Skyrim is the property of Bethesda Softworks. Thanks to you all who have decided to fave and follow in the past few weeks. I've been inactive lately, but your feedback is always welcome.
It's been a little bit, but I plead these few excuses: Writer's block on the next story in the lineup (ever just look at something and say, "something's missing"?). And a nifty little game called Kerbal Space Program. Until I figure out what that missing thing might be, updates are going to be slow. I like to have plenty ready ahead of time.
"Thane! Mistress! Wake up!" The sound of Jordis's panicked voice brought me back to the waking world. She was still in her night shirt with hair unbound and eyes wide with terror, "We have to get out now!"
Smoke filled our house. Embers and ash dripped from the rafters as the three of us crawled to the front door. We joined the growing crowd in the street before the mansion. The town guards were already pushing the onlookers back. Some had buckets and more were carrying vessels of water from a nearby fountain. A floor within my house collapsed, spurring gouts of flame out the upper windows like dragon's breath. I realized belatedly that the guards weren't going to save Proudsipre. They just wanted to prevent the blaze from spreading through the district.
I looked at the crowd, seeing faces gazing up at the conflagration. The lone exception was Thane Erikur. He was standing between two men bearing torches and pushing drifting onlookers away. He was looking directly at me. In a flash of insight, it occurred to me that in one of the many drawers of the first Breezehome was a letter from the Thalmor Embassy. That letter, now a pile of ashes with the rest of my original bedroom after the first Battle of Whiterun, discussed the Thalmor finding discrete ways to supply Ulfric's rebellion. And then there was Erikur, a powerful merchant who dealt with Alinor enough to be invited to the Embassy. "That mother fucker!" I said to nobody. I locked eyes with Erikur and pointed to my own before shoving a finger at him. I saw him throw his head back and laugh before he turned to walk back to his house.
The second worst day of my life pressed remorselessly onward. The quartermaster in command of the Castle Dour barracks was less than eager to give us a room. Evidently when you wake him up at four in the morning in your night clothes; when two of your houses have burned to the ground in the space of a year; and your place of work is occupied by an army; you're seen as a tad dangerous to be around. We only got a small room in the cellar after I promised to spend the next two days working for him.
I had just tied the rope belt around my sackcloth clothing to begin my first day as the jailor's assistant when the door of our room evaporated into splinters.
The Thalmor had come for me at last. Jordis had a knife out in an instant and slammed her body into the lead soldier with every ounce of strength her well-knit frame could command.
"Stand down housecarl," I commanded. She did not heed the order. The hated gold armor and black robes were here for her Thane.
The fight needed to end quickly. I reached down into my heart to call on a seldom-used gift that all Cyrodiils possess. "Stop!" I shouted with the Voice of the Emperor. Swords halted mid-thrust and heels planted firmly on the ground.
All the eyes turned to me held total surprise. "There is no need for violence in the middle of the city. I will submit," I held my hands together before the astonished justiciars.
Not long after I was in the dungeon at Northwatch Keep. By the number of beatings, I guessed I had been there for three days. I was kicking myself for not having found an opportunity to hide a lock pick. There was the feeling of poison like a distant fire oozing through my body, keeping my thoughts slow. Erikur's raspy, mirthless laugh echoed through by brain.
A Nord squatted in the cell opposite mine, "Well I'll be damned," he mocked me in a grim voice, "I guess the knife-ears don't play favorites, eh?"
I shrugged slowly, "Maybe I had it coming," I replied though split lips.
"Like I had it coming?" he demanded, "Like I had it coming for worshiping Talos? For fighting for the honor of the Fatherland? What could you possibly know of our struggle?"
I felt anger rising somewhere within me, but the narcotic poison my captors pumped into me kept the fury away from the rest of me.
"Maybe I do. Maybe I can't go back to Cyrodiil. Maybe I'm wanted for smuggling Talos worshippers to Hammerfell. Maybe I broke into the Thalmor Embassy and robbed the ambassador blind."
The Nord laughed at me, "Next thing you're going to tell me is that you're the Dragonborn and you're about to Shout us out of here."
I shook my head slowly, "The interrogator told me that something called barbiturate mixed with cocaine is going to be a regular part of my diet here. It keeps parts of my mind from working."
