The Flames of Contempt

by Hanyolo

The Season Unending is upon Skyrim: her children spill their own blood, setting her ablaze with their courage and hate. The specter of the World-Eater looms, his army of the dead gathering in the depths. A brash young Dragonborn, struggling to rebuild the Akiviri Dragonguard, finds his neutrality tested, while a sinister, forsaken evil seeks to put an end to his legend.

3. The Shadow's Kiss

"Sweet Mother, sweet Mother, send your child unto me, for the sins of the unworthy must be baptized in blood and fear."

-The Black Sacrament

His eyes snapped open just as a thin line of light appeared over the horizon, peeking cautiously through the shuttered window of the one-roomed cottage. He shifted his gaze down, keeping his head still, just as she sighed and shifted slowly in her sleep. As her warm, sweet breath puffed rhythmically across his cheek, he felt her hand unconsciously knead his shoulder. He waited a minute for the remnants of sleep to loosen their clutches on his body and brain. Then, gingerly, he slid her arm from his torso, then reached down and slowly moved her supple, shapely leg off of his own. After waiting a moment to ensure she slept still, he slipped from the bed and stretched luxuriously.

He caught a glimpse of himself in a cheap, clouded mirror perched on a dresser as he passed and stopped to admire his reflection for just a moment. His curly black hair was quite tangled as a result of last night's activity, and its current state combined with his unkempt beard made him appear quite the roving miscreant. Thankfully, the scruff on his chin did not blunt his sharp, handsome jaw, and his swarthy skin glowed ever so slightly in the morning light. A pair of youthful brown eyes stared back at him as he surveyed the mirror's contents.

Satisfied, he silently padded over to the tangle of clothing that adorned the floor of the hut. All in all, it was a seamless operation. His execution was flawless - the product of much experience - so it came as a great surprise when, just as he'd pulled on his trousers, he heard a tiny cough over his shoulder.

He turned around to find her sitting curled up in bed, wide awake, a slight but sultry smile adorning her heart-shaped face. Her hazy blue eyes, filtered through the long lashes of her half-closed eyelids, reminded him of the gaze of a mountain cat that had spotted its prey. Her tangled mane of hair, dirty blonde and partially braided, made her appear even more animalistic.

"This must be why you call yourself the Dawn Raven," she said. Her voice was crisp and cultured, without any trace of an accent - surprising for a Nord girl in a provincial village. "You take what you can get and then fly away with the sun."

He shrugged, pleasantly tickled by her clever words, but decided to remain silent. She patted the bed beside her. He did not move to return to the bed - but neither did he continue to dress.

"You're not going to make me get up, are you?"

The Dawn Raven's smile widened. She rolled her eyes and rose, uncurling her legs and springing gracefully to her feet. He admired her as she stalked towards him, swaying her hips; she was lithe and swift, and just as her perfect breasts sway back and forth so too did her abdomen ripple with musculature. He wondered how old she was - mid twenties, perhaps? Much younger than he, in any case.

She reached him and pulled him into a passionate kiss, sucking at his bottom lip before snaking her tongue into his mouth. He felt himself stiffen immediately as she pressed her body against his. The Raven decided that his departure was not necessarily an imminent concern and allowed her to start slowly leading him back towards their bed.

All of a sudden there came a furious knock at the door. Their lips broke apart, but she did not move away, shifting her body slightly but maintaining the horribly distracting pressure around his pelvic area. He looked her in the face as she stared at the door: uncertainty and fear had crept into her eyes, replacing lust.

"Astrid!" came a roar from behind the door, followed by another round of furious pounding. It was unmistakably a man's voice, deep and booming. The Dawn Raven felt panic settle in, and he twisted out of her arms and ran to collect the rest of his gear.

"It's my husband," she said in a low voice, "I wasn't expecting him untill - quickly, you must -"

But her words were lost in the sound of splintering wood as the door collapsed inwards. A huge bearded Nord man, his hair just as long and unkempt as his wife's but far more blonde, came barrelling in through the door. He was dressed in faded leather and held a heavy woodcarver's axe with one hand as if it was a toothpick.

He zeroed in on the Raven immediately.

"Why you little-"

"Arnbjorn, wait!"

The Dawn Raven was of average height and build. In Skyrim, this meant he was practically a runt. While his size gave him several distinct advantages in his particular line of work, it did not suit him well for combat with those such as Arnbjorn.

The shaggy Nord swung his axe with gusto, nearly cleaving the footboard in two with one vicious stroke. The Raven threw himself sideways, came up in an awkward, clumsy roll, then reached into his trousers to a small throwing knife he kept sewed to his right pant leg.

But the knife wasn't there.

He groped about for a moment in his pants, his mouth wide open with astonishment, drawing a suitably confused but still angry look from Arnbjorn.

"You damned PERVERT!" the Nord roared, rushing towards him once more. Astrid had wrapped herself in a blanket, but it kept tripping her up as she tried to calm her furious husband without success.

The Raven shuffled around Arnbjorn's next frantic attack and dove towards his sword, which he'd left propped up in its sheath in the corner of the hut.

But the blade was gone as well! He swore loudly, sidestepped another off-kilter lunge of Arnbjorn's axe, then decided that anything he'd left on the floor of the hut was not really worth it anyways. He vaulted over the small hut's empty fire pit, dodged past the hysterical Astrid, and catapulted himself through the nearest window. The rickety wood slats crumpled outwards as he smashed into them. He felt a sharp pain in his left calf as he landed in a heap outside, but chalked it up to splinters, and pushed himself upright.

The small village that surrounded Half-Moon Mill was mercifully close to Falkreath Wood; its densely-packed haven of trees had never looked more inviting. Just as he began to sprint away from the hut and into the safety of the brush, he became aware of a bizarre tingling sensation in the toes of his left foot. Then, without warning, his left leg gave out from under him and he tumbled forward, landing in a heap.

The Raven swore again and pushed himself to his feet, but found he could barely support any weight with his leg. He looked downwards and realized why: a small crossbow bolt had buried itself in his calf. He reached down and plucked the bolt from his leg. The wound was shallow, for the bolt was tiny, barely longer than the length of his hand. It was fletched with dark red feathers. The tip must have been poisoned: most likely with extract of canis root, a powerful anesthetic popular amongst those in the Raven's line of work.

