[AN: Sorry for the delay guys! Work schedule has been crazy lately. Hope you like this one!
Random thing: When writing for Sognvir, I imagine him to both look and sound exactly like Leonidas from 300 :D]
The Daedra's Wrath
(A Lord of the Rings/The Elder Scrolls Crossover)
Chapter Two
The Dancing Dagger was highly regarded as the best Inn within the Colovian Shires. Residing in the very heart of Halesgarden, the Dagger boasted the best mead west of the Imperial City, and had an impressive number of regular patrons. Tonight, all the regulars (and sundry) had gathered for whatever reason in the warm, spacious common room of the Dagger, applauding the tall Bard by the hearth with more and more enthusiam as the drink flowed. Sitting by the bar, Cassius and fellow Watchman Ludovic had their backs to the room, glancing over their shoulders as the final chords rang out from the Bard's lute, putting their tankards down to provide a few perfunctory claps.
"Oh look at that, would you?" Ludovic muttered with mild disgust, gesturing to a knot of young women seated nearest to the Bard, blushing and giggling. "They wouldn't look twice at him if he couldn't play that bloody lute."
"You're implying he plays well?" Cassius replied, snickering over the rim of his tankard. "The man dropped more notes than a clumsy diplomat."
Ludovic chuckled, clapping his Captain on the shoulder. "A note of jealousy, oh fearless leader?" he asked. "Besides, the townsfolk seem to think he can play quite well. The gold in his cap can attest to that."
"Throw the commoners a bandy-legged tomcat scratching a fiddle and they'll applaud as though their ears are being blessed by the harps of the Emperor's minstrels." Cassius replied jokingly, draining the rest of his mug.
"Thank you, thank you!" The Bard exclaimed to the group, twirling his hands and taking a bow. "I'm afraid though, that my time entertaining you all is at an end."
"Give us one more!" The crowd chorused. "Encore!:
With a well trained hesitant smile, the Bard scooped up his Lute once more. "Oh, very well." he sighed, earning a cheer from the patrons. "This song is one of my all time favourites. Ladies and Gentlemen of Colovia, this song is called Ragnar the Red."
As the Bard began strumming the first few chords, the door to the tavern swung open, a brief flurry of powdery snow blown through by the chilly breeze. Over the threshold stepped a man in light armor, a leather helm adorning his head, a shortsword girt by his side. "Just an Imperial messenger" the patrons thought to themselves, returning their attention to the musician by the fire.
The newest visitor briefly scanned the room, moving across the tables towards the bar, and, after setting eyes on the Watchmen, moved through the crowd towards them.
"Here comes trouble..." Ludovic muttered, his eyes flicking over Cassius' shoulder towards the door. "A Legionairre, no less. And he's headed straight towards you."
Cassius sighed and rolled his eyes. "Clap me in irons now and save me the hot air." he replied in mild exasperation.
"Captain Malacabre?"
The Captain turned and glanced over his shoulder, providing a nod to the Courier. "Aye. I'm off duty at the moment. If you proceed to the Guardhouse on the outskirts, whoever is on duty can take your message."
The Courier shook his head. "I apologise for intruding upon your private time, but the message I carry is for you, Captain."
"Then it can wait until morning." Cassius replied bluntly. "I have had a highly tasking day, and-"
"This message comes directly from Legate Carver." The Courier seemed to be growing impatient with Cassius' stand-offishness, and abruptly cut over his speech. "I'm afraid it cannot wait. Just a moment of your time." Without waiting for a reply, he turned and strode to the door, opening it and slipped out into the night.
"Well, he certainly put you in your place." Ludovic commented, holding back a grin. "I must say I'm concerned. A message from the Legate isn't usually good news."
"Your optimism is reassuring." Cassius stood, tightetning his belt so that his blade sat more comfortably on his hip. "I shan't be long. Try not to drink Madam Frost's kegs dry."
"No promises, my friend."
