2E 578, Kijor's Blacksmithing shop…

As he hammered the steel slab against the weatherworn anvil Loghvar put his best arm into every blow he dealt the hot metal. He had been working at the blacksmith for two years, and he was known well by the guardsmen and even the nobles. He silently praised the Divines for putting him in a culture where a good smith was prized like a wise woman of a tribe may be; except instead of insight his knowledge was of more physical and deadly intent. When he did look up from his attention consuming tasks he often noticed foreign dunmer emissaries and guardsmen watching him through a veil of scrutiny, their blood red eyes cutting at him. For these reasons he never often looked up from these tasks, instead focusing his eyes on his worn and cracked hands and the metal of the anvil.

He had taken his father's advice and dived deeper into the old knowledge of his forebears. Hidden in these tomes were many interesting subjects: Holy magic that was hard to categorize into a single school of the Arcane, notes on battle-stances and then even some on Military strategy – some of his Grandfather's writing and some from more widely spread sources – not to even mention the numerous books filled with information on enchanting and smithing. So many texts, and he nearly memorized them all. And then what did a curious little dark elf have left in the library when he was done with the instructional texts?

Even more varied and abundant was his grandfather's collection of history and lore-based books providing invaluable, and expansive, compendiums of information on the religions and customs of numerous other cultures. He quickly brushed up on some of his Nordic history, and then immediately went on to texts on the Dunmer and their beliefs. Many things confused him about their culture, most notably the three living gods of the Tribunal: Almalexia, Sotha Sil, and Vivec. Vivec caught his eye right away; a Warrior-Poet god they called him. Loghvar supposed a Warrior-Poet was similar to a bard or something of the likes and that interested him.

Coincidentally Loghvar had found his grandfather's old eight-string Lute later that same day. He had a lot of practise to do before he was passable as a bard, but his fingers were still fast enough to play the calmest of tunes.

He was so caught up in his repetitive hammering, heating, and dunking, as well as his day dreaming, that he never noticed a Nord man with a medium length light brown beard and a shaven head watching him. As Loghvar looked up to catch the man's gaze, Loghvar stared back. The man, with a scar on his left cheek, almost appeared to be smiling. Loghvar remarked first.

"Can I help you, mate?"

"Actually, I've heard you're a pretty good smith." The man said as he leaned forward crossing his arms against the half wall to the side of the forge. "You are Loghvar, aren't you?"

"Aye." Loghvar answered. "But it's a wee bit rude to be askin' my name, when you haven't ev'n introduced yourself yet." His accent had not at all weakened with time; if anything his nord had mixed with the accents of the foreigners. He slightly rolled his 'r's with a trill-like quality and clipped some of his words down, allowing him to speak much faster. It caught people's attentions, and his already high-baritone voice made a point of helping with that. Maybe that was why Kijor had him deal with most of the customers?

The nord man laughed.

"Hjoun. Hjoun is my name." he answered. He soon changed the subject back to Loghvar as he looked the dark elf up and down. "Well, you're certainly not a foreigner, are ye?"

"Wha'd you want?"

"I wanted some conversation." A small squad of sea weary soldiers marched by and brushed civilians to the side as they made their way to the keep. "It doesn't look like they're up for it." Hjoun concluded. Loghvar continued hammering.

"I see yer armor, sir. I'm not dumb." He said confidently, "I'm not interested in joining the military; I have lots of work to do at home. An' it keeps me happy." He began to hammer the metal even harder. "Someday, maybe, but not today."

Hjoun sighed and pushed off of the half wall.

"Just remember my name in case you change your mind." He never glanced back; he just accepted his loss and continued on his way.

"Not today…" Loghvar whispered to himself as he turned his attention back to the anvil.

"You summoned me, Mannimarco?" said a dark robed High Elf man as he entered his master's chambers. Mannimarco, an Altmer himself, wore an elaborate set of armored robes dark as night and a silver jeweled circlet about his head. On Mannimarco's face was a smile etched above his chin with a wicked curl to it, a twisted smile, and a smile he seemed not keen to be getting rid of.