He took a wobbly step forward, and immediately toppled over. The numb feeling flooded down his right leg as it simultaneously worked its way up into his torso. He started to panic and sweat, reaching out both arms and trying desperately to drag himself forward with his fingers. But his attempts were useless: he'd barely gone two yards before he began to lose the feeling in his arms as well.

He flipped himself onto his side as his head began to feel dizzy. It quickly became a struggle to keep his eyes open as his brain felt more and more sluggish. The last thing he saw before he gave in to unconsciousness were two pairs of pale feet: one squat and large and covered with coarse blond hair, the other smaller, perfectly arched, with exquisite nails painted blood red.

---

The Dawn Raven awoke some time later in a dim room, tied to a chair. It was chilly, and nobody had bothered to dress him. The walls were nondescript stone, with a wooden door at one end. The only other thing in the room was a wooden table. On the table rested several imposing objects - a pair of rusty pliers, a bonesaw, calipers and whips and iron knuckles - that were very clearly instruments of torture. He groaned. Why does every unsavory character I come across seem to have a torture fetish?

He was in the process of tugging at his bonds to determine their strength when the door opened. A tall, spindly Redguard sauntered in, dressed in the customary garb of the Alik'r desert tribes, albeit with a crimson turban. He had slender, sharp features, a hawkish nose and a pointed black goatee. His age was difficult to determine; he had noticeable laugh lines that contrasted poorly with a pair of cold grey eyes. The Raven recognized him immediately.

"Well, well," He began in a deep, smooth voice, "If it isn't the Dawn Raven of Bravil, 'Quintus Drake.' Is that the name you're going by these days?"

"Hello, Nazir," the Raven replied, his own reedy voice flat and acerbic, "Keeping strange company as of late. Those who better share your... unique sensibilities?" He gestured to the utensil-laden table with a nod of his head.

Nazir chuckled. "The Guild was always squeamish about my methods. My new friends, on the other hand, are a little more goal-oriented, if you catch my drift."

Quintus Drake was starting to get a feeling for Nazir's new friends, and it wasn't a good one. Clearly it had been a setup (the seductive miller's wife - how in Oblivion had he fallen for that one again?) A caper like that, which reminded Drake of his early days as a young thief, most likely required some serious setup, thereby indicating an impressive level of organization. Perhaps approaching the level of the Thieves Guild - but then the Guild as he'd known it tended to shy away from performing abductions.

Not to mention that the Guild had blacklisted him two years prior, going out of its way to sever all contact under pain of, well, lots of pain.

"In any case, Quintus," Nazir continued, clasping his hands behind his back and slowly circling around the chair in a manner he probably considered intimidating, "We've been looking for you for some time now. You've proved quite slippery as of late; all our old contacts in the Thieves Guild were disappointingly ignorant of your whereabouts."

"Cut to the chase, Nazir. I've no intention of being uncooperative."

Nazir ignored him. "It must be strange. From Guildmaster to sworn enemy, in such a short span! Your fall was as meteoric as your rise, it seems."

Drake felt a prickle of irritation. "Well, that was below the belt."

Nazir shook his head, chuckling once more. "Say what you will about Mercer Frey, at least he preserved the status quo. For a such a skilled thief, you're remarkably unsubtle. Our fellow thieves were bound to get fed up with your antics sooner or later."

"Is this about kicking you out? Because, you know, I wasn't the only one involved in that-"

"My friends and I aren't concerned with your brief and brilliant career," Nazir interrupted, "Rather, what happened afterwards."

Drake understood. "Oh, I see. This is about the Dragonborn, isn't it?"

Annoyance flashed over Nazir's face. Drake felt smug and decided to continue.

"All the rage lately, isn't he? Lots of folk interested in him, I'd wager."

The door opened and a woman strode in. It was Astrid, the miller's wife, though she looked quite different: she was garbed in form-fitting studded leather, mostly black with crimson accents. Her hair was taut and braided (better suited to combat, Drake surmised) and a pair of wicked looking daggers were tucked into her belt. She wore a cold, aloof expression.

"Well well," Drake began, "If it isn't the miller's wife. I liked you better when you were-"

She closed the distance between them and backhanded him across the face before he could finish his lewd sentence. It hurt. Her gloves had spiked knuckles and although she was petite for a Nord she evidently retained some of that Nordic strength. His head swam for a moment and he felt warm blood start to trickle down his cheek.

"Nazir is far more polite and patient than I," she began in a clipped tone, not waiting for him to recover, "Cooperate, or you will suffer much before your end." Her words were calm, emotionless. Drake's stomach turned uneasily.

"I'd like to cooperate," he started, making a halfhearted attempt to dull the sarcastic edge in his voice, "But you're going to have to give me a bit-"

She backhanded him once more, the other cheek this time. Reeling, he spat a gob of blood from his mouth. Once the pain had subsided somewhat he looked up into her face. She maintained her cold calm, but her blue eyes seemed to glint and sizzle with sadistic excitement. Drake resolved to speak only when spoken to from then on.

Nazir looked at Astrid with what might have been distaste before stepping forward once more. "You grasp at the truth," he drawled, "We seek the Dragonborn, Jakt the Dragonbane."

"He's really taken to calling himself that?" Drake asked skeptically, immediately forgetting his own rule and shying away when Astrid raised her hand once more. He knew that Nords liked their epithets the way Orcs liked rancid liquor, but Jakt hadn't seemed too keen on adding a pompous appellation to his short and harsh moniker.

Boring as he was.

Nazir shrugged. "Several witnesses placed you with him over a three-month period, around the beginning of the Dragon crisis. You were observed together in Whiterun, Solitude, and most notably at an official function of the Thalmor Embassy."

"That was many months ago," Drake reminded him, "My only contact with him since then was, er, a minor skirmish in Riften-"

"Yes, you helped him escape certain capture, torture, and plausible death by the Dominion," Astrid derided him, "Against the wishes of your master, might I add."

Drake felt uneasy once more. "How do you-"

"It makes no difference, fool," she said. "Furthermore, you aided your third companion in her escape from the Thalmor, following her own inprisonment. Selfless acts for a noted criminal such as yourself."

Nostalgia - mixed with an iota of guilt - prickled at Drake's brain. His time spent travelling with the Dragonborn was fast disappearing into the past, but (aside from a few bumps in the road) he remembered it as a welcome moment of respite. It had been a chance to act on impulse: roaming Skyrim in search of new fortune, profiting off the fame of another and - dare I say it? - perhaps achieving some good. A concrete good, for that matter, that was not born strictly of self-interest.

