"Our hero, our hero, claims a warrior's heart..." rang out over the din of the inn. A few others joined in with the song, all with varying accuracy owing to alcoholic muddling of their minds or personal beliefs on how the song ought to go. There was a jolly air about the large hall, with laughter, chatter and busy staff bustling about.
And yet, there was one corner that the patrons avoided, practically at all costs. Even the staff didn't want to step into the corner for any reason... for fear of aggravating the heavily armored figure seated at the table in the corner. A tankard filled with mead sat before them, only missing a couple of sips; otherwise, the tankard was full. They had one armor-clad hand upon the table, fingers lightly drumming upon the wooden surface in tune with the music; the other clung to the tankard of mead, as if possessive and daring someone else to try and take it from them.
The armor was gray in its coloration, and was a style not commonly seen in Skyrim... but rather in Solstheim. A couple patrons noticed the apparent origins of the armor, and spoke in hushed whispers behind their hands to others. It was commonly believed that the only way to get such a suit of armor was to kill someone for it. The armor, oftentimes referred to as 'Nordic carved', was apparently hard to find, even in Solstheim. Not many smiths crafted it, and it was difficult to obtain because most of those who wore it were typically well-protected from harm.
That meant that if the figure came to blows with anyone, they would likely win the fight handily. The patrons were more than willing to give them ample space and a wide berth.
The figure had a black linen cloak over her shoulders, the bottom hem of which rested upon the floor but slightly. A black hood obscured their head from view, making it nigh impossible to identify the figure's gender for any of the patrons. The staff knew, of course, having served the figure their drink, but they weren't in a 'sharing' mood insofar as the identity of the figure.
"For the darkness has passed, and the legend yet grows..." Other patrons finished the song for the bard, and applause broke out through the inn. The figure in the Nordic carved armor, however, withheld their own applause - and in fact, didn't even seem to register the fact that a song had just concluded. A couple patrons were getting annoyed at the figure's seeming lack of care about anything, but no one was bold enough to make a move... or drunk enough.
The door to the inn opened, and in stepped a pair of soldiers clad in ringmail armor. Blue sashes were worn over their right shoulder and fastened to their belts in the front and back, to resemble tabards below the belt. Cheers greeted them, and several mugs were raised into the air as the Stormcloak soldiers strode toward the counter.
"Usual?" the innkeeper, a young Nord lass, asked.
"Not tonight, I'm afraid," one of the Stormcloaks replied. "Need a clear head for the patrol later."
Mention of a patrol piqued the heavily armored figure's attention. They were listening to the conversation now - a task made slightly more difficult by the tumult in the inn.
"What's going on?" the innkeeper asked. "It's been patrols every night for the past few weeks..."
"Bandits are getting bolder," the second Stormcloak grumbled. He wordlessly picked up a mug of mead and downed it over the course of a few seconds, much to the disdain of his partner. He let out a loud belch, and cleared his throat. "They took Rorikstead a couple weeks ago."
"I heard about that," the innkeeper said grimly. "No one's allowed in or out, yeah?"
"Aye," the first replied. He snatched the empty mug from his partner, who only looked irritated by the act. "The High King's fixing to set someone real capable to it, though, so it'll be sorted out soon."
The armored figure turned around so as to face the Stormcloaks better, but said nothing.
"Does he have anyone in mind?" the innkeeper asked.
"Far as I can tell, he's already contacted the one he was interested in," the second Stormcloak said with a nod. "So there's that answer."
"So why did they take Rorikstead? If it was just for supplies, they'd have taken everything and run away already..."
"That's the thing, we don't know. That whole 'no one gets in, no one gets out' thing and all..." The first Stormcloak sighed heavily and gestured silently for a drink. The innkeeper gave him a dubious look, but eventually handed him a tankard. He picked it up, sniffed it tentatively, and nodded his approval. "Water will do me good," he said.
"Sissy," the second jeered.
"You say that now, but wait until you're the one stumbling all over the road and falling down in the middle of the night," the first replied with a chuckle.
"I'm just glad that-"
Whatever the innkeeper was glad about, no one would know. The door to the inn was thrown open without warning, and in tromped a trio of figures clad in hide and fur armor. The armored figure was regarding them closely now; their hand had slipped from the tankard to the hilt of a largely hidden blade at their back, beneath the cloak. Their other hand shifted to gently grasp the edge of a shield of the same craft as the rest of their armor.
"Alright, you idiots!" came a shout. The three words silenced the inn, and all eyes were now upon the trio. "This here inn's under our control now! Don't do nothin' stupid, and we won't spill your guts on the pretty lady's floor."