Outside, the snow fell in light flurries, occaisonally whipped too and fro by periodic and icy cold winds. It wouldn't be long until the stable boys were called upon to carve paths in the drifts between dwellings, it seemed. Full Winter was coming early. The Courier stood by a hanging lantern near the stables, tightening the saddle on his horse, and glanced around as he heard boots marching in his direction.
"I apologise for my abrubptness, Courier." Cassius called, drawing his cloak more tightly about himself. "What news from the Legion?"
The Courier gave a brief shake of the head, as if to say "No harm done", then pulled a tightly furled scroll from one of the saddle bags. "Your services are needed elsewhere." He replied, handing the message to Cassius. "There has been a call for more men in Helgen, and as Colovia resides near the border-"
"Hold on a moment..." Cassius quickly scanned the message, his dark brown eyes moving quickly across the parchment and then darted towards the Courier. "I'm being reposted? Away from Halesgarden? Why me?"
"Your record speaks for itself, Captain." The Courier replied blandly. "Your capture of the Argonian convict was one of the most impressive feats seen in many a year. 4 weeks of tracking from the border to Anvil. Not something the average guard could accomplish. Especially considering that Thrice-Bitten had eluded the Legion for two whole months before you picked up the trail, and that he was one of the slipperiest criminals in Black Marsh."
"I..." Cassius glanced back at the message one last time before he rolled it back up. "Halesgarden is my home. I need it as much as it needs me. Perhaps more."
"Tis the duty of a Guardsman to go where the Legion sends him. You were told this when you first joined, I don't doubt."
This was true. Cassius knew that there was every liklihood that he wouldn't serve the rest of his time in Colovia. He'd watched several men come and go in the last 7 years, being shipped off to other Counties and Shires across Cyrodiil where there was need for them. Cassius also knew that he was no different. He'd taken the Oath and sworn allegiance to the Crown, and would follow his orders to the letter.
"Aye, very well... When must I leave?" There was a certain note of dejection in Cassius' voice. Even though he had, for quite a while, wanted to see with his own eyes the Northern realm of Skyrim, he hadn't wanted it to be a prolonged, forced visit. And, he figured, he wouldn't see much beyond Helgen's walls and the surrounding Falkreath Hold.
"As soon as you can." Came the prompt reply. "Sun up would be preferable. The Helgen Watch is in dire need of more troops. Bandit numbers are on the rise, and the Falmer are spreading south."
Cassius gave a solemn nod in reply. "I shall leave ere the sun rises, then." He swept a short bow to the courier, who returned it in kind. He pulled himself up onto his horse, swept a leg over the saddle and drew up the reins.
"I'll inform the Legion upon my return. Safe travels to you, Captain." The Courier jigged his horse into a fast trot, his form soon gathered up in the snowy darkness. Cassius turned in mild dejection, not at all looking forward to leaving Halesgarden behind him. He had his duty, though, and wouldn't ignore a direct order, especially when he was more needed elsewhere.
"Off to Helgen, eh?"
Cassius glanced up. Standing by the doors of the stable adjoining the Inn, a broadset man in an old weather beaten tunic held aloft a flaming torch. Cassius recognised him at once; It was Grelden. "You heard?" he asked, making his way towards the stable. "You're out late."
Grelden gave a nod and moved out from under the eaves, lightly limping on every left step."Aye. I'm preparing my horse. Just so happens I'm leaving for Skyrim on the 'morrow. Perhaps we could travel together. The road isn't a safe place to travel alone. Even for a Watch Captain."
A strange offer, considering that Grelden had been something of a loner since moving to the Shires. Ever since catching sight of Grelden's Katana a few days ago and finding out of the veteran's history with the Blades, though, Cassius had been highly interested in finding out more about the man and his life as a guardian of the Emperor. "A kind offer, which I accept gladly." Cassius gave a short bow of thanks.