In other words, a new start, free from the baggage of his long, convoluted career as a thief and all-around scoundrel. Then Maven Blackbriar, his personal reaper, had come to collect on an outstanding debt.

"Perhaps time spent playing the hero has addled your brain," Nazir interrupted his train of thought, "But what's done is done. Since your parting, the Dragonborn has made himself scarce. Our sources placed him in the vicinity of Markarth, but the Reach has proved difficult for us to navigate, owing to its instability."

"So this is where I come in, then," Drake interrupted, "You think I can help you find him." He laughed in spite of his predicament. "That's ridiculous! I've not seen him for months, and we hardly parted on good terms-"

Astrid stepped forward and, before he could even blink, jabbed her elbow into his chest right below his sternum. The air fled his windpipe like a bat out of Oblivion. He flopped about in his chair for a moment as he struggled to regain his breath. Gradually his vision stopped swimming and he regained control over his lungs.

"Kynareth's tits," he said after a moment, grinning stupidly, "Why didn't you try anything kinky like that last night?"

Astrid's eyes flashed. She took a step forward, raised her leg, and slammed her hard leather boot down on to Drake's unprotected toes.

He howled.

A moment later, once he had finished, Nazir coughed politely. "That ought to wake up the initiates," he deadpanned, casting a disdainful glance at Astrid once more.

"You know… Nazir," Drake panted, sucking in air, his poor toes throbbing, "I'm no... expert on torture, but... you aren't giving me much… incentive to help you out."

"You'll forgive Astrid, I'm sure," Nazir replied unconcernedly, "She's keen to continue the hunt."

"Besides," Astrid added, "I've wasted far too much time tracking you down not to enjoy having you." Her eyes glinted.

"That includes... last night then, doesn't it?" Drake asked despite himself. He immediately ducked his head and squeezed his eyes shut, expecting her to lash out once more, but the blow never came; when he looked back up at her, she was grinning widely, her hazy blue orbs fixed to his. Somehow that smile was more disturbing than any physical pain she might inflict.

"You seem to determined to make this hard for yourself, old friend," Nazir sighed, "Astrid is still learning from my, ah, expertise, but I assure you she has proven an able, if not overly enthusiastic, apprentice."

Astrid walked over to the table of torture implements and began to rifle through them, taking an inordinate amount of time to decide which one to begin with.

"Now, just wait a minute," Drake said, stammering, "Like I said before, I have every intention of cooperating. What do you want to know?" He felt a prickle of guilt once more. Twice in one day? Perhaps age is turning me soft. But he had no great desire to be tortured, and besides, Jakt could take care of himself, couldn't he?

"Why, where to find the Dragonborn, of course," Nazir said nonchalantly, looking over towards Astrid's turned back and sighing audibly.

"How should I know?"

Astrid turned around, holding an old, rusty corkscrew. She looked at Drake for a moment, testing the instrument, zeroing in on different areas of his body.

"Ask me anything, I'll answer it!" Drake said frantically, his latent cooperative spirit momentarily overpowering his ingrained compulsion towards snark.

"Where is the Dragonborn?" Astrid's cool, collected voice, which had been so sultry the night before, sent shivers of an entirely different sort down his spine.

"I- I don't know! I just told- But, but, Delphine will know!"

"Delphine?" Astrid had begun to walk forward, spinning and flipping the corkscrew like a throwing knife. She stopped, a bemused look coming over her that did not agree with her cunning and predatory profile.

"Yes! She's a Blade. Find the Blades, you find the Dragonborn."

"We already found the Blades," Nazir replied, "Near Dragonbridge. No Dragonborn. You'll have to do better than that."

"Wait!" Drake cried as Astrid gently traced the cruel, gnarled tip of the corkscrew up and down his bare torso, "What about High Hrothgar?"

Nazir signalled to Astrid, who pulled away with an annoyed glare.

"Explain."

Drake trembled with relief. "Well, he made a trip to High Hrothgar when we were traveling together - to train with the Greybeards, I think - and at one point he talked about going back."

"Interesting," mused Nazir, "It would be relatively easy to plant someone in Ivarstead or at the foot of the mountain path."

"He also, ah, might come through Whiterun."

"Why would he ever do that?" Astrid asked sharply, "He's trying to stay hidden."

"Er," Drake said, avoiding eye contact with the young woman, "He's a Thane in Jarl Bulgruuf's court, believe it or not. Not to mention that Whiterun is en route to High Hrothgar from the Reach. He'd likely rest and resupply in the city and be welcomed openly by the Jarl, not to mention kept out of sight. Your, ah, agents could blend in easily there."

Nazir smiled; if not for his utterly expressionless eyes, it might have passed for warm-hearted. "Well then. You've been surprisingly helpful. I think that's enough for today."

He turned around and made for the door; Astrid rose as if to comply.

"Wait!" Drake appealed to them frantically, "You're just going to leave me tied up like this?"

Astrid smiled and nodded. Nazir merely shrugged.

"You can't just -" he sputtered, anger and despair taking hold of him, "When Maven founds out about this…"

"Oh Quintus," Nazir sighed, "Who do you think hired us?"

With a wave of his hand he vanished out of the door. Drake was dumbfounded for a second. Then he realized that Astrid hadn't left: she stood near the doorway, an unreadable expression on her face.

"Great," he said, "Alone again with you. Just what I wanted."

"You haven't yet figured out who you're dealing with, have you, Quintus?" she asked, stalking forward in her seductive, catlike fashion.

Drake had a pretty good idea, but he was afraid to put his suspicions into words. The fear that made his heart pound, however, did not dull his tendency towards facetiousness.

"All of the pain I'm in right now sure has got me going," he said as Astrid came towards him, squirming in his chair and gesturing to his pelvic region with his chin, "Why don't you just hop right on and have a go around? I can see that torment and agony get you all excited too. Shame I didn't know that previously-"

Astrid skipped forward and straddled him, wrapping her legs around his thighs and grinding herself into him. Before he could yelp in surprise she took his face in her hands and pressed their lips together in a wet, forceful kiss. Artfully she darted her tongue in and out of his mouth, bit his lip, let out a moan. She grabbed his hair with one hand and forced his head to the side, exposing his neck; She kissed her way up to his ear in a truncated arc. It was too much: he felt his member spring to attention, in spite of his predicament. Confusion, revulsion, terror and lust duked it out for control of his mental capacities.

