Cyril was staring at the horse. It seemed rather dull, uninterested in his presence. He heaved a breath of uncertainty. "Alright, steed. Your time has come. I paid good money for you," he said, almost whimpering when he looked down at a nearly empty coin bag. Geimund was happy to have sold a horse to him, stripping him of one thousand septims. Originally, Cyril was going to pay Beirand in Solitude for the armor, but the blacksmith had a last thought of supreme generosity and simply gave it to him. It was even fashioned by the Dragonborn. Cyril smiled at that thought again, contemplating the sheer luck that had come to him from this adventurous endeavor, hoping that it would remain throughout the duration of his quest.
As he mounted the horse, he began to ponder what the guard said before he left Solitude. The Dragonborn was accompanied by Faendal the Ruthless, something Cyril could hardly picture. He imagined the Dragonborn to be the bright and glorious Nord woman his mother made her out to be; why would she associate, let alone travel with, such a dark individual? Granted, Cyril knew that this almost equally as legendary Bosmer wasn't evil, he found it hard to wrap his head around. The Black Arrow, the Shadow Warrior, the Night Mage; all were names given to Faendal the Ruthless over the years. He was known everywhere in Skyrim, and he was the nightmare of bandits and thugs.
Yet, though such a daunting character existed, Cyril thought of their meeting exciting. Perhaps after a few explanations concerning the Dragonborn, the famed warrior may be generous enough to teach him some combat moves, or even a few spells. As Cyril trotted down the road upon his new horse, he slowed the steed's pace so he could write a letter requesting Faendal's attendance in Riverwood. Cyril figured that was the best place for the two of them to convene, since it was the Bosmer's home and, he presumed, where he and the Dragonborn first met.
Sometime after he finished, he stuffed it away and found his way into Dragon Bridge a few hours later. The trip through trail wilderness had been seamless. He even spotted a few deer grazing in the woods along the path. The horse, which he decided to name Ambara—after a girl he knew when he was young—bobbed her head as she strode calmly through the village. Cyril had his eye out for a courier. He noticed one leaning against a fence, and steered over to him. He pulled out his letter, and the remaining coin he had.
"I would like for you to deliver a message for me," he said. The courier sighed.
"That's my only purpose here in Skyrim, isn't it?" He took Cyril's letter and skimmed it, eyes widening. "Faendal the Ruthless? Sweet Divines—either this is a death wish or you have some pretty tough friends." Cyril had no desire to correct the courier, he realized with a slight grin.
"The letter explains everything. I'd appreciate if you could give it to him as swiftly as possible." They nodded a farewell and Cyril left, leading Ambara out of the community across the bridge. As they moved, he took notice of the sculpted dragon head, looking at it in quiet awe. He knew the dragons have returned to Skyrim (though, since the fall of Alduin, their numbers have dwindled). He'd never seen one himself, but he heard of the treachery they caused. If not killed soon enough, they could wipe a village off the map overnight.
Now, he was off to Riverwood. He'd been there once before with his father when he was a boy. They'd passed through and stayed a night at the Sleeping Giant Inn while on a hunting trip. His father, an Imperial soldier, settled in Solitude after meeting his mother. He'd wanted Cyril to be a soldier as well, but seeing he had a natural talent for singing and instruments, he figured it would be best he become a bard instead. Of course, all of this was put into a letter sent home upon the news of his death in an Imperial camp.
Nightfall approached, and Cyril found himself nearing Rorikstead. He'd run into a few wolves on the way, but they were quite easy to kill. Ambara actually managed to crush one unfortunate wolf's skull with her large hooves. He skinned them of their pelts and dragged their carcasses into the trees. He did, however, suffer a bite on his thigh. Cyril knew that it was very likely they'd transmitted a disease to him, so he hoped he could find a potion that would solve such a problem at some point soon.
Rorikstead's torches and lights glimmered with promise. He tied Ambara's ropes to a post connected to the Frostfruit Inn. He wandered inside, greeted by the warm air and the smell of food. His stomach growled. Inside there were two young twin girls, a Khajiit woman, a few men and the owner who stood behind the bar. Cyril also noticed there was a lute in the corner. He walked over to the owner, a middle-aged man with red hair and a thick beard. "What can I get ya?" he greeted cheerfully. Cyril smiled automatically. This man radiated with kindness, but also with experience.
"Would you be willing to trade these wolf pelts for a night's stay?" Cyril proposed. He pulled forth the three pelts and laid them upon the bar. The innkeeper looked them over, and chuckled.
"Light on coin, eh? Don't worry; these are good enough payment for a night's stay here at the inn." Cyril gave a breath of relief. He was quite tired. "The name's Erik, Erik the Slayer. Tell me if you need anything else."
