The first group of Nords that Iora and Hadvar run into pose little threat to the two. While Hadvar keeps their attention, Iora strafes to the right, cloaked in shadows. She gets close to the elder of the two soldiers facing off against Hadvar, a Plainswoman with lines etched into her skin and a tan from working the fields of Whiterun, and neatly slices through the woman's jugular. Blood runs in rivulets down Iora's arm where she holds the woman still. The Breton murmurs a quiet apology to the Stormcloak as she lowers her to the ground, then turns a half-circle and vomits into a basket as Hadvar decapitates the other Stormcloak.
Calloused hands hold Iora's auburn hair back as she gags once more. Her skin is clammy, sweat breaking out along her hairline.
"Easy now," the legionnaire soothes. "That was your first time killing, wasn't it?"
Iora shakes her head, then nods. "Yes, and no. I've dealt with undead and beasts, but never a cognizant human being."
"It gets easier," Hadvar says. "Though whether or not that is a good thing, I do not know."
"I figured as much." She stands on wobbly legs, leaning briefly on Hadvar as she wipes her mouth. He steadies her, then releases his hold on her, stepping back. Iora nods her thanks.
They continue quietly on until Hadvar hauls her out of the way of the collapsing roof.
"Watch the stonework, Iora," Hadvar admonishes. "Whatever that dragon is doing outside is not doing the keep's structure any favors." As if in agreement, dust sifts down onto their heads, making Iora sneeze violently.
"Alright, I get it. We should keep moving."
Together, they fight off two more Stormcloaks in a room branching off the main hallway. Hadvar finds a couple of unbroken bottles of healing potion on the corpses. A door from it leads down into the bowels of the keep, and Hadvar stops short of the archway into what turns out to be a dungeon.
"The torture room. Gods, I hate this."
"Then why do you go along with it?"
"What else am I to do? Speak up and get discharged in return?" Hadvar's hand grips the pommel of his blade tightly, but he makes no move to draw it.
"Yes," Iora stomps her foot, magic flaring up around her." That is exactly what you are supposed to do! By not speaking up, you are condoning this behavior and perpetuating it. If you feel it is wrong, then say something, you — !" She turns slightly and punches the wall, her growl of frustration morphing into a yelp of pain.
Hadvar frowns, moving towards her. "Are you alright?"
Iora's reply is lost in a hiss of pain. "No. I think I fractured something." She cradles her fist to her chest, mouth downturned. "Ouch."
"Can you heal it?"
"I'm good, but I'm not that good, Quaestor." Iora sighs and looks at Hadvar with a rueful grin. "I'm afraid I will not be much help if we encounter any more adversaries."
"You could use some work on your form. Weren't you taught how to defend yourself without magic?"
"With a blade, yes. Not without one." She sighs, and gestures towards the exit of the hallway. "Shall we continue on? I'd like to get my hand fixed as soon as I can."
Hadvar nods, and leads her into the dungeon. Her breath catches in her throat. Hadvar had not been lying when he had called it a torture chamber.
It is not a very large room, but that does not matter when the whole of it reeks with despair. A rack stands in the corner closest to where the two enter the room, and on it lays the corpse of a Nordic woman, the skin on her chest peeled back. She had been flayed (alive, by the contorted expression on the corpse's face), and the sight is horrific. Portions of its flesh are blackened by poison and flames. Hadvar goes very pale, and Iora closes her eyes, willing back her nausea.
"Oh," she says, voice very small in the quiet of the room. "I really regret coming to Skyrim."
"Can you burn the body?" A voice comes from the far corner of the room, and Iora sends up a magelight in response. She is surprised to see Ralof, surrounded by the bodies of both Imperial and Stormcloak soldiers. He has one hand pressed against his belly, red staining his armor.
"I… yes." Hadvar does not move to stop her as she sets the body alight within a barrier, letting the corpse burn hotter than it typically might if she were just casting a fire spell at it. The three of them watch the flames rage and flicker and die to a few small embers before Iora turns to Hadvar, hand extended. "Give me a healing potion."