Astrid flicked his earlobe with her tongue, then planted her soft lips on his ear and whispered something.

"Hail Sithis."

The breathy words, magnified by her proximity, clanged painfully against his eardrum. All of a sudden she sprung up, relieving the weight of her body from his tensed legs. The corkscrew reappeared in her hands and she lashed out, slicing a diagonal line across his torso with its sharp end. He cried out in pain and looked down to see a thin red line appear, stretching from his right collarbone to his left armpit. He looked up, tears at the corner of his eyes, to catch one last glimpse of Astrid's firm, shapely behind - superbly accentuated by her form-fitting leather trousers - as she disappeared behind the closing door.

He slumped down in the chair, cursing his inability to curl up into a fetal position. The wound was shallow but stung fiercely; blood began to dribble down his torso. He closed his eyes for a moment and concentrated on breathing slow, hoping that it would soon coagulate. It took him a moment to realize that he was not alone in the room.

A small form seemed to materialize in front of him. He yelped and squirmed, aggravating his cut in the process. Momentary panic gave way to bemusement as realized that a little girl stood before him, perhaps nine or ten at most. She had shoulder length black hair that shone in the candlelight, and she was dressed quite well for one her age, garbed in a black velvet dress accented with red and silver.

"What in Oblivion? Who are you?"

She did not answer. Exhaustion, pain, anxiety, and lingering arousal all gave way to chill dread when he met her eyes. They were an unnatural shade of orange, shiny like a Khajiit's, but with small, round pupils. Something about her seemed very wrong: her skin was so pale it was almost grey, and her cheeks were sunken, almost skeletal. The air in the room, never very warm to begin with, grew positively clammy as she stepped towards him.

"She has marked you," the little girl remarked, reaching a hand towards Drake and placing the tips of her fingers on his bleeding chest. Her voice was small and waivered like a child's, but something ancient and ephemeral seemed to lurk behind it. Her fingers were bitterly cold, like those of a frozen corpse.

"Yeah? She's one messed up little harpy," he said, grimacing at her icy touch.

"Astrid always claims her marks," the girl continued, not moving her hand, "One way or another. It will only be a matter of time."

"Who are you?" he asked.

The little girl withdrew her hand, looking at the blood at her fingertips.

"You don't recognize me, brother?" she asked quietly, bringing her fingers to her lips and opening her mouth to lick them clean. He caught a glimpse of long, white canines. Realization surged through him, and every muscle in his body clenched in horror.

"Get away from me," he said, with a strange calmness he did not feel. "I am no brother of yours."

"Though the disease may be purged," she whispered, her eyes glinting, "the blood never thins."

"This is exactly what I need right now," groaned Drake. "Please leave."

"I'm going to enjoy having you around, blood of my blood," the little girl said with a nightmarish smile. She whirled about and was gone, disappearing even quicker than Astrid.

But the chill in the air remained.

---

The early dawn light streaming through the fine glass windows of the Blue Palace lent the office an air of hope that Falk Firebeard did not feel. He paced back and forth, waiting for his early-morning visitor, unable to concentrate on the contents of the open letter at his desk. Sleep had not come willingly to him the previous night, visiting only in brief and unsatisfying fits instead.

Firebeard, so named for his distinctive dark-red mane, was a seasoned presence in Solitude's court. Born a carpenter's son, he had found his father's profession droll and unfulfilling. A clever lad with grand dreams, he enlisted in the Imperial Legion at sixteen, serving at the tail end of the Great War. Given the freedom to exercise his ingenuity and cunning due to the chaotic nature of Emperor Titus Mede II's Cyrodilic campaign, he caught the eye of his Legate, a tough, shrewd man named Cato Tullius. Though Falk was badly wounded during the Battle of the Red Ring, Firebeard benefitted from Tullius' subsequent promotion following Mede's victory, managing to parlay the General's favor into a spot in the Empire's diplomatic corps. Falk watched the political encroachment of the Aldmeri Dominion as an Imperial statesmen stationed in Skyrim. Though Falk managed to work his way up to a senior position, the two lethargic decades that followed proved supremely disheartening, as Mede's dynasty continued to appease the Thalmor at every turn.

Following High King Torygg's murder at the hands of Ulfric, Firebeard had assumed the mantle of steward to Queen Elisif at Tullius' bequest, as their previous steward had declared his support for Ulfric Stormcloak's claim to the throne. The murder and its fallout proved a devastating political upset, and Falk had been left to pick up the pieces. That had been nearly one year ago, and as if Ulfric's Rebellion hadn't been enough, he now found himself coordinating a war on two fronts: one against Ulfric, and the other against an ancient and unknowable enemy.

The door opened as Falk paced, and his morning appointment sidled in.

"Greetings, Erikur," Falk said politely, concealing his lack of enthusiasm for this particular meeting with ease born of years of practicing diplomacy.

"Likewise, Falk," Erikur replied, grinning in reply. The two men grasped hands and Falk offered his guest a seat on the couch that sat before his desk. Erikur declined with a wave of his hand, walking over to the window instead and watching the sun as it rose above the horizon. Falk took a moment to size up his guest.

A Thane in Jarl Elisif's court, Erikur was the son of a wealthy merchant and a second cousin of the Jarl herself. He was younger than Falk, a blond, ruddy-faced Nord with a large physique gone slightly to seed, dressed in fine silks and fur that were at odds with Falk's unadorned doublet. Erikur had consolidated the influence of his family through a series of shrewd business acquisitions, investing his father's fortune in key mercantile organizations that operated throughout northern Tamriel. This included Blackbriar Meadery and the East Empire trading company, both of which depended heavily on Cyrodilic trade routes and Imperial subsidies to function lucratively. As a result, Erikur was a staunch Imperial supporter, perhaps the most loyal member of Elisif's court.

Firebeard held no love for Erikur. Not because of his allegiances - Falk considered himself a steadfast loyalist - but because the blond Thane was as pompous as he was ambitious, and wielded a dangerous amount of influence. He had cozied up to the Thalmor as well. Falk was a practical Nord and understood well the benefits of Imperial rule, but two decades of service had hardly quelled his distrust of the Aldmeri Dominion. Ambassador Elenwen and her peers were hardly subtle about the Dominion's ultimate goals for the subjugation of the Empire, and Falk understood his kin well enough to know that Skyrim would never willingly submit to Thalmor rule. It was a frequent source of stress for Firebeard.

