the head in that pass, I had time to think to myself alone. Then, I had been travelling with a horseload of cheap goods to make a quick septim. Now, I was travelling alone to one of the largest cities in the province to tell its ruler that dragons existed, and that they were apparently angry.

"What in the name of Oblivion am I doing?" I asked aloud.

As if in response, a low growling emanated from the nearby underbrush.

"Oh, shit," I mumbled what seemed by now to be my battle cry as I drew my sword.

At that moment, two wolves exploded from the thicket as if shot by a crossbow. One leapt at me, fangs bared. I raised my weapon just in time for it to close its jaws onto a mouthful of iron. The animal yelped, turned, and fled, blood leaking from its mouth.

The other wolf bit down hard on my armored leg, its teeth sliding uselessly off of the hard leather. I kicked it away, but it just as quickly leapt again, its fangs now aimed for my throat. Without thinking, I lashed out and caught the animal in the chest with my free hand, holding it in place. With the wolf trapped, I raised my blade and stabbed it in the abdomen. It let out a mournful keen as blood poured from around my blade, and as I stepped back, withdrawing the weapon, it collapsed in a rapidly expanding pool of its own blood.

I breathed heavily, staring at the animal corpse. I had always been an urban creature; though I travelled between cities frequently, I had always simply paid other people to fight off wild animals on my behalf. Even on those rare occasions when it was just me and a wild animal, I had always just run it off with a few swipes at its flank. That had always been enough for Cyrodiil wolves, which were in any case well fed from woodland game.

I had certainly never seen what a wolf's intestines looked like until today.

Whiterun was a city built upon what the mountain-dwelling Nords would likely have called a "hill". From the overlook on which I now stood, I could see that the city was composed of three levels, with iconic Dragonsreach on the peak, standing proudly in the northernmost corner and visible from leagues in every direction. In its own way, it reminded me of the Imperial City.

A couple of short hours later, as I approached the city's walls, I found something else that reminded me of the Empire's Capitol: the condition of the walls. Everywhere I looked, the walls of White run were in some measure of disrepair; some, such as on the old, outer wall, were merely beginning to crumble. Other areas were little more than piles of stone. Whereas the ancient walls of the Imperial City were almost irreparably damaged by the ruinous Great War some decades ago, however, these walls simply appeared to be old. Little by little, the walls had fallen and no one had done enough to maintain them.

Happily, such was not the case with the inner wall that protected the city proper. Here and there, I could see fresh rock and mortar among the old fortification. I approached the gate into the city, flanked by two surly looking men wearing ornate helmets and what appeared to be a version of the Stormcloak armor that bore yellow cloth instead of blue. I blinked as I realized that the Stormcloaks must have modelled their armor after those of local guards.

"Clever little sods," is what I would have said if the two guards hadn't been glowering at me at that very moment. There wasn't any particular reason for their surly expressions. They were simply there to communicate that they, the glowerers, were guards, that I, the gloweree, was nobody, and that the gloweree had better not make any trouble for the glowerers or there would damn well be a good deal more than glowering going on.

By now, the sky was dark, the moons and stars obscured by thick clouds. One of the guards stepped forward. "Halt," he said in an authoritative voice. "City's closed with the dragons about. Official business only."

Several thoughts ran through my potion-fueled brain at once. The first, carrying a touch of alarm, was, "Dragons, plural?" The second, not very far behind, was, "What am I going to do now?" The third, which had been not far from my mind since I took that first lump on the head, was, "Well, I tried. Where's the next boat to Cyrodiil?"

The fourth thought waited until all of the others had finished clamoring before whispering: "I can use this."

It was the type of thinking that had helped me to survive every failed deal, every bungled scheme, and every bad sale. It was the thoughts that I never bothered to think until it was just shy of too late, and not quite scraping the bottom of the barrel. It was the voice that I never heard until I was in deep, but it always kept me from drowning. It was the sound that Opportunity makes when, once every other road seems to lead straight to prison or the poorhouse, it knocks on the door of my consciousness.

In hindsight, of course, it may have just been the buzz of the Stamina potion.

I didn't stop to think why I had heard it now. I just listened.

"I was at Helgen when it was attacked by a dragon. I have information," I said, hoping upon hope that I could talk my way into the city.

The guards looked at each other uncertainly. Thinking was not a common talent among guards, and these were certainly common guards. They had been told to shut the gates and make sure that no one gets in or out unless they were on official business. It was the type of order that doesn't invite a good deal of imagination; they were on official business, or they weren't. This had suited them just fine, as imagination didn't come to them easily; after all, if it did, then they wouldn't have been guards.

On the other hand, the word dragon tended to inspire quite a bit of inspiration, usually of the burning and dying variety.