"Oh, is it now?" the first Stormcloak chuckled. He drew the battleaxe slung over his shoulder and grasped the weapon tightly in his hands. "And I wonder how you're going to keep it that way once you three are dead?" The second Stormcloak was following his partner's lead, and had his greatsword at the ready.
A few panicked eyes noticed that the armored figure had stood, and had their shield in their left hand and their right on the hilt of the hidden blade. A couple murmurs rippled through the crowd.
"Three on three? If only that made any difference," the bold man in hide jeered.
"Three?" the first Stormcloak asked. He glanced around, and his gaze came to rest on the armored figure. "Hold there. This is not-"
"Look out!" The figure's voice, that of a woman, rang out suddenly. She was rushing past the Stormcloaks, shield raised. The Stormcloak who had addressed her was ready to protest, but the sound of a blade striking metal to no effect interrupted him and made him realize what had happened. The trio had drawn their own weapons and advanced when he'd dropped his guard - and the armored woman had intercepted the bold man's steel sword.
"Stormcloaks need protection?" the first figure mocked. "Guess they aren't-" He was interrupted by the sudden bash of the armored woman's shield into his face, crying in pain. Blood sprayed from his nose as he stumbled back, and he shrieked in pain again - he withdrew his hand from the large fire in the center of the inn before it could do any serious damage. His comrades had drawn their own weapons - a pair of iron war axes each - and were advancing on the armored figure.
A flash of metal glinted in the firelight, and the first man found an exquisite blade buried in his chest. Blood began to dribble from his mouth, and he coughed weakly. The blade was twisted before the shield was bashed into his face, knocking him away from her. The blade was withdrawn, then the woman spun in place and ran the blade across his throat. Blood sprayed across the walls, tables and upon some of the food that was upon the tables; the man collapsed shortly thereafter, a pool of blood forming beneath him.
"Azura curse you!" another of the men shouted. The dark elf had both war axes raised over his head, prepared to bring them down in a vicious - if obvious - overhead strike. He never got the chance, however; the sword had found a new home in his throat, and he gurgled incoherently. Another flash of light on the blade, and his head flew into the crowd of awestruck and terrified patrons. A mortified shriek rang out as one of the unlucky patrons caught the head in his hands, and the severed head was suddenly being tossed around as if it were a hot potato.
The third man hesitated and backed away, weapons lowering. The Redguard was apparently no suicidal fool.
"Halt!" the Stormcloaks commanded. "Weapons away, and we won't kill you!"
The Redguard complied. To everyone's surprise, the woman lowered her weapon as well.
"Come with us, bandit," the second Stormcloak growled. "We've got a cell in the keep waiting for you." He turned his attention to the woman. "We'll handle things from here. Thank you for the help, but I wonder if you just made a bigger mess than necessary."
"I'll help Jerra clean up," the woman offered.
The Stormcloak nodded, and with his partner, escorted the bandit that surrendered out of the inn.
All attention was now on the woman, her sword still in hand. She turned to face the rest of the crowd, and they could see her face now: it was that of a Breton, one with cool blue eyes. Strands of mahogany hair were visible around her collar.
Fingers were pointed at her sword, however, and murmurs overtook the crowd.
"Jerra-"
The door flew open once more, and the woman spun around to face the door. It was the second Stormcloak.
"You fought well in here, but we need all able hands outside!" he shouted. "Bandits have overrun Helgen!"
The woman needed no further prompting. She was already rushing to the door, blade glowing in the firelight. The Stormcloak stepped aside so she could get outside, and his jaw dropped when he realized that, even in the absence of the firelight, the blade still glowed.
"How-" he murmured, eyes upon the sphere of golden-white light emanating from the blade's hilt.
"There will be time to answer questions later," she replied. She had her shield raised, and spared only a glance at the Stormcloak. "For now, the well-being of Helgen demands our attention."
"Answer me this, at least... who are you?" the Stormcloak asked. He looked surprised at the small smile that adorned her lips.
"Neria, oathsworn knight." She stepped past him and into the cool evening, sword and shield at the ready.
Only once the Stormcloak had followed Neria outside did the rest of the crowd break into a bout of awed murmurs.
"Did you see how she fought?!"
"She stepped forward to block that blade without a moment's hesitation..."
"A Breton knight? Does such a thing even...?"