Cyril nodded, and went off to the room Erik had pointed to. He changed from his armor into the spare clothes he brought, going into the gathering area and sitting at a table, observing the few people in the inn. The twin girls were arguing with one another, and the Khajiit woman was sifting through her bag. The men were telling a story of some adventure had ages ago. Cyril's eyes traced back to the lute in the corner. His fingers twitched, yearning to test its delicate strings by forming the notes into a soft hymn.
"Excuse me, Erik," Cyril said almost unconsciously, "do…do you mind if I play the lute in the corner over there? I am a bard—I certainly won't harm it."
The innkeeper seemed surprised. "A bard, eh? A traveling bard! Ha! I don't suspect you're from the college in Solitude, are you? By all means, play us a tune!" He took a drink from his tankard, adding with a smile. "Hell, if you're good enough, I'll even give you a good meal!"
Cyril's mouth watered at the thought. "Certainly!" He almost sprang up from his seat, and he picked up the stringed instrument. It was cold, having been untouched for quite some time. He used his sleeve to wipe dust off, and quietly strummed it. After a quick tuning, he wandered toward the fire and cleared his throat. "This tune is a bit outdated, but nonetheless, one of my favorites." Cyril strummed. "Our hero, our hero, claims a warrior's heart… I tell you, I tell you the Dragonborn comes…"
Erik leaned on the counter, his eyes narrowing. "I know this song…"
"With a voice wielding power of the ancient Nord arts… Believe, believe, the Dragonborn comes…"
When he finished the song, Erik left the bar with a bowl of soup and two salmon steaks on a platter in hand. "You tell the story of quite the hero, bard. As promised, your food." Cyril gracefully took the food after placing the lute down. Erik sat down with him, eyes seemingly distant. "I traveled with the Dragonborn for a short time. She truly was a Nord woman worth admiring."
Cyril raised a brow. "I'm glad to see not everyone's forgotten about the legend."
"She's the one who convinced my Pa to let me become an adventurer. After she did, she took me out to a nearby mountain and we killed a dragon together. It was a remarkable experience. After that she left Rorikstead with her elf friend. You don't find women like her very often."
"I'd say. What other woman can kill someone with her voice?" Cyril commented wryly.
"Any of them, if you get them angry enough," Erik said, earning a laugh to ripple through the inn. After Cyril had eaten, he heaved a content sigh.
"I'm actually searching for the Dragonborn," the young man said. "Maybe not her, in particular. I just want to know what happened to her."
"It's been a long time since I've heard of 'em," one of the men coughed after a chug of mead. "She was a member of the Thieves' Guild in Riften, my hometown, and after she vanished people stopped talking about her. I didn't learn she was the Dragonborn until recently."
"I thought she was a member of the Companions?" another mumbled. "Heard she was the one who fetched the mead, most of the time."
"No, no, no; she was a student at the College of Winterhold," an elderly man shouted from the back. "I was passing through and I saw her there with a few colleagues."
Erik smiled at Cyril's obvious confusion. "The Dragonborn dabbled in all of the fields. Like I said, you don't find women like her very often."
The sky hung drearily over Morthal, as per the norm. The courier was glad he had packed a set of warmer clothing. He trudged through the snow path into the city, peering out at the docks and the marsh. He saw the Moorside Inn's light glowing on the snow, and he was eager to step inside—that is, until he saw the figure leaning on the wall by the door. There stood a dark figure, cradling a small flame in a clawed hand. The hooded silhouette was gazing intently upon the fire spell. A long ebony sword was attached to his side, glowing red runes shining through the dark snowy night. On his back there was a white bow—one the courier had never seen before—and a quiver of black arrows.
He was certain that this was indeed the individual he was looking for. He approached calmly, swallowing as he searched through his bag of letters. Before he found the correct one, the courier saw the figure's eyes snap to him, and the flame dispelled. The courier could swear the eyes glowed. He shivered, either from the cold or other obvious reasons, and he found the correct note instantly. He held out the letter, hand trembling. "Are you t-the Black Arrow? Err, well, Faendal the Ruthless?"
"Who wants to know?" the dark hooded male countered. The courier shifted, glancing at the inside of the note.
"A young man from Solitude by the name of Cyril Hraithingaar. That's all I know."
"Give me the letter," he spoke. The courier saw his eyes scanning the letter inquisitively. "In Riverwood, eh?" He paused again, his voice lowering. "He wants to know more about the Dragonborn…interesting." He stuffed the letter between his robed armor. He pulled out a small, yet very full, bag of septims, tossing them to the courier. "I suggest you stay a night here at Moorside Inn. You look cold and tired—more importantly, there are wicked creatures roaming about Skyrim…you never know when one might decide to sink their teeth into you." With that, he strode quickly past the stunned courier to the road. As the latter was about to head inside to the warmth, he glanced back at the figure. His eyes widened when he saw a creature summoned, what appeared to be a skeletal horse engulfed in lavender-colored flames. The silhouette mounted the horse and rode away, and the courier went inside to have some very well-earned sleep.