"I'm assuming that you've read Avenicci's account?" Erikur asked nonchalantly, still facing the window.

Firebeard felt a prickle of annoyance. That letter had been for his eyes only, steward to steward. Finding the wax seal to be broken upon its delivery, he had assumed Erikur's involvement. But the young Thane was prickly, and Falk was a diplomat first and foremost, accustomed to handling powerful men and women with short fuses.

"I've taken a look at it," Falk replied in a neutral tone, "Not so surprising. Balgruuf is clever and capable. What's more surprising is that Avenicci would rat him out."

"The man's a proper Imperial citizen," Erikur replied with a shrug, turning to face Firebeard at last, "He realizes the implications of Balgruuf's politicking. He'll plunge Skyrim into a war far worse than Ulfric's, should he succeed."

Falk nodded slowly. As usual, Erikur refused to acknowledge the dragon's return. Since their appearance nearly one year prior, the attacks had grown in frequency and severity. The steward often wondered at the implication of their presence, but his days were busy enough governing Solitude, coordinating the war effort, and handling Elisif's increasingly volatile court.

"Even more troublesome is that Rikke is in Whiterun," Erikur continued, "Some might see the Legate's presence as implicit support on behalf of Tullius."

"Don't presume out of turn, Erikur," Firebeard reprimanded softly, "Rikke is most likely there to oversee Whiterun's defense, now that Balgruuf seeks Imperial support, or at least surficially. Let us not jump to conclusions."

"On that note, where is Tullius?" Erikur demanded, "The good general has not made an appearance in court in some time. The Thanes are anxious to know the war's current status."

"Tullius is in the Pale, overseeing the Dawnstar campaign," Falk replied, waving a dismissive hand, "After the Stone-Fist pushed the Imperials from Riften he has divided his time between there and Falkreath Hold. The Stormcloaks have pushed steadily south from Windhelm and Winterhold, but Tullius believes Dawnstar will soon fall, allowing us to move west and erode their grip on the north."

"War will come to Balgruuf's borders, then," Erikur observed, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. He kept himself clean shaven in the Imperial style, which irked many of Skyrim's more traditional nobles. Falk nodded and sighed.

"Our Fair Queen has been sticking her nose into my business again," Erikur said after a moment, "Thane Bryling has her ear, it seems. You'd do best to counsel her against further investigations, Falk."

At the mention of Bryling's name Falk felt a stab of anger. "Bryling has a point, Erikur," he said curtly, "Rumors abound of your questionable business practices. The pirates seem to be giving your ships a wide berth that they do not extend to your rivals."

Erikur leaned against the wall and inclined his head, staring at Falk from beneath his lowered brow. "You'd be wise to remember that my business is paying for Elisif's war, Steward Firebeard," he said with a dangerous smile.

"A fact that is hard to forget, Thane Erikur," Falk responded with barely disguised irritation. "Elisif is headstrong and takes her duties as High Queen seriously. Much more so than her late husband."

"Yes, a pity that Torygg proved as feeble a warrior as he was a King," Erikur said with mock melancholy, "He was far easier to manipulate than his wife."

Falk nodded his agreement and kept his thoughts private. Torygg had been inattentive and sophomoric, yes, and his death had been more impactful than anything he had ever accomplished in life. Understandably, Elisif sought to distance herself from her husband's neglectful nature while honoring his memory in the process: not an easy feat. Falk respected her drive to involve herself in Skyrim's rule, but the sad truth was that the political situation was too fragile to allow a young, inexperienced and naive ruler hold much sway over its outcome. Her ideas, although well-meaning, were often too bombastic, and Falk had to work hard to juggle her clumsy attempts to assert herself. As if the everyday rabble of Solitude's court wasn't enough! Perhaps when all settles down, she will have time to grow into the role. IF all settles down, that is.

"I have a plan to deal with Balgruuf," Erikur said after a moment, "Provided that you keep Bryling's shapely nose out of my business."

"Tell me your plan, Erikur, and I'll consider it," Falk replied.

Erikur smiled slyly and shook his head. "Come now, Steward," he said, "Don't be a fool. What would happen to your career if you're implicated in my... schemes? I must maintain some level of secrecy."

"If you were trying not to overly concern me, Erikur, then you have failed."

Erikur backtracked. "Alright, I'll outline what I can. It's quite simple, really. Tell me, Falk, what is it that makes the Thalmor so effective?"

Falk paused for a moment. There were many acceptable answers: ruthless pragmatism, unabashed tyranny, a fundamental disregard for human (and elven) life...

"Manipulation," Erikur said, not waiting for Falk's answer. "They have mastered the art of turning their enemies against one another and profiting from the strife that follows. I suggest that take a leaf from their book."

Firebeard sighed and thought for a long moment. Erikur waited this time, a sly smile once again playing about his features. A much younger Falk would have had serious trouble resisting the temptation to sink his fist into that arrogant face.

"Very well," he said, with no small amount of hesitation, "I will handle Bryling and Elisif accordingly. But tell me no more. I do not wish to sully myself in your... filth."

Erikur raised an eyebrow at that remark, but let it slide. "Good. Our business is concluded, then. You won't regret this, my Steward."

He offered his hand, and Falk shook it once more.

That night, after a long day of courtly proceedings, the Steward lay awake in bed, staring at the ceiling. Far off in the distance, the faint but beautiful colors of Skyrim's northern lights danced across the sky, casting long shadows about Falk's comfortable room. The woman in bed next to him twisted and turned, then opened one eye to study him.

"What troubles you, my love?" she murmured, seeing his furrowed brow.

"A great many things," he replied, letting out a long sigh, "Ourselves included."

Thane Bryling sat up in bed and looked Firebeard sharply in the face. "You wish an end to our affair?" she asked, matter-of-factly. That was her way, the Nord way: straightforward and honest, to the point of harshness.

He shook his head. "No. But I fear what would happen should we be discovered."

"I dislike all this sneaking about, Falk," Bryling replied, "Perhaps it would be a good turn for both of us."

Falk sighed again. "No. It isn't the time. We've too many adversaries who would use it against us - and Elisif, for that matter."

Bryling frowned. "We've spoken of this before," she pointed out, "And it seems as though we are both still willing to risk it. So stop bringing it up if you don't have anything new to contribute."

He smiled, envious and yet appreciative of her canderous nature.

