The road from Rorikstead to Whiterun had been quiet, and uneventful. There were no wild animals, or bandits, or even guard patrols to be seen, as far as Kanaan could see in his travel. It had been a long way from his family home in Sentinel, but it had been his wish to see the world outside of Hammerfell. To travel, to have adventures, to learn new ways of fighting.
So far, however, it was mostly just riding. Days upon days of riding atop his courser, Tazal. It was a tough horse, and expensive, though as a member of the Sentinel nobility and the Ashraf family, it was a necessary expense. Kanaan had been on long rides before, but the road to Whiterun seemed much longer than any road he'd traveled in his twenty-three years on Nirn. He found himself wondering if he should have cut across the plains of the Hold, as it would have taken half the time, but it would have been much riskier, considering he would be miles away from the nearest road, out in the wilderness.
It was nearly nightfall by the time Kanaan finally could see the façade of Dragonsreach, the great castle at the top of the hill that the city of Whiterun was built on and around. At the sight, he spurred Tazal into a run, reaching the stables outside the city just before dark, noting that thick, black clouds were rolling in fast from the north.
"Looks like a storm's coming," chimed the Nord stable master in a deep, booming voice as Kanaan removed his shield, sword belt, and pack from Tazal's saddle. "Bet you're glad you got to the city when you did."
Kanaan smiled. He'd always loved the rain, which was a rare occurrence back home in Hammerfell, but his brief time in Skyrim had made him hate it. The frequency, the amount that fell, it was all so different than what he was used to. "Yes, I'd say I am. I just hope it clears up by morning."
"Its not like to, the way the winds are blowing," he replied, as he turned to the young boy at the back of the stable. "Jervar, make sure to double lock the stall doors tonight, we don't want any horses spooked by the storm running off."
"Yes, father!" replied the boy, as he finished filling the water trough in Tazal's stall.
The stable master turned back to Kanaan. "Well I shouldn't keep you any longer than I need to. I expect you'll be heading up to the Bannered Mare for a room and some hot food. Just follow the main road to the market, it's got a big sign out front, you can't miss it. Hulda should see you to a nice enough bed, and that Redguard girl, Saadia, I think her name is, she's a damn fine cook. Might cost a bit more, considering the war and all, but it shouldn't be too much for a lordly type like you."
Kanaan slung his shield across his back, hooked his sword belt around his waist, and hung his pack from one shoulder. The Stormcloak rebellion had been on his mind since Markarth, where the rebellion had its roots. He had been hoping to find a way to get some combat experience in the war, but knew he would have a hard time doing so without joining the Legion. Which was out of the question. "How much for a three day stay?"
The stable master rubbed his chin in thought. "Typical rate for a night is five septims, so fifteen."
Kanaan reached into the coin case in his bag, taking out seventeen septims. "Here's fifteen, and two extra if you can tell me where to find a good seamstress. If the rains are here to stay, I'll need a new cloak."
"Aye, there's a couple," he replied quizzically. "There's Agnete and her daughters in the lower district, just outside the main market, and then Layla and her husband up the hill, near the Temple. I'd personally recommend Agnete, but they're both good."
"Thanks for the tip, friend, here's your pay."
Kanaan handed the stable master his gold, and he took the coins with a sly smile on his face as Kanaan turned to head up the hill along the main road into the city. As he approached the city, he could feel droplets of rain beginning to fall, peppering his face as the guards opened the main gates.
The streets were empty; the inhabitants of the city had long since gotten safely into their homes, most likely sitting around the hearth with their families, or reading by candlelight. The winds had picked up and it was already raining hard, the drops pattering against the moonstone plates of his armor, dripping through the mail underneath and into his tunic underneath. He wasn't worried, though, as he had a spare set of clothes in his pack.
At the end of the road was a large market, but in the dark of night and under the heavy rains the stalls and square were abandoned. The stable master didn't lie, there was no way Kanaan could miss the inn. The music and singing inside were loud enough to hear even as the rains and wind fought to drown out the sound, and the light from inside lit up the windows with a warm, inviting glow. Kanaan stepped up and opened the door.
The first thing he noticed was the central fire pit. As he removed his golden-hued moonstone helm, he saw how large the pit was. It was a third the size of the entire main hall, at least six feet deep, with rails around to prevent the drunken patrons from falling in. And on a cold, rainy night like this, there were a good many of them. Nords, and Imperials, Bretons and Bosmer, men and women sat at the tables that lined the walls, and on the benches and chairs around the pit. The bard was a young Nord man, fingering the strings of his lute to the tune of "Ragnar the Red", though his voice was being drowned out by a group of drunken off-duty guardsmen who had been singing along, swinging their mugs of mead and ale in rhythm.
Kanaan's entrance drew the attention of none of the patrons, and those who did notice quickly shifted their attention back to their drinks or their meals. A middle aged woman behind the bar waved him over, and as he approached he removed a coin bag from his pack.
The innkeeper was pretty for her age, with wrinkles under her eyes and freckles across her cheeks, but she had a friendly smile, one that reminded Kanaan of his grandmother. "Welcome to the Bannered Mare, I'm Hulda," she said, introducing herself with almost no hint of a Nordic accent despite the structure of her face giving away her heritage. "I suppose you'll be wanting a room, and some food and drink?"