"We'll set out at 4am sharp." Grelden replied. "There's been some heavy snow storms in the pass before the border, so we may need to find another way around." Pulling the gate closed, Grelden gave one final nod before setting off up the main street towards his home, leaving Cassius' mind buzzing with curiousity.
...
"Stop, Thief!" The booming command of the guards echoed through the stone-walled sewers of the Imperial City, the flickering torchlight bouncing off the walls, the heavy boots stomping through the shallow and murky waters. No less than five heavily armored soldiers stormed the waterways, chasing down yet another thief. The thief in question, was Ma'kiir.
The Khajiit's light clothing and fleet feet gave him the advantage in such a place over the cumbersome guards who were more heavily armored than a Dragon, so he wasn't too worried about being caught today. The fact, however, that they had addressed him by name was more worrisome. Over the span of his career, Ma'kiir had had several close calls. But never had he been approached in the middle of the day, accused (rightly) as being a member of the the Thieves Guild, and heard his own name from a guard's mouth. Of course, they'd addressed him as "Ma'kiir the Simple", a monicker he'd earned from his time on the Waterfront, but still...
His ears twitched as he rounded a corner and came to a fork in the tunnel. The guards were a ways behind him, and he wanted to throw them off the trail. The left fork, he knew, led to a commonly known exit not far from the Gates of the City. The right fork would also lead him to freedom, yet hardly any (save for a few members of the Guild) knew where it led, or what was down there. The Cat quickly tore a strip of fabric from his sleeve and impaled it upon a rusty iron gateway, kicking over a long forgotten barrel towards the left fork, and slinked away into the shadows of the other path, moving swiftly and silently. A few moments later, he heard the booming thuds of booted feet, and heard cries of "He went this way!" before they receeded into the darkness. Smiling to himself, Ma'kiir slowed his pace to a more relaxed speed, ambling down the passage way. Before long, he caught a glimpse of light at the end of the tunnel, and emerged through the gate, the iron squealing in objection on rusty hinges.
"Ah, Ma'kiir the Not-so-Crafty." A sly voice met Ma'kiir's ears, and he swivelled on the spot, glancing up to see a Bosmer sitting lazily on the protruding rock above the gateway, his auburn hair pulled back into a pony-tail and a smirk on his lips. "This has to be some kind of record. You've gone from being a mentally touched vagrant on the Waterfront to the most wanted thief in Cyrodiil." The Bosmer swung a leg over the rock and hopped down, dusting off the his trousers. "How do you feel, friend?" he asked, that grin fixed firmly in place.
"You may laugh, Thorn." Ma'kiir replied, lowering his hood. "But Ma'kiir is the one with a price on his head. He wonders how the Guards knew his name. Perhaps some lowly pointy-eared theif grew jealous of Ma'kiir's superior skills and wanted him out of the way, yes?" He chuckled, grinning a toothy grin.
"Oh believe me, the thought has crossed my mind more than once. But I'm afraid that the Nord you robbed just a few days ago in the Market was one Joran Stone-Wall, head of the Skyrim Merchant's Guild. He's very anti-thief, don't you know? Sees people like us as worse than murderers." Thorn snickered. "Seems you need to work on researching your marks, Ma'kiir."
Ma'kiir felt like a lead weight had dropped into his stomach. "Head..Merchants Guild... Oh, Dibella..." Ma'kiir smacked a hand to his forehead, his grin vanished. "This one feels as though this mess won't vanish overnight... Ma'kiir has really put his foot in it this time." He half-wailed.
"Probably not overnight, but in due time." Thorn replied reassuringly, clapping Ma'kiir on the shoulder. "Why not take a holiday, until this all blows over?" He suggested. "You know, hit the open road, see the sights."
"But..." Ma'kiir scratched the back of his head. "Where would Ma'kiir go? He imagines that he will be hunted in every County from Leyawin to Anvil."