He hesitates, avoiding her eyes, and Iora tsks at him. "I cannot aid and abet an enemy of the Empire," is the excuse he gives. The Breton woman rolls her eyes.
"Then give me the potion, Quaestor. Once it leaves your possession, you have no control over how it is used." When the Nord still hesitates, Iora takes the matter into her own hands by slipping slender fingers into the pouch at his waist and fishing out a vial of red liquid. She pops the cork with her nail and kneels beside Ralof, holding the vial to his mouth. The Stormcloak greedily drinks the potion, sighing in relief as the healing magic does its work on his injury. He looks up at her, pale eyes hazy with lingering pain.
"Thank you, Iora Allegra," he says softly. She shrugs.
"It is what anyone should do," Iora mutters, pushing herself to her feet and dusting off her knees. She holds her undamaged hand out to the warrior. He looks between she and Hadvar skeptically and does not take it. "Will you come with us? I'm injured, and I would really prefer to not die today, by dragon or fanatics from either side of this civil war."
Hadvar levels a cool look at Ralof. Iora's muscles tense as she watches the two men. She would not be surprised in the least if they began to fight, but she prayed that would not be the case. Both have helped her thus far and seem fairly decent, if one ignored the obvious rift resulting from the civil war.
After what seems like hours, the two Nords nod stiffly to each other.
"I will join you," Ralof announces quietly, looking to Iora in the gloomy light of the dungeon. "I owe you a life-debt, and we Nords do not forget that sort of thing easily. But know this — as soon as we leave this place, I will need to return to Windhelm. This war is bigger than any other issue that may appear. Skyrim deserves to be free."
Iora nods slowly. "Very well, Ralof of Riverwood. I accept your conditions." She looks to Hadvar, who stands silent at her side, lips pressed tightly together in displeasure. "Do not kill him," she requests.
His eyes are cold when he glances down at her. "I will not." Iora brightens at his words.
"Excellent! Now, we should probably get a move in. There is a breeze coming from that hall," she gestures vaguely behind herself. Hadvar pulls Ralof to his feet. The Stormcloak grabs a steel warhammer from the ground, testing its weight in his hands before nodding once to himself.
"You lead, Rolfssen," Hadvar growls at Ralof. The blonde shrugs and sends Iora a grin before making his way into the branching hall. Iora follows him after a nudge from Hadvar. Hadvar brings up the rear of their little party, ears open for any dangers that may come up from behind.
The keep creaks above them, sending more dust down onto their heads. Iora sneezes again, rubbing her nose. Ralof snorts out a laugh. The Breton sticks her tongue out at his back. Hadvar rolls his eyes.
The next room they come into is a hollowed-out cavern, all rough stone and stalactites on the roof and man-made walkways below. A stream bubbles through the center of the room, destination through a wrought-iron grate unknown. The room is empty; not of corpses, but of the living. Several bodies lay where they had fallen, blood pooling beneath them as the trio picks their way through the carnage. Ralof waves them on as he walks across a rickety wooden bridge. Iora eyes it warily.
"That does not look stable."
"Come on, now," Ralof cajoles, halfway cross already. "It's not that bad. See?" He jumps one time, twice, causing the bridge to bend underneath the strain. Sending a cocky smirk Iora's way, Ralof bounces once more and —
The bridge collapses beneath him.
An alarmed shout leaves Hadvar. Iora scrambles to the edge of the drop. Thankfully, it is not a large one. Ralof sits at the bottom, rubbing his lower back.
"Dibella's fucking tits, that was painful," he grumbles. Iora bites back a smile. If he is well enough to talk, the injury cannot be more than a bruise in her experience, which is a good thing. Iora, after all, is no great healer.
"I told you the bridge didn't look stable," she calls down to him. He makes a rude gesture with his fingers, startling a laugh out of the Breton mage. "Hold on, Ralof of Riverwood. I know a spell that can ease your pain."