"Haenalion, I did." He answered. "You know that I am going on my "Quest" soon, yes?"

"For the Amulet of Kings?"

"Yes."

"Of course I know, Master."

"Well now there is more that you need to know." Mannimarco began to slowly pace back and forth in front of his servant. "I will be gone for a few days and once we have the amulet I will be gone for longer. While I am away I need you and my other retainers to be preparing for our Lord's arrival."

Haenalion kneeled to his master.

"We will do his will, Master."

"Good; you'd better." Mannimarco said harshly as he strutted out of the room, staff in hand. "Failure will not be tolerated." He said as the doors slammed behind him. Haenalion rose back to his feet and rolled his shoulders to loosen them up, clearly annoyed by his master's superior demeanor.

"Truly one of the more insufferable master's I've had to endure." He quipped to himself.

Windhelm was very much a port city now that so many men and women had to move through, too, and from it; reasons varied, but they almost always involved the comings of inevitable war. Many people wished that it wouldn't happen, and the majority of Skyrim's population seemed to be in denial from what Loghvar had seen. Also in his experience, there were only two types of people who believed that war was inevitable:

The working man,

And the Ruling man.

The High king seemed to be sure of it, and he had mustered his troops at the borders of the province months, if not already a year, before, long before the talk of war even seemed relevant.

Back in Kijor's shop Anea was helping around the forge as well as dealing with crowd control when too many people crowded into their shop. The few people who did believe that war was coming wished to be prepared obviously. Loghvar hammered viciously beside the forge like he had read in his books, like he had read the ancient nords did, bringing the hammer far above their heads before every strike.

Some of the men waiting in line for their steel watched and nodded their heads in critique of his art. They were impressed; he could hear their every whisper as they complemented him on his skills, and then dashed those same compliments against the ground by insulting his native race. The dunmer were even crueler, mocking him for the way he was raised and not even bothering to raise their noses to his work. He was lesser-born than them, a different rung on the ladder, far lower than theirs, but it was a sturdier, far more resistant, and seasoned stair, a rung that had been stepped on its entire life; he had grown because of their blood red stare.

He knew it was so easy to simply drop his steel, tighten the grip on his hammer, and then walk over and bash their skulls in. It would have been easier than listening to them snicker coyly as if it was acceptable; because it was to them. But he stayed his burnt and cracked hands, and continued forging for the people who may or may not have appreciated his efforts.

This particular day saw much business for the Smith, and members of all three of the allied races were lined up at the door. The warriors and sailors watched as he hammered his steel at the forge in front of the building, and they were clearly very impatient.

"What did you just say?" Loghvar heard one of the Dark elf men say. For the meantime he continued his forging as the confrontation continued on beside him.

A brutish looking Nord man turned around and snorted in the Mer's face.

"I called you a Gray-skin! Dya' have a prob'em?"

The others in the line backed away as the two men grew closer.

"My problem is nothing, and no one, but you, Frost-ass!"

The Nord man threw down his furred iron gauntlets and cracked his knuckles.

"Don't put you're puny lil' knife d'wn," The Nord said, pointing to the elf's dagger, "I'll be't you either way."

"Bring it then, Lard-gut!" The elf said as he splayed his Dagger.

Everyone glanced over at Loghvar as he approached the scene and drew his own crooked blade from its home at his waist. He spoke with a thundering and commanding voice and the look on his face said clearly that he had had enough.

"Both of ya best shove off from our shop before both of your asses are on the snow." Loghvar said as he raised the blade crackling with electricity. No one moved. "Ya' think I'm jokin' with ye?"

The elf customer furrowed his brow and bit his lip.

"We'll see about that you insolent little N'wah!"

The elf never got far with his dagger; Loghvar's downward sweep was so strong and unexpectedly fast that the blade was knocked clean from the man's hand. Before the dagger had even settled on the ground Loghvar swung his blade back up and left a mark all the way up the elf's cuirass. The elf stumbled back and took in a deep breath.

"Next time…" Loghvar said through grinding teeth, "I'll take yer god damned head." He looked over at the nord and raised his blade to point it at his face. The man flinched back. "Don't think I'd forget about you. Get both a' yer milk-drinkin' asses out of my face, and come back when ye're not so damned pissy."