"Hmm..." Thorn rubbed his chin, glancing out over the waterway towards the South. "Skyrim. I hear the Riften Guild are planning a big heist soon, and they could certainly use someone like you. Any job they have will be child's play, compared to the White Gold Bank heist."
The White Gold Bank heist was one of the biggest thieving operations ever seen in Cyrodiil. It had taken years of planning, but the Guild had put together a team of their best (Both Thorn and Ma'kiir had been on that list), and had successfully stolen 500,000 Septims from the Inner Vault. The Gold had been dispersed throughout the Sewers for the escape, loaded into wagons, and drawn to safe houses spread from Cheydinhal to Chorral. "Ma'kiir thinks this is a capital idea." The Cat muttered after a few moments of thought. "He'll stay away from the Imperial Guards, and line his pockets with Gold at the same time."
"Two birds with one stone." Thorn gave a chuckle and a nod. "My horse is tethered at a small Inn just down the road. You may take him, if you wish."
"Horses cannot climb as well as Ma'kiir." Ma'kiir replied mischieviously. "His trip will be much quicker on foot, although he thanks you for your kindness." He added a small bow, then raised his hood once more. "Fair fortunes, Thorn."
"And to you, friend."
Ma'kiir set off up the path towards the Waterfront, a mild apprehension touching his mind. He needed to get his effects from his hut, and he knew the guards would be there in force, but that wasn't the trouble. Fear of possible capture by the Imperial Guards was nothing, nothing, compared to Ma'kiir's extreme dislike of the cold.
...
Sognvir lay face down on the icy floor of the cave, his muscular form covered in lacerations, his hands drenched in blood. Around him, the corpses of no less than 30 Falmer lay twisted and broken, some dismembered and decapitated. Utilising the Werewolf blood in his veins, the Nord had transformed into the creature and torn apart the viscious, blinded elves. The sheer numbers, though, had almost defeated him.
With a groan of pain, Sognvir slowly pushed himself up onto his hands and knees, feeling as though at least one rib was broken, his face blood-stained, his left eye squeezed shut. The snow-elves hadn't gone down without a fight, and now that he was back to his human form, Sognvir was feeling every cut and stab wound. He tore an arrow from his thigh with a savage snarl, binding the wound with a piece of cloth, and staggered to his feet.
The injuries were rather severe, and Sognvir wondered if perhaps he would be seeing Sovngarde today, rather than Jorrvaskar. If he did go to the halls of his fathers fathers, he went with pride. He'd slain many foes, and avenged the deaths of his comrades in arms. A true warriors death. But, Sognvir had no plans of laying down and dying today. He gathered up the loose pieces of his armor and replaced them, then scooped up his battle axe and, using it as a blind man would use a staff, limped gingerly back up the icy tunnel, moving with slow, exhausted paces.
It took him some time to reach the cave's mouth, and even longer to stagger back towards the road. The horses they'd tied up to a tree where the road met the path to the cave had either been stolen or bolted, and Sognvir growled under his breath. Those damn horses would have been a life saver right now.
Helgen wasn't too far away, and Sognvir knew of a Healer who often visited the township. He prayed to Talos that the Healer was indeed in town, and set off up the road. If help didn't come soon, the big Nord would surely bleed out before nightfall.
Within an hour (the trip normally took just a few minutes on horseback), Sognvir stumbled drunkenly towards Helgen's gates, his breath hitching in his chest. An Imperial Guard standing by the gate saw him approaching, noticed his labored footfalls , and made his way over to him, taking one of Sognvir's arms and pulling it over his shoulders. "What happened to you?" he asked in concerned tones, pulling him towards the gates.
"The Falmer." Sognvir muttered weakly. "Is... is the healer in town?"
"I'm afraid not." Replied the guard. "But, I believe there's a mage from the College staying at the Inn. Perhaps he's familiar with Restoration magic.. I'll take you there, and see if any of the merchants in town have any potions for sale."
"My thanks, Imperial."