Kanaan nodded. "Yes ma'am. The room would be preferred first, I'll need to change."
"You're in luck, traveler, there's one room left," she replied as she cleaned a mug and filled it with ale, handing it off to another patron. "Up the stairs, down the end of the hall. Its ten septims for the night, but I can get you a good price for a longer stay."
"I'll be in town for three nights," Kanaan said, handing her the coin bag. "Here's thirty, ma'am."
She took the bag and opened it, inspecting the coins inside before putting it in her strongbox and locking it away. Hulda took a brass key off the ring that hung from her belt, and handed it to him. "Here you go, enjoy your stay," she said with a smile. "Tonight we're serving venison stew with bread and cheese, and your choice of vegetables. Also, no weapons in the hall. Leave them in your room, if you need to fight, do it with your fists."
Kanaan nodded and took his key, making sure to take note of where all the patrons were. He'd learned long ago to always keep an eye on people around him when indoors. His father had once told him that knowing who is where and doing what would be the difference between staying alive and lying on some barroom floor with a blade in his throat, and thus far it had proven true. As nothing seemed out of the ordinary, he continued up the stairs to his room.
As he unlocked the door, he noticed a door down the upstairs hall opening, and a hulking figure entered the hall. The dark green skin and protruding lower teeth made it obvious that he was an Orc. Kanaan had never met one in person before, but he had heard tales of their strength and ferocity in combat. This one was dressed in a green long-sleeved tunic with a brown vest, and brown pants and boots. His head was shaved on the sides, with obsidian hair at the top grown out long and slicked back, tied in a wolf-tail that hung to his shoulders. Kanaan nodded in his direction, but the Orc glared and bared his teeth as he walked by, muttering something that did not sound pleasant at all.
Kanaan locked his door behind him, curious as to why the Orc seemed so angry at him. He looked around the room, noting the bed, a chest at the foot, and a mirror across the room on the wall. He set his pack down on the chest, unslung his shield and laid it against the wall, and undid his sword belt, leaning it against the foot of the bed. Next came the armor.
He wore a set of moonstone and quicksilver armor, forged by the smith at his family's estate. The way of working it had been learned by many smiths across Hammerfell during the Great War, as a way of learning the strengths and weaknesses of the Altmeri invaders. The Ashraf family was one of the few to begin using the elvish smithing methods. Kanaan's father had learned from his experience in the war that their armor was more effective than plain steel, and Kanaan agreed. He undid the straps that held the breast and back plates together at the sides and shoulders, first removing the pauldrons and then the main plates and gorget. Next came the greaves and boots, and the gauntlets. Once the plate armor was removed, he pulled off the cotton coat that lay between the plates and the mail shirt underneath, and then the mail itself, leaving just his wet tunic and pants. In the mirror, he noticed he was wearing the tunic with his family's sigil embroidered on the breast, a black phoenix over a white sunburst on a green field. Although he thought it would be best to change, so as to not draw attention to himself, he decided to let the heat from the pit downstairs dry himself off, instead of changing out, and retrieved and donned a pair of brown boots from his bag, before heading back down to the main hall.
The hall was just as loud, and just as raucous as it had been when he'd gone upstairs, only now there was the Orc from before in a chair against the wall, drinking from a bottle of ale. Kanaan walked past him, noting how the Orc's eyes followed him with an intense gaze that seemed to burn a hole right through him.
As he passed, he saw a pretty Redguard woman walking towards him. She didn't smile like the innkeeper, but had seriousness in her face that was both intriguing and disturbing at the same time. Her jet black hair hung down to her neck, and her lips had a pinkish tint to them that meshed well with her dark skin that was almost the exact same shade as Kanaan's.
"If you're going to flirt, don't waste your breath," she said sternly as they met. "I'm Saadia. I cook and clean here at the Bannered Mare. You need anything?"
Kanaan was taken aback by her brusque introduction. "Don't worry, I'm not here to bed you, just get me a bowl of stew, and some bread and cheese. I can see myself to a table." He handed her a septim, and as she took it, she narrowed her eyes at him before walking away towards the kitchens.
He scanned the room for an empty table far from the Orc, and found one in a corner near the entrance. As he sat, the bard began to play an instrumental tune, one Kanaan had never heard before, but from the reactions of the Nords in the room, it must have been a favorite among them. He watched as some of them stood, and grabbed a woman to dance to the song. Most had their way, but there was one man who gripped a sitting Imperial woman, and was promptly slapped across the face. The crowd burst into room-shaking laughter, and the man sat back down at a bench, cursing at his friends who joked at his expense.
Saadia soon returned with a steaming bowl on a plate, a half loaf of bread and a small block of cheese resting beside a metal spoon. "Enjoy your supper, if you need anything else, just holler," she said, and turned to leave as quickly as she'd come.
The broth was hot and held the taste of the venison, which drifted around the bowl alongside chunks of carrot and potato, and a thick leek stuck out of one end. Kanaan's first spoonful scalded his mouth, but the taste and warmth more than made up for the pain. I must be sure to thank Saadia later, he thought to himself as he chewed a mouthful of potato and venison.