Only one person was speechless. Jerra the innkeeper's eyes were wide, her hands gripping the counter to help stabilize herself. She'd only ever heard of the sword before, never seen it... until now. Even so, there was no other blade it could possibly have been.
"Dawnbreaker..." she murmured.
"Letter from Runael," Mia said, waving it about.
"Oh?" Adalla was suddenly attentive, for she sat up straight. Her hand remained upon the head of the white-furred saber cat sitting in front of her, and she cast an apologetic glance at the feline when the cat looked mildly annoyed at having the scratching of its ears interrupted.
"Aye." Mia opened the letter.
"Did you tip the courier this time?" Adalla asked.
"I gave him a tip, aye."
"A money tip?" the Altmer pressed.
"Money ain't gonna do him no good if he dies in the wild," she said simply.
Adalla only sighed in exasperation and resumed scratching the saber cat behind the ears, eliciting a contented purr from the feline. She watched as Mia read the letter, and felt a smile creep to her lips despite the woman's treatment of the courier. It had taken quite some time, but Adalla had finally taught Mia how to read and write. She'd also tried to teach Mia proper speech, and while Mia understood the concepts, she was stuck on her typical speech patterns. In hindsight, she was glad for that; Mia's speech pattern was but one of many things she loved about the Akaviri woman.
"Seems like things're goin' t'Oblivion back in Skyrim," Mia said, extending the letter toward Adalla. "Runael wants us t'help her with somethin'. High King's orders."
"Did she say what?" the Altmer inquired. She was a little disappointed when Mia shook her head, and took the letter wordlessly to read it herself.
Dearest Mia and Adalla,
I hope this letter finds you both in good health and even better spirits, for I have a task I require aid with. Our esteemed High King, Ulfric Stormcloak, has asked for my aid in a matter plaguing Skyrim of late. He believes you will both be invaluable to my success, and has subtly requested that you both join me in this endeavor.
I shall await your return in Winterhold, and am looking forward to seeing you both again. I will fill you both in once we are reunited.
With love,
Runael
She folded the letter and looked at Mia.
"What?"
"Thoughts?" the Altmer mused. She jumped a little as the saber cat nuzzled her leg, and with a soft chuckle, began to scratch behind the feline's ears anew.
"I mean... we know Skyrim's a dangerous place, aye? This ain't no real news... but if Ulfric's askin' us t'help Runael, shit's probably gettin' real over there. 'Sides, we both know there ain't no turnin' down his 'requests' for help."
"True." Adalla stopped scratching the saber cat's ear long enough to slide her arms around the cat and hug affectionately. "So... Winterhold?"
"Aye. I were hopin' we could stay a bit longer, but 'parently, this ain't something what can wait. We leave in the mornin', so we ain't gotta trudge through the wilds in the dark."
A.N. - Well then... wanted to get this up yesterday, and along the way, I convinced myself I did... alas, the curse of feeling sick. It was much worse the day before yesterday, though.
Neria is the last of the 'new characters' introduced with Eventide, and she'll have quite the important role in the story. For now, I just wanted to get it out there that she's not afraid of diving into combat, that she wears Nordic carved armor, and that she wields Dawnbreaker. Because in-game, she did all of those. I always envisioned her as a paladin, of sorts: fights to protect the weak and purge the unholy, that sort of thing. Dawnbreaker seems a natural fit for such a fighter. I just wish it were a tad stronger in-game, honestly. It's a Daedric Artifact; I'm sure they can get away with upping the power just a little more. As for what she's doing in Skyrim... well, that'll come to surface soon.
Adima's fully grown, and has been domesticated quite well. Mia and Adalla take her just about everywhere now, except those places where people look at a saber cat and shift uneasily. Mia's learned to read, at long last, so that's no longer a hindrance to her. Adalla, though it hasn't become apparent just yet, has also become far more skilled over the years as an adventurer. All three have definitely developed since the events of IAD.
I have no idea what I was sick with, or may still be recovering from (not feeling the greatest as of now), but it was quite depressing to get hit with it, full force, on my birthday (Sunday). It's had an affect on my appetite, too. I haven't had an appetite for a few days now, and it literally feels like I'm eating too much - even if I haven't eaten in hours, as was the case with breakfast yesterday morning and this morning. I typically skip lunch anyhow, so really, I just have breakfast and dinner. Even dinner, last night, a good ten hours after I ate, felt like it was too much. Anticipating much the same today, and probably tomorrow, too...
I could go on and on about what's been ailing me, but I'd rather not. At this point, it's the loss of appetite that has me most concerned; everything else, I can just deal with.
-Spiritslayer