"Fine," said the guard that was apparently the designated speaker. "But we'll be keeping an eye on you."

I stopped myself just in time from heaving a sigh of relief. Instead, I nodded my thanks and walked into the city of Whiterun.

On the other side of the wall, the first thing that I noticed was a couple of people in what appeared to be a heated discussion about armaments.

"…Whatever it takes," the man was saying, "but we must have more swords for the Imperial soldiers." He was almost as sturdy as Alvor, and he wore what appeared to be a lighter version of the Imperial Legion Armor. I stopped, transfixed, before I forced myself to relax; I probably didn't have anything to fear this soon, especially I didn't have an entry in the prison registry.

The woman was of a swarthy skin that I immediately identified as Imperial. Somehow, seeing an Imperial in Skyrim only compounded my sense of separation from my homeland. She shook her head. "I just can't fill an order of that size on my own. Why don't you swallow that stubborn pride of yours and ask Eorlund Gray-Mane for help?

The man laughed scornfully, his voice more a bark than an expression of humor. "I'd sooner bend my knee to Ulfric Stormcloak." He spat on the ground at the mention of the name. "Besides, Gray-Mane would never make steel for the Legion."

The woman, leaning against the wall of a building that bore a Blacksmith's shingle, sighed in apparent resignation. "Have it your way. I'll take the job, but don't expect a miracle."

The blacksmith walked into the smithy. The soldier turned and saw me standing there. Immediately he gave me his full attention and barked a question. "Gray-Mane or Battle-Born?"

I blinked, caught off guard by both the suddenness and the intensity of the question. "What?" I said dumbly.

This answer didn't appear to satisfy the soldier, because he narrowed his eyes and deepened his scowl. "Got stones in your ears?" he said derisively. "I asked what side you're on, Gray-Mane or Battle-Born!"

I opened my mouth and shut it a few times before regaining enough presence of mind to say, "I heard you. I just don't know what you're asking."

The man relaxed a little bit, and stopped trying to set my hair on fire with his eyes. "New in town, huh?" he said in a considerably more amiable tone. He gestured at the buildings around him. It was beginning to rain. "Whiterun's got two clans, both old and respected.

"Difference is, the Gray-Manes," and here he spat again, "turned their backs on the Empire. We Battle-Borns stayed loyal." His gaze hardened. "So I'll ask again. Gray-Mane or Battle-Born?"

It didn't take an Arch-Mage to figure out the right answer to that question. "Oh, Battle-Born, of course," I said, as if the answer was obvious to anyone with a brain (as opposed to being obvious to anyone with a desire to stay upright and unbruised).

Amazingly, the resulting smile from the man was genuine. "Then I say well met, friend." He then proceeded to clap me on the shoulders. "I could tell you were a sharp one the moment I laid eyes on you," he said without even a hint of irony. "Idolaf Battle-Born."

I could have guessed the surname. "Sedgwick Circospetto."

Judging from the brief look on his face, I suspected that Idolaf would be sticking to my given name. "What brings you to Whiterun, Sedgwick?"

I frowned as I remembered the mild urgency of my mission. "I need to carry a message to the…" I forgot the title. I cringed.

Idolaf noticed my problem. "To the Jarl?" He supplied helpfully.

This time I freely sighed in relief. "Yes."

Idolaf nodded. "Jarl Balgruuf is the leader of the city and of Whiterun Hold," he patiently explained. He pointed up, to the great building that overlooked the city. "You'll find him in Dragonsreach."

Mercifully, I knew enough to understand that a Hold was a sort of province-within-a-province. "Thank you," I told him before rushing off.

It was raining heavily as I climbed the numerous steps up the city and to the city's seat of power. After a cold and wet eternity, I could see great, wooden doors through the damp dark.

I was winded from the steps, but even so, the sight of the interior of the Jarl's great hall took my breath away. If Alvor's cottage was Nordic architecture at its most utilitarian, Dragonsreach was the same with its hair washed and its clothes pressed. Chandeliers laden with candles hung from the great, arched ceiling, but even their glow was outshined by the many torches and iron firepits that lined the hall, bathing everything in a golden glow. From the walls and balconies hung great banners of yellow and gold, each adorned with the Horse's Head of Whiterun Hold.

The center of the hall was dominated by two enormous tables, each capable of holding a feast fit for a small army, their every edge finely carved yet still bearing the hard-edged machismo inherent in all Nordic craftsmanship. Men and women sat here, filling the hall with the sounds of eating, of carousing and of rugged merriment. Between the tables sat a great firepit, constantly fed by massive chunks of wood and bearing an inferno that warmed every corner of the room.

At the back of the hall, displayed for all to see, was the great skeletal head of a dragon, its bleached skull snarling at eternity, its very presence boasting to the world that the name of the great building was well-deserved.