The fist that struck him in the side of the head broke the bliss that he had been enjoying. Kanaan felt a burst of pain spread across his skull from the blow, sending him tumbling from the chair into the table, knocking it over and spilling the hot stew all across the wood floor of the inn.
When the room stopped spinning around his head, Kanaan shakily found his way to his feet. Charging his way was the hulking green-skinned figure, the Orc from earlier. At the last second, and on pure instinct, Kanaan ducked the massive right fist that flew through the air where his head had been just before. He finally got his footing, though, and was able to size up his opponent. He had thick, heavily muscled arms, and ham-sized fists to match. The Orc stood a solid foot taller than Kanaan, and moved faster than anything of his size had any right to.
The Orc stepped forward and threw his right fist forward, ducking as he swung. Kanaan dodged out of the way, swinging an arm under the Orc's throat as he hooked the other arm around his hand, gripping his bicep and choking the Orc. Or at least attempting to; the Orc stood easily, as if Kanaan weighed nothing at all, and heaved forward, throwing Kanaan into a nearby table just as its occupants jumped up and out of the way. The substantial audience at the inn let out a roar of cheers and crude comments, laughing and yelling.
Kanaan turned his body to face the Orc, who charged him again. This time, however, he twisted his body so that his legs trapped those of the Orc, tripping him forward, face-first into the wall, breaking his nose. Kanaan stood, to the cheers of the crowd. "Fifty septims on the Redguard!" cried one onlooker, as another slammed his palm into his forehead. He must have bet on the Orc, Kanaan thought to himself, chuckling.
As the Orc regained his footing, he turned to face Kanaan, wiping the blood from his nose with a sleeve, smiling. He laughed, meeting Kanaan's gaze. "It's been a long time since anyone's gotten the better of me," he said. "What's your name, Redguard?"
"I'm Kanaan Ashraf," he replied, breathing heavily. "Son of Hamid Iman Ashraf of Sentinel. And who in the hell are you?"
"I knew it," the Orc responded. "My name is Orok gro-Uftharz. I recognized the sigil on your tunic. During the Great War I fought alongside a member of your family, Adnaan Ashraf."
Kanaan look upon the Orc in shock. "You knew my uncle Adnaan? Was he in your legion?"
Orok smiled, and laughed. "Come on, let me buy you a drink, I'll tell you all about it."
As they made their way to the bar, the crowd went back to their drinking and singing, clearly upset about the way the fight ended, but not too upset to continue about their business. Orok bought two mugs of Black Briar mead, handing one to Kanaan and keeping the other, raising it in the air. "Here's to your uncle Adnaan!"
Kanaan raised his mug in turn, and the two drank simultaneously. "So tell me, how is it you knew my uncle?"
"He was the commander of my century," replied Orok. "When I saw you carried his sigil, I wanted to see what kind of man you were. If you picked up anything from your uncle. How is he? The last time I saw the son of a bitch was before we marched back to Cyrodiil, Adnaan was one of the guys Decianus let stay back in Hammerfell to keep up the fight against the Dominion."
"I never met my uncle," said Kanaan, sadly. "He died the year I was born, fighting to retake Taneth from the Dominion."
Orok's face dropped, morphing into a look as close to sadness as you could find on an Orc. "I... I'm sorry. He was a damn fine commander. A lot of good men died in that war, but I never thought he would be one of them." His face suddenly became angry. "I hated that we abandoned Hammerfell in the treaty. You lot kept the fight going for five more years, and even more you won. No legions, no reinforcements, just your people fighting for their land, and you won." He took another long gulp from his mug. "We coulda' won if we kept on fighting. Finished off the Dominion bastards and put them down for good. But here we are, twenty years later, the damn Elves are all over the country, rounding up whoever they please, and spying the rest. Pisses me off. That isn't what I fought for."
Kanaan sipped from his mug, and was about to reply, when the doors burst open, making way for two yellow-clad city guards in mail, helms held under arm. "Everybody listen! There's been word of a dragon attack in Helgen. From what we know the dragon isn't heading here, but for your own safety, we ask that you all return to your homes and stay there until we know more about the situation."
"Bah!" cried out a drunken patron. "There ha'n't been no dragons 'round here in f'rever, yer full o' shit!"
The comment was met with laughter from the crowd, and a stern look from the guards. "You can go of your own accord, Svigen, or I can drag you through the streets by the few hairs left on your head. Your choice."
The crowd booed, but complied after finishing their drinks. Within seconds, the Bannered Mare was empty save for Hulda, Saadia, and the other ten that were staying at the inn. As the guards turned to leave, Kanaan approached the one that had spoken to the crowd. "So this dragon, who informed you of the attack?"
"A survivor from Helgen, he rode straight here from Riverwood after escaping the city."
"Where is he now?"
"On his way up to Dragonsreach. Now if you're done with your questions, there are others that need warning." The guard turned and left, and Kanaan turned to Orok, a devious smile creeping across his face.
"Are you up for an adventure, friend?"