"No, no thank you. The injury is not that bad," he waves off her offer. She frowns a little, brows bunching together, but the expression is gone before Ralof can spot it.
"At least let me help you up, serah." Hadvar helps lower her into the hole and then jumps down after her, the leather of his boots making next to no sound. Iora again holds her hand out to the Nord, and this time he gratefully takes it.
"Thanks," he says, a small smile crinkling the corners of his eyes.
"It is nothing." Iora toes the broken planks, peering at them in the dim light. "See, I was right. The boards are rotted through in the center." She points out the decaying areas on the wood.
"Alright, no more jumping, Ma. I get it."
"I'm not nearly old enough to be your mother, son of Skyrim."
"Doesn't mean you don't act like her, though."
"... Whatever."
Hadvar ushers them out of the tunnel, the three of them sloshing through a tiny stream running through the natural cavern. Their footsteps echo in the cave, and every stone that they disturb sounds like a landslide.
"Well, if there is something ahead, we've surely made our presence known to it," Iora grumbles.
"Ah, don't be such a milk-drinker. Anything we come across, Hadvar and I can handle."
"I happen to hate drinking milk, Nord."
"What? But don't you like cheese?"
"I said I hate drinking it, not —" Iora's retort is cut off when Hadvar abruptly stops them.
"Shh! See those webs? There's frostbite spiders around here." He motions to the walls and ceiling of the cave. White, sticky web covers most of it, and sways gently in a gentle breeze. Iora shivers. Spiders were never her favorite creature in Morrowind, and those were not the giant ones they apparently have in Skyrim.
"Do we sneak? Or…?" Iora's voice trails off as Hadvar takes point, shield up.
"Stay behind me. I'll keep the worst of it off of you, and feel free to sling fire at the beasts."
"Just don't hit me, would you?" Ralof quips beside her.
"I have better aim than you give me credit fo-" Iora stops speaking with a squeal as the most enormous spider that she has ever seen drops down from a hole in the ceiling. She calls fire to her hands without thinking about it and sets the creature alight. It hisses at her and spits blue-green venom at her face. Iora reaches to cover her face but, luckily for her, the poison never reaches its mark, instead splattering across Hadvar's iron shield.
"Thanks," she whispers as Ralof makes quick work of the spider with his warhammer. Hadvar glances at her over his shoulder.
"You're welcome."
Thankfully, the only other spiders they encounter are small enough that a well-placed stomp crushes their skulls. Ralof and Hadvar do most of the squishing, leaving Iora free to inspect the room. Egg sacs hang from the ceiling and rest against the walls, and Iora remembers her father mentioning that spider eggs are good for brewing poisons that inhibit an enemy's magicka and damage their stamina. So, she does the only natural thing to do — she braces herself and sticks her hand into the egg sac nearest to her with a squelch. The sticky feeling of web around her fingers sets her hair on end, but Iora manages to fish out a handful of intact eggs. Pleased with herself, Iora slips the eggs into her makeshift bag and shoulders it once more.
Ralof saw what she had done, and he looks a bit on the green side. "How could you do that?"
"The same way you have no trouble at all squishing the things that come out of them," Iora says softly as she wipes her hand on her borrowed armor. "Everyone has their own strengths. Mine just so happens to be sticking my hands where they are not wanted."
Ralof laughs at that but leaves her be, taking point as the ragtag group proceeds farther into the belly of the caves beneath Helgen. They all take much more care watching where they step now, ears straining for any sound that might come from a creature other than themselves. There is nothing, aside from the steady flow of water in a divot in the uneven floor.
"Dead end," Ralof grunts, taking a sharp turn to the right. Iora follows close on his heels, which turns out to not be such a fantastic idea when Ralof stops abruptly, knocking Iora onto her rear with a soft oomph. Ralof turns to give her an incredulous look, to which she responds with an eye-roll.
"There is a bear, just ahead," he whispers. Hadvar peers into the gloom behind Ralof and confirms it.
"What do you think we should do, Iora Allegra?" Ralof catches the Breton's eyes with his own. Iora frowns.