The two men fled the scene soon after and Loghvar, still fuming, returned to his work as if not a thing had gone wrong. Hjoun watched from a nearby alley, smiling while Loghvar continued working.

"Not today?" Hjoun questioned rhetorically to himself.

2E, 579, the Imperial City…

The group known far and wide as The Five Companions grouped around the giant brazier at the center of the Temple of the One. Lyris Titanborn – a half-giant, half-nord – watched as her emperor, Varen Aquilarious, approached the brazier and held in front of him the legendary Amulet of Kings.

The jeweled center of the amulet shone with an ancient magic.

Abnur Tharn and Sai Sahan looked on from the side of the room, waiting for the ceremony to be completed. Mannimarco bit his lip to keep from laughing as Varen began the ritual.

"This had better work Mannimarco…" The emperor warned.

Loghvar was working hard like usual at the black smithing shop and Anea was currently helping him carry some firewood to the back of the building from the local mill. He had no troubles getting there – barely even breaking a sweat. His sword in its sheathe swung lightly back and forth as he walked. Loghvar went to kick open the back gate as Anea followed from behind him, but something stopped him.

He simply stopped walking, blocking the way for Anea. The nord woman looked over his shoulder with a cocked brow.

"You okay?" she asked worriedly.

Loghvar began to shiver like he had never before. His teeth chattered wildly and uncomfortably.

"I… f-f-feel… cold…"

The afternoon sky darkened without warning and Loghvar dropped the logs from his hands, no longer able to support the weight of the wood. His knees quickly buckled and he fell to the ground, holding his head and moaning loudly.

Anea dropped her own pile and rushed over.

"What by Shor is going on!?" she asked.

In the distance she could hear the screaming and groaning of others.

"S-s-something is d-d-draining my magicka…" Loghvar said as he began to cough violently. "I need you to- *Cough* -I need you t-t-to find me a- *Cough* -m-m-magicka potion…"

"Right!" Anea said before running off to the market around the corner of the building. At the square there was a large group of onlookers watching as a man in blue robes contorted on the ground.

"The domination of the mortal races is certain! Bow to your dark master!" he screamed prolifically again and again, mumbling to himself in between each reciting of the words. He rolled around and around on the ground as he clawed at his own face.

Anea ran over to the potion shop and burst through the doors. A pair of small Magicka potions was sitting on the counter in front of the merchant in charge of the shop. Anea threw a bag of coins from her belt onto the counter and snatched the glass vials.

"Keep the change!" she hollered as she rushed back out the door and into the city. The nord woman's red hair flailed in the wind as she sprinted back toward her friend. When she returned to Loghvar the dark elf was unconscious and his eyes were rolled back in his head. Gasping at the horrific look on his face, Anea pulled the cork from one of the vials and shoved the tube into Loghvar's mouth, pouring the blue liquid down his throat. Loghvar's eyes closed completely and then he swallowed.

Anea fell onto her rump and sighed with relief as her heart began to slow its pace. Within a minute Loghvar had risen back to his bottom and sat with his head slumped forward.

"Oooh… my head…" he groaned.

"Will you be alright?" Anea questioned. Loghvar seemed to ignore his friend's concerns.

"I heard others screaming. What's going on?" Loghvar asked as he slowly got back onto his feet. He stepped over the fallen logs and rested against the fence as his breathing continued to be laborious. Anea was about to tell him what she had seen, before she was interrupted by a sound.

It was akin to distant lightning mixed with the sound of a structure collapsing, from the south. Loghvar raised his head and saw what had begun to form in the sky outside of the city. A giant metal ring warped in from nowhere, creating a swirling portal inside of the metal circle. From the tear in the sky shot out three anchors, landing and erupting the ground around it. Lightning and dark energy cracked and swirled around the ring as the wind began to pick up. The constellation of the serpent shone much more brightly in the sky than it ever had before.

"That…" Loghvar paused as he pushed off of the fence and put his hand on his sword. "That's not far from the farm…" and then he drew his blade.