"That's not all that worries you," she remarked after a moment. "What is it?"

"I can't tell you," he replied miserably. "I wish I could, but I can't."

He paused, but she did not speak, instead tilting her head slightly in concern. He knew that she would respect his privacy - it was something they'd both insisted upon when they'd began their tryst - but still he felt guilty. It concerned her - Gods above, it concerned everyone.

"Lately, what with all this trouble," he began, feeling slightly embarrassed as he put his helplessness into words, "I feel almost as if - as if the world is coming to an end."

He paused again before continuing his confession. Bryling remained silent.

"And not only am I hopeless to stop it, but I am aiding it along the way."

---

Whiterun's market was even busier than Jakt remembered. It had been a long time, true, and he'd spent a surprising amount of his previous visit intoxicated, but the market district was crushed with more people than he could recall. Not only that, but a dispiriting pallor hung low over the crowds, one that had not existed during his last visit.

My first dragon-slaying… much has changed here, it seems.

"Refugees, seeking the safety and comfort of high walls," Esbern muttered to Jakt, pointing to a ragged group of men, women and children who stood huddled about a makeshift tent squeezed between two homes. Jakt looked around to see several more tents and lean-tos, made from whatever their occupants could find, decorating the market ring.

It wasn't just those displaced that stank of desperation: the merchants and everyday market-goers looked haggard as well. Whiterun guards were posted in abundance, their sunflower yellow sleeves and brightly-painted shields clashing with tired faces and dull eyes.

It was late in the afternoon, and after travelling all morning in order to drop off Braith at the temple of Kynareth he was ready for a stiff drink and a feather bed. The little girl had been sad to leave them, but the Priestess at the enclave had welcomed her openly, promptly introducing her to several more children staying there. Braith had bid Grandpa Esbern and Sir Jakt a hopeful goodbye, and both had been relieved to find that the poor child would not be alone. Jakt's momentary flash of happiness did not last long, however, turning instead to melancholy when he saw the small crowd of children that the temple had come to host.

War orphans. Hope they don't turn out like I did.

"The Bannered Mare is too popular, too conspicuous," Jakt said, turning to Esbern as they picked their way through the marketplace, "Let's try the Drunken Huntsman instead."

"Afraid they might recognize you?" Esbern asked, raising an eyebrow, "In my experience, a crowd is the perfect place to blend in." He gesticulated with his index finger. "And I do have considerable experience, boy, in case you've forgotten."

"It's just that I'm, ah, familiar with the waitstaff." Jakt felt embarrassed admitting it. He never had found out the name of the Redguard waitress he'd... encountered last time.

Esbern's eyes twinkled in sudden understanding. "When it comes to keeping a low profile, your libido is your worst enemy," he said, chuckling.

All of a sudden there was a tug on his belt. He looked down to see a small girl with matted black hair, dressed in a simple faded dress stained with mud. She looked sick: she was gaunt and very pale, and the skin around her yellow eyes was dark and puffy. Under her arm she held a wicker basket full of wildflowers.

"Please sir," she coughed pitifully, "Will you buy a flower so I can eat? Just one Septim..."

Jakt was quickly discovering that he had a soft spot for children in need. He smiled and nodded, reaching into his satchel to retrieve his coinpurse. As he drew it out he reflected that it had lightened as of late, but ultimately decided that he could spare the one coin. By the time he retrieved a gold piece and looked back down at her - which really did not take him long at all - the little girl had completely vanished.

He frowned and looked around, confused. He thought he saw her disappear into a throng of bleary-eyed Bretons. Concerned, he elbowed his way towards her.

All of a sudden he came face to face with a hooded figure, shorter than he, dressed in otherwise unassuming garb. The hooded person moved to block his path, and before he knew it, two more similarly-dressed strangers stood behind him on either side, forming a perfect triangle. The crowd pressed them together and Jakt, straining hard to see below the hood of the first person, caught a glimpse of full lips pursed in a sinister smirk.

A dagger appeared in the stranger's hand and leapt forward, so quickly that it seemed to do so of its own volition. Jakt reacted instinctively, desperately, doing the only thing he could think might stop the impending blade.

He shouted a wall of unstoppable force into the crowd.

The hooded assassin exploded backwards, along with several others, their twisted and bodies toppling in an arc. Screams of alarm and cries of pain ringing in his ears, Jakt contorted his body desperately to avoid the attacks he was certain would follow from his rear.

His instinct proved correct, and the combination of his frantic dodge and unexpected shout confounded one of the hooded knife-wielders mid-lunge, an Argonian judging by the scaled tail that protruded from under the attacker's cloak. The Argonian's thrust went wide. The other assailant, however, corrected the trajectory of its slash, catching Jakt's outstretched left forearm between his stiff leather bracer and the scaled sleeves that he'd affixed to his armor in order to protect his upper arms.

The knife ripped through Jakt's thick cotton undershirt with ease, and white-hot pain slashed through his forearm. He was dimly aware that the small, shallow wound hurt more than it should have, but adrenaline surged through his body, purging such thoughts from his brain to better focus on survival.

Jakt understood that sooner or later the city guard would converge on his would-be assassins, leaving them only a brief window of opportunity in which to successfully murder him. All he had to do was survive long enough and, hopefully, the guardsmen would intervene on his behalf. The crowd was beginning to react to the tumult at this point, innocent onlookers scrabbling away from the pandemonium perpetrated by Jakt's attackers. The busy marketplace became a tangled mass of bodies, a hectic whirl of limbs spreading outward from the three figures locked in combat.

Jakt ducked a horizontal slice from the Argonian and countered with an uppercut to its stomach. His fist, reinforced by a scaled glove, connected with a stiff garment - it felt like boiled leather - sending a painful wave of shock down his arm. The Argonian let out an oomph and doubled over, backpedaling awkwardly. Before Jakt could act on its momentary impairment, the other cloaked assassin led with a furious stab, forcing him to twist and slide out of harm's way.

The assassin, drab and genderless in a faded brown cloak, kept Jakt on the defensive, working the knife with practiced ease. Backtracking desperately, Jakt smacked into a frantic pedestrian and was rewarded with a neat slash on his outer thigh right below the scaled tassets that protected his upper legs. He noticed it for certain this time - the wound didn't just sting, it burned. His opponent, sensing victory, lunged forward, but Jakt managed to shove the poor, innocent bystander - a smallish Dunmer girl - out of his way just in time. He sidestepped the stab and grabbed his assailant's outstretched arm, then twisted around and pulled the stunned stranger up across his back and over his shoulder. The hooded assassin thudded hard against the ground and gave a satisfying cry of pain. It was a woman's voice.