Under this dragon's head, on the throne of Dragonsreach, sat Jarl Balgruuf the Greater, clothed in fine, sleeveless robes adorned with feathers, with fur and with gold. On his head sat a gleaming golden circlet, embedded in which was a shining ruby. On Balgruuf's right hand stood a bald Imperial with sharp eyes and a sharper frown; on his left stood a Dark Elf on whose gray face was a scowl to rival that of General Tullius.

I stood at the door, struck dumb by the sheer splendor of a hall that would try the most cunning of Cyrodiilic architects, until I remembered my purpose. I needed to speak to the Jarl.

As I stepped forward, however, the Dark Elf somehow contrived to scowl even further and moved to intercept me. To my mild alarm, she drew her sword.

"What is the meaning of this interruption?" she asked me before I could get more than a few steps into the hall. "Jarl Balgruuf is not receiving visitors."

The tone of the Dunmer's voice communicated in clear terms that there was no possibility of refusing it. It was the same Voice of Command that Ulfric Stormcloak had used in the attack on Helgen. In this case, she provided additional motivation as supplied the sword that she was carrying in a not-entirely-unthreatening way. I had to mentally fight with my knees to keep them from turning me around and marching me right out of Dragonsreach.

I stuck with the story I had given the guards. It was true, after all, as I told my noncompliant knees. "I have news from Helgen," I said, looking pointedly at the sword. "About the dragon attack." It was a big sword.

To my surprise and relief, the Dunmer immediately sheathed her sword. "Well, that explains why the guards let you in," she said, her voice only just betraying her surprise. She gestured toward the high seat. "Come on, then. The Jarl will want to speak to you personally."

As it happened, my arrival was, indeed, an interruption of some kind; The Jarl was deep in a heated discussion with the Imperial when I approached. He turned to look at me with a glare that could have melted steel. "What in Oblivion's name does Tullius want this time?"

I blinked, dumbstruck. "What?" I said dumbly.

The answer only appeared to irritate the Jarl further, because he barked, "Out with it, man! What does the Legion want from Whiterun? They do want something, yes?"

We stared at one another for what must have been some time, his expression growing more frustrated by the second and mine undoubtedly growing more befuddled. Too late, I realized that I was still wearing the Legion uniform that I had scavenged from the keep at Helgen.

As I started to babble a string of disconnected sentences which, if interpreted by someone with a transcript and a good deal of free time might have been translated to something roughly along the lines of my not being a soldier, the Dark Elf leaned toward him and murmured something into his ear. The Jarl immediately straightened in his seat and looked me in the eye.

"So," he said, his voice losing the edge that it had held. "You were at Helgen? You saw the dragon with your own eyes?"

A hush fell over the hall. I felt the eyes of Dragonsreach on me. I exhaled, slowly. "Yes," I said. "I saw the dragon destroy Helgen."

And then the story, unbidden, poured from my lips and into the ears of the hall. I recounted the terrified screams, the burning people, the crumbling buildings, the hail of fire, the terrible beast. I spoke of the fire that barely missed me only to incinerate hundreds, of the heavens themselves writhing at the sound of the creature's voice, and, finally, of the leisure with which it erased Helgen from the world.

I stopped, clenching my teeth. I felt sick, and judging by the expressions of the faces that I could see, I was not alone. "When I last saw it, the bastard was in flying in the mountains near Riverwood," I finished weakly.

A pregnant silence ruled the hall after my speech.

"By Ysmir," the Jarl finally breathed. "Irleth was right." The Dark Elf's frown deepened at the sound of her name, and it was clear that being right did not comfort her much at the moment. Balgruuf turned his steely gaze onto the Imperial. "What do you say now, Proventus? Shall we continue to trust in the strength of our walls? Against a dragon?"

The Dunmer called Irleth and the Imperial called Proventus began to argue amongst themselves, both competing for the ear of the Jarl while at the same time glaring daggers at one another. Balgruuf slammed a fist on the arm of his chair, causing everyone to jump.

"I will not stand idly by while a dragon burns my hold and slaughters my people!" he bellowed in a voice that could have carried to the city gates. He took a deep breath before turning to the Dunmer. "Irleth. Send a detachment to Riverwood at once."

And so, my job was done. I exhaled, only just realizing that I had been holding my breath. Now that I had delivered the message, I could…

I could…

I felt the emptiness of the universe open up before me. I was broke and exhausted, hundreds of miles from home and with no means of transport. I was stuck in an alien land caught in a civil war and infested by at least one dragon. My cargo was in the middle of some bandit pit, my horse was probably in a different province with a different fur color and fake teeth, and my guards were either in a shallow grave or wolf dung. Oh, and I may or may not be wanted by the Empire on suspicion of treason.

"Well done."