"Why are you asking me? I do not know anything about Skyrim's fauna. You both are natives, and know what to expect." She steadily first looks at Ralof, then at Hadvar. "So, what do the two of you suggest?"
"I say we sneak by it," Hadvar says softly, hand idly tracing a smattering of scars on his arm. Looking closer, Iora sees that they are claw marks. "Bears in Skyrim are grumpy at best, and downright invincible at worst. Not that they can't be defeated in battle, but…" He trails off, looking anywhere but the faces of his companions.
"Then we sneak by. I'm by no means able to properly cast with just one arm working," Iora decides, "And I can't cast pacify yet. My illusion spells need work."
As they begin to sneak, Iora spots a bottle in an overturned cart and snags it. The label has her smiling giddily. Black-Briar Reserve. She tucks her treasure beneath her arm and brings up the rear after Hadvar. She does not really believe bears can be all that terrible, but she is quite content to follow behind the Nordic men.
They pass the bear with little issue.
"I can see sunlight ahead!" Ralof calls, picking up his pace. Hadvar follows suit, glancing back to Iora. She stands upright. There is a breeze, bringing with it fresh air and the scent of dust after rain.
A bellow sounds behind her. The smile falls from her face. The bear has awoken, and it is not happy to see Iora standing in plain sight. The bear roars again. Iora screams in response, tripping backwards as she tries to find higher ground. Hadvar shouts the famed (and feared) battlecry of the Nords and rushes the bear from the side. His shield smashes into its ribs with an audible crack.
The bear stumbles and turns to face the warrior with a roar. Hadvar circles, forcing the bear to expose its back to Iora (and, subsequently, Ralof). The blonde Stormcloak moves between the bear and the mage, warhammer at the ready. He waits, knees bent, as Hadvar faces off against the beast. The bear snarls a challenge as it rises up on its hind legs, revealing its true height. Hadvar has to tilt his head back to look the bear in the face. Ralof's muscles tense, hinting at his plan before he leaps onto the bear's back as it bares down onto the legionnaire, the pointed end of his warhammer driving into the back of the beast's neck.
The bear bellows in pain, falling to its knees. Ralof rolls to his feet. Hadvar struggles underneath the weight of the bear, pushing it away with his shield before performing an elegant whirl-and-stab, driving his steel sword through the bear's skull. The animal makes a surprised sound, like it could not believe that it was dead, and then it does finally die. Hadvar slumps against a stalagmite and Ralof whoops.
"Now that was a fight, Erikssen! I haven't had my blood pumping like that in a long time." He bounces on the balls of his feet as a grin spreads across his face.
"A good fight," Hadvar says faintly. "Right."
Iora clambers down from the rock shelf that she'd ensconced herself on at the beginning of the fight. She made a beeline for Hadvar, a minor healing spell glowing golden in her uninjured hand. He accepts her help with a small smile but he still looks far too pale in Iora's opinion, so she forces him to drink a healing potion. At the very least, it brings some color back into his cheeks so Iora counts it as a victory.
"Ralof, help Hadvar up," Iora orders, already moving to examine the bear's corpse. She summons one of her Oblivion blades and neatly slices the claws off and pops the bear's eyes out of its sockets. When Ralof gives her a strange look, she just shrugs, "What? They're very useful alchemy ingredients. I have to have a way to make money since the Synod likely thinks I'm dead."
"That is… a very practical mindset," Ralof says, one eyebrow raised. Iora practically glows at his words.
"Thank you, serah." The blonde Nord looks slightly taken aback at this, but shakes it off with a shrug as he helps Hadvar stand upright. Iora moves to Hadvar's other side, hovering. The quaestor waves her off.
"By the Eight, woman, Ralof was right. You do hover like a mother hen." A smile plays on his lips belying his sharp words, but Iora still feels stung. Her mouth tightens into the falsest smiles she has ever given anyone and she falls into step behind the two men, making sure that nothing trips up the legionnaire.