His head began to ache.

Jakt had been holding off on drawing Dragonbane - its blade was too long to be used crowded marketplace without collateral damage - but the pain in his arm and leg strengthened the flames of contempt that had begun to churn in his gut. With a snap of his wrist he drew the sword from its sheathe on his back, reversing the grip in his hands to better execute his downed foe with a powerful, neat stab. He looked briefly over his shoulder to ensure that the Argonian he'd stunned hadn't yet recovered, and was greeted by a welcome sight: the guardsmen had finally gotten through the thinning crowds to engage the assassins.

He whirled back around to end the prone assassin's life, but before he could plunge his blade into her struggling form, he heard a clink that was accompanied by a prickling pain in his side. He looked down to see a small crossbow quarrel buried in his scale jerkin, right above his left hip. The scales had mostly succeeded in stopping the projectile, which was too small to do any real damage; indeed, the wound felt like little more than a scratch.

Jakt looked up to see his very first assailant standing not four yards away, holding a small, one-handed crossbow. His shout had blown the assassin's hooded cloak clear, revealing a beautiful blonde-haired woman dressed in black and red leather. She holstered the weapon at her belt and reached to her belt to draw forth a matching set of curved daggers. Uncoiling her tensed body like a striking cobra, she shot forward, closing the distance faster than he could fathom. Her twin blades flashed in the afternoon sun, and with a lurch in his stomach he recognized the mottled grey alloy of her darting weapons - they were forged of ebony.

By the Nine, she was fast! She kept her center of gravity low, striking unpredictably: whirling like a tornado, turning on a Septim. Her hazy blue eyes were wide-open, her pupils dilated, focused like those of a predator on its prey. A pair of luscious lips curled in triumph under her aquiline nose as her braided hair traced elegant spirals through the air. Jakt worked Dragonbane furiously, trying to take advantage of the katana's length to keep her out of stabbing range. Ebony rang against ebony - a curious, low ring - as he turned each stab, slash and riposte away. She couldn't be much older than me, he realized as he caught one of her feints on his blade, deflecting it with a forceful clang and lashing out with the pommel in an attempt to shatter her teeth. She pirouetted out of the way at the last possible second, coming back around with one of her deadly weapons and forcing him to snap his blade back desperately to meet her next slash.

All of a sudden Jakt felt his left leg falter and twist awkwardly, nearly sending him stumbling over backward. Off-balance, he barely managed to deflect a vicious double swipe before he looked down at the bolt buried in his side, confused. He could no longer feel the slight pain of the scratch: indeed, he felt a prickly numbness percolating throughout his torso and seeping into his left leg. All the while, the slashes on his right leg and forearm screamed a chorus of woe. Worse still, the throbbing in his head had crescendoed to an apex of agony, and his sinuses felt like they were clotted with tiny needles. He'd been wounded before, several times in fact, but the bizarre mixture of stinging pain and numbness did not feel like blood loss; besides, the wounds he'd received were too shallow for that kind of thing. The only logical conclusion, he realized with plummeting spirits, was poison.

Sucking in air like a beached horker after a long dive, Jakt felt his vision start to waver. Her attacks got harder and harder to predict, and Dragonbane - a superbly balanced weapon, a pinnacle of craftsmanship - felt heavy and unresponsive in his quivering hands. He knew it was only a matter of time before she overwhelmed him, and his only comfort was the sound of steel on steel that echoed around him, the shouts of men and women trying to kill each other, that meant that the guards were doing their job. If he could just hold on a little...

She slipped past his defenses after a particularly devastating flurry of stabs and slashes, deflecting his clumsy counterattack with one of her wicked ebony knives and raking the other across his chest. To his surprise, the skinny curved blade hewed the scales of his jerkin like a scythe through stalks of wheat, tracing a jagged line of torment across his chest.

He screamed out and stumbled backwards over a prone human form. His own voice sounded muffled, far away. He hardly felt his body's impact against the cobbled stone of the marketplace, as the numb feeling had completely enveloped his torso and trunk. He looked up through watery eyes to see the blonde assassin stalking forward. She had picked up Dragonbane and held it forth, twirling the long, curved sword without effort. His breath came in ragged gasps that echoed in his ears, drowning out the din of battle and the screams of the surrounding innocents. Jakt struggled to right himself with one hand but failed, slipping down to lay on his side. He swiveled his head up to see her standing over him, her unblinking gaze swimming in his fluid vision. She raised his own sword high above her head.

Dragonbane never fell. Instead she disappeared, replaced with a host of bodies that seemed to linger over him, their faces and shapes now too fuzzy for him to make out. Their mouths kept opening only to emit a low gibberish.

He was dimly aware that they were reaching down towards him. Jakt felt himself go weightless for a moment, suspended in mid air. The world spun around him for a quick second and then his vision faded to nothing.

---

Lysana Trystane was lost.

It took her three days to realize that she had descended east of Labyrinthian, opposite from their climb. The first sign that her rapid, disorienting plunge down the mountain had led her astray was the climate. When the slope had finally leveled off Lysana had found herself in the middle of a deciduous forest. A thick, humid mist enveloped her, severely reducing her line of sight. Most perplexing was the warmth - by Skyrim's standards it was practically balmy. She was relieved at first, jettisoning the impromptu wrappings she'd affixed to her extremities to ward off the frosty mountain air. Still reeling from the disturbing events at Labyrinthian, she did not question the damp, heavy warmth that gradually settled about her, warming her chilled bones.

Then she reached the swamp, and woke from her pleasant stupor with a jolt.

It seemed to spring out of nowhere: the ground became spongy, the trees barren, gnarled and twisted. Impassable patches of cattails and sawgrass rose up from putrid water, and the rustlings of tiny creatures filled her ears, punctuated occasionally by the hoot of an owl, the squeal of its prey, or a frog's lusty croak. The unwelcome odors of salty mud and decaying matter wafted up to bombard her nose.

Whiterun has no such wetlands, she thought to herself as she carefully extricated her boot from the chilly mud. And the climate is too temperate for this time of year in the Valley.