"Don't thank me yet."
Down the winding cobbled road, past the Blacksmith, and into the quiet Dragon Inn. The room was completely empty, save for the barmaid wiping down a few tables, and a robed man sitting by the fire, a heavy tome open on his lap, a raven perched on a tarnished brass cup on the table, occasionally dipping his beak into the goblet. The mage glanced up from his book as the guard and Sognvir entered, and the raven gave a short warble.
"You there, Mage." The guard called, helping Sognvir into a tall-backed chair. "This man needs healing. Are you capable with Restorative magics?"
Gharoth glanced around the room, perhaps wondering if there was another mage present. "Me?" he asked.
"No, the pigeon on the table." The Guard barked, gesturing to Archie, which earned him a sharp caw and a beady stare. "Yes, you! Can you perform healing spells?"
"I... I... Well yes of course." He laid a placemarker in his book and snapped it closed, slowly and awkwardly rising from his chair. Subconsciously, he held an arm out, and Archie hopped onto his wrist, strolled up his arm and perched himself comfortably on Gharoth's shoulder as they moved across the room.
"Then heal this man. He's had a run in with the Falmer. I'm going to see if I can scrounge up a potion or two." With that, the guard turned on his heel and marched back out into the late afternoon sun.
Gharoth knelt beside Sognvir's hulking form, rolling up his sleeves. He flexed his fingers, wisps of blue aura twirling around them. Before he could begin, however, Sognvir seized his wrist, looking over the mage with his one good eye. "Are ye sure you can do this, lad?" he asked gruffly. "I'd rather bleed out than sprout horns."
"I've done this a million times, friend." Gharoth replied calmly. "You need not fear horns, humps, scales or tails from this mage." Sognvir continued to stare beadily at the young mage for a moment, then, when he felt satisfied, he gave him a short nod. Immediately, that blue aura spread from Gharoth's finger tips to just above his wrists, and, holding his hands around 4 inches away from Sognvir's chest, began to work his magic. The aura spread across Sognvir's form, and the Nord could feel the lacerations knitting together, the swelling and bruises dying down, his fractured ribs mending. Soon, he was completely healed.
"Right as rain." Gharoth rose and rolled down his sleeves, giving Sognvir one final glance over. His wounds had healed nicely, although there would be some heavy scaring to his torso, not to mention the ghastly slash running from his eyebrow to his jaw. He rummaged in the satchel on his hip for a few moments, then pulled out a small bottle of green liquid. "Stamina draught." He tossed the bottle to Sognvir, who deftly caught it. "Should get you back on your feet quickly."
"I am in your debt, Breton." Sognvir rose from his chair, setting the bottle down on a nearby table and held his hand out. "Sognvir Ice-Hammer, at your service."
The Mage glanced at the hand for a moment, almost unsure of himself in the situation, then grasped hands with the bigger man. "Gharoth Faar, at yours." He replied. "And this feathered thorn in my side is Archie." he added, gesturing to the Raven on his shoulder. Archie ruffled his feather and cooed in mild indignation at the introduction.
"This Raven is your familiar?" Sognvir asked, glancing at the bird. "What powers does he possess?"
"The power of being the most annoying creature with two legs. The ability to give bad directions which almost always ends up leading to a bandit camp or a troll den. And he's completely tone-deaf as well."
"I..." At first, Sognvir thought the mage was having a joke with him. But, when Gharoth didn't replicate the grin on his face, he arched a brow curiously. "Ye don't talk to people often, do ye?"
Gharoth glanced around. "No, not really." he replied with a shrug. "Most of my time is spent studying, or out in the wilderness on research. It's usually just Archie and I."
"I see... Well, nevertheless, I am in your debt." he said gravely. "If you ever require my assistance, seek me out in Jorrvaskar."
"I will." Gharoth gave the Nord a polite bow, which Archie mimicked, perched on his shoulder. "Safe travels on your journey home, Companion."