My neighbor laughed bitterly again and rolled his eyes, "Fantastic! An Imperial whelp says he's the Dragonborn and can't Shout! So what good are you?"
"Ieago, we're here," a familiar voice in my head interrupted.
"Now's not a good time Ghent. Who's with you?" I slurred aloud.
"Aela, Lydia, Jordis, Morgan, me, and a few of the Gray-Mane boys. Apparently they have family locked up in there."
"I think I'm talking to him. Just don't fuck shit up until I get things started in here," I ordered.
"As you say Harbinger," Ghent's voice replied.
The wide-eyed man looked at me from her cell, "What in the Gods' name was that?" He asked.
I shrugged, "A mage putting his voice in my head."
From down the hall, I heard the guards coming to get me for my afternoon beating.
"Listen, you have a lock pick?" I asked him. He nodded. "Good, when they let me out, I'm going to fall in front of your cell."
Minutes later, a Justiciar in his robe stood at the door while two soldiers grabbed my arms and hauled me to my feet before binding my arms with a set of manacles. We walked forward and I saw that the Nord had left his pick in front of his cell. I stumbled a few steps later and allowed the soldier to push me forward. Going with the motion I fell in front of my neighbor's cell. There was only just enough time to sit up and grab the pick before an armored fist cuffed my forehead and I was dragged back up by my hair.
I was pushed into a plain wooden chair against a wall in the interrogation chamber. I tried to struggle as the Justiciar came forward, grasped my arm, and held up an ornately molded silver syringe. The attending soldier hit me again, hard. Teeth came loose as the world spun violently in a field of black spots.
"You ought not to struggle," the Justiciar said as I spat blood. "I'd rather not risk breaking such an expensive needle. If you persist, I shall have to inject into your stomach." I nodded my submission and hissed as another injection of the insidious drug went into my body. The Justiciar sat back to a cup of tea as he waited for my mind to deteriorate further.
"The embassy-robbing, Thalmor-killing, heresy-spreading Dragonborn is ours at last," he began sometime later. He drew a chair up close and leaned into my swollen face. "You were out of our reach for a very long time."
"I let you arrest me," I slurred.
The elf in black robes arched his eyebrows, "And why would you take such a risk?" He asked.
"Because once I break out, I'm going to look for proof that you're selling weapons to Thane Erikur," I mumbled.
The interrogator leaned close to me, "And how pray tell are you planning to escape?"
I leaned back as far as the wall behind my chair would let me, "First I'm going to grab your head and break your nose with my forehead. You will stagger backwards. I will let that motion pull me up, upon which I will stab you with your knife and use you as a shield while I kill your guard. After that I'll start a prison break," I explained with drunken triumph.
"That's a lot to do for a man with his hands chained behind his back."
"I picked the lock shortly after you put that stuff into my arm," I explained calmly.
Lighting fast hands shot forward and grabbed the Justiciar's hood and pulled my forehead into his face with all their wiry might. The Justiciar snapped back in reflex and a spatter of blood. His weight pulled me to my feet. My hand drew his dagger, plunged it into his chest, and withdrew again in three easy movements. I flung the dying Altmer into the path of the guard to give me just a second to clear my head. The soldier's sword met one of my manacles with wrist-shattering pain just before my knife found his neck. The two elves were still bleeding out when the soldier standing outside the door was thrown forward by the force of yet another stab thrusting through his back.
I fumbled for the Justiciar's keys. The narcotic cocktail was working through my body faster and faster as the excitement of the fight died down. I lost track of events shortly after dropping the key ring at the Nord's feet.
"What's wrong with him?" I heard Aela's worried voice ask sometime later. It could have been minutes or days. I have no idea. I found myself staring at a puddle of my own vomit steaming in the spring snow covering Northwatch Keep's courtyard. My manacles had been removed altogether, but my left wrist was still swollen and black.
"In the last four days, the Thalmor pumped enough drugs into him to satisfy an addict for a week," my neighbor's voice explained, "He won't be feeling well for a while. I'm amazed he can walk right now."
I know I know. Nobody mellowing on barbiturates could ever move like that, but I wanted a cool escape scene.