I emerged from my reverie with a jolt. The Jarl was looking at me again, a strange look in his eye. Irleth and Proventius were missing; instead, a guard was at the Jarl's side, carrying a large bundle wrapped in fur. How long had I been standing there, staring at nothing?

"You sought me out, on your own initiative," Balgruuf told me, and I decided not to correct him. "You've done Whiterun a service, and I won't forget it." He gestured, and the guard stepped forward, holding out the bundle. I accepted it without thinking, and nearly fell over when the Nord let go. It had to weigh at least forty pounds. If the Jarl noticed my strain, he didn't show it. "Take this as a small token of my esteem."

The Jarl wasn't finished with me. "There is another thing you could do for me. Suitable for someone of your particular talents, perhaps," he said, and I again noticed the look in his eye. He stood up and indicated that I should follow him. "Come," he said as he started to walk. I nearly stumbled as I fell into step behind him. "Let's go find Farengar, my court wizard. He's been looking into a matter related to these dragons and…" He hesitated a beat before finishing, "rumors of dragons."

I followed the Jarl into a room adjacent to the Hall. My eyes were immediately drawn to the most striking feature, a mountain of parchment resting on at least two large tables.

Balgruuf addressed the pile. "Farengar, I think I've found someone who can help you with your dragon project. Go ahead and fill him in with all the details." And with that, he was gone, probably returning to his throne. I was left alone in the room.

To my surprise, a hooded face poked out from behind the parchment pile. A Nord with a drawn face and sallow skin looked from the parchment to me, and then to the parchment again. "So the Jarl thinks you can be of use to me?" he said in the voice of someone who has far too many things to do in far too short a time." I heard the sound of rustling parchment. "Oh, yes," he said, his mind apparently having disengaged from whatever he was working on for long enough to remember that he ought to be working on something else, probably at the same time. "He must be referring to my research into the dragons."

"You're researching dragons?" I asked as he left the table to see to what turned out to be a second mountain of parchment. There were three in all; one, the largest, on the two tables, one piled around a large map of Skyrim, and one on and around what looked to be an alchemist's set.

The robed man called Farengar didn't answer until he finished finding something in the map's mountain. When he did, he appeared to ignore or forget my question, instead launching into what he had originally planned to say. "Yes, I could use someone to fetch someone for me," he said before plucking a stray quill from the pile, dipping it into one of the many inkwells scattered about, and scribbling something down.

Farengar stopped and looked up, glancing at me for a full three seconds. "Well, when I say 'fetch,'" he said, uncertainty clouding his features, "I really mean 'delve into a dangerous ruin in search of an ancient stone tablet that may or may not actually be there.'"

I wasn't liking Farengar very much at the moment. "A dangerous ruin?" I echoed as he began to rummage through the Alchemy mountain. No response. I tried again. "What sort of dangers are we discussing?" Still no response. I sighed, fatigued. I could feel the buzz of the stamina potion leaving me, leaving an aching weariness behind. "What does this have to do with dragons?" I said, not bothering anymore to keep the befuddlement and irritation from my voice.

For the first time, the little man stopped what he was doing and gave me his full attention. "Ah, no brute mercenary, but a thinker," he said, appreciation creeping into his voice. "Perhaps even a scholar?" he asked, hope in his eyes.

I coughed, unnerved by the wizard's gaze. "Not in the things that you'd be interested in," I said with total honesty.

It was too late; Farengar was already in the throes of academic interest. "You see," he said, his eyes fixated on a point somewhere in front of him, "when the stories of dragons began to circulate, many dismissed them as mere fantasies. Rumors. Impossibilities!" The wizard barked a humorless laugh. "One sure mark of a fool, of course, is to dismiss anything that falls outside his experience as being impossible!"

"Of course," I said weakly, staring in horrified fascination.

Farengar didn't acknowledge me; he was only listening to an internal script now. "But I began to search, yes, search for information about dragons." He began to pace about in an agitated manner. "Where had they gone all those years ago? And where were they coming from?"

He stopped, right in front of me, and leaned forward, now whispering in a maniacally conspiratorial voice. "I, ah, learned of a certain stone tablet," he said, as if he was divulging the most precious of secrets. "A Dragonstone, said to contain a map of dragon burial sites, and said to be housed in Bleak Falls Barrow."

The man stopped, straightened, breathed deeply. He wrung his hands, and his face once again took on its preoccupied look. "Go to Bleak Falls Barrow, find this tablet, no doubt interred in the main chamber, and bring it to me." He shrugged. "Simplicity itself."

I sighed, remembering Hadvar's description of the wretched tomb that overlooked Riverwood. "Just tell me one thing," I said, swaying slightly. "Would there happen to be Draugrs in this ruin?"

Farengar looked at me as if I had sprouted an extra head.