Lysana found a dry patch of ground and made a haphazard camp. She had been up for nearly three days straight, and the small effort required nearly broke her. She gathered brush and ignited it with a feeble spell, then sat in front of the fire and meditated, trying to clear her exhausted mind and determine a new course of action. She deduced that she had just reached the edge of the Drajkmyr wetlands, the great salt marsh that stretched between the Upper Jerall range and the Haafingar mountains and drained north into the Sea of Ghosts. This put her on the other side of the Jeralls from Whiterun, the nearest safe haven she could think of where she could take advantage of the College's contacts. She would either have to circle around to the south of the mountains to enter Whiterun Valley from the east, which would take a week or more, or try to go back the way she came, which was most definitely not an option.

The Drajkmyr was part of Hjaalmarch Hold, Skyrim's smallest and poorest province. Ruled from the lumber town of Morthal, the region was sparsely populated by fur trappers, loggers, and crannog dwellers, sometimes derisively called the Bogmen by the rest of Skyrim's native population. The Bogmen were a suspicious folk and quite unwelcoming, especially of magic users. This was unfortunate, as the College had a particular fascination with the Drajkmyr. Its magical aura was impenetrable and ancient, thicker and heavier than the perennial mist that hung low over the wetlands. Every once in a long while, the College sent an expedition into the marsh to determine the source. The excursions almost always came back empty handed, if they returned at all.

For the marsh was dangerous: on top of its sprawling, treacherous expanse, it was said to be haunted. Lysana had heard disturbing tales of will o' the wisps - beautiful floating baubles of pure light - luring travelers deep into the swamp, where they wandered, lost, until they collapsed and sank into the mud. She'd heard that vampires lurked in the wetlands, emerging from hidden dens under frozen lakes to seduce their victims with hideous untold perversions. Kelpies - malevolent water spirits that often took the form of beautiful black horses - were rumored to dwell in its misty depths, inviting curious children to ride on their backs and then drowning them in the brackish water of the swamp.

Lysana was a grown woman of considerable rational intelligence, but the prospect of striking off into the marsh on her own did not excite her. She was not entirely sure what she had experienced within Labyrinthian, but now that she was thinking a bit more clearly, she concluded that the horde of Draugr was some sort of army seeking to spread itself outward from its lair in the mountains. Someone had to be warned - Whiterun was one obvious target - but Morthal was also close by, and likely to be overrun with little trouble.

She'd been there previously, during her time with the Dragonborn: while he trained with the Greybeards at High Hrothgar, she had traveled to a Nordic ruin called Ustengrav to retrieve some stupid artifact important to their order. Ustengrav was on the border of the Reach and Hjaalmarch, five days by foot from Whiterun, but the company she journeyed with, desperate for supplies and a warm bed, had made a brief detour into Morthal. It was a surreal experience: the village itself was built above the swamps on a foundation of docks, stilts and crannogs. The villagers were terse and reclusive, reluctant to do business with outsiders (with the exception of the innkeeper, who was overjoyed at their fresh company). Lysana had left it behind eagerly, hardly intent on returning anytime soon. That had been many months ago, and she doubted any in the morose village would care to remember her.

Morthal would be her next destination, then. Her decision made, Lysana allowed exhaustion to overtake her. She barely had time to crawl into her bedroll before she fell into a deep, dreamless slumber.

She awoke several hours later to the telltale rustling of footsteps through tall grass. She opened her eyes slowly. The twin moons hung high above her, peeking through the perpetual shroud of mist.

A robed figure stood nearby, arms clasped together, hands hidden in long sleeves. She sat up, but, sensing no ill intent, decided to greet the figure with a word instead of a spell.

"Who are you?"

The stranger stepped forward. It was a man, a Redguard; his dark skin glinted in the misty moonlight. It was impossible to tell his age from his face; he wore a calm and measured expression that bespoke of wisdom and experience, with just a touch of melancholy. The wrinkles of age had passed him by, it seemed, for his face was smooth, his cheeks full, his jawline slender and taut. He was clearly not a young man, however, and he kept his head partially tonsured like a monk: she recognized the style as that of Alik'r mages.

"I am Falion," he murmured, bowing low to her. "You are known to me, Lysanna Trystane, once of Jehanna, now Acolyte of Winterhold."

Lysanna's felt a surge of acrimony at the mention of her surname, but it was eclipsed by a growing sense of uneasiness.

"You are a mage, then?" she reasoned, slipping out of her bedroll to stand and curtsey in reply. "Have you ties with the College?"

Falion frowned and shook his head. "At one time, perhaps," he said, "But that time has long gone."

"How do you know of me?" Lysana asked, her confusion mounting. Her ego was not so large and unwieldy that she allowed herself to believe random magic-users had knowledge of her work.

"The Sight," he explained, his brow furrowing.

Lysana's eyes went wide. The ability to tell the future was one of the least understood aspects of mysticism, the school of magic that was itself arguably the most obscure. It was a gift most rare.

"You see visions? The future?"

"Not I," the mage clarified, "But my master. Jarl Idgrod Ravencrone, of Morthal. She bid me travel here, to intercept you."

Lysana shook her head in disbelief. A skeptic through and through, she had trouble accepting such a tale - though at the least, Falion did not appear untrustworthy or malevolent.

"What would the Jarl ask of a lowly apprentice acolyte?"

Falion's frown deepened. "She does not ask a boon from you. The Sight does not work that way - my master only knows that you are important. She seeks to answer why."

Lysana did not reply.

"Her visions have been… muddled as of late. Age dims the mind, and Skyrim's chaos creates ripples in her dream aether; ripples that clutter and confuse."

Lysana exhaled silently. She was unsure whether or not to trust the man. Falion lapsed into silence, awaiting her reply. After several moments, Lysana decided to indulge him - her options were limited as it was.

"I have… seen something," Lysana began, "Something terrible, that would seek to enslave or destroy us all."

"Something not of this world, I take it? Not the trappings of Empire, nor Ulfic and his dogs of war. Not even the Elves, with their unique brand of tyranny. Something so foul that it might even penetrate the Drajkmyr." Falion's eyes seemed to glow with fear and - what else? - a morbid excitement, perhaps.

She nodded. "Draugr. Awoken by the dragons' return, I suspect."

Falion scratched at his chin. "Yes - the blue-eyed wraiths. They stalk the swamp as of late, as they have not done for eons. That would explain much."

"An army gathers at Labyrinthian," she continued. "Thousands of them, at least. They are led by some sort of magician, or priest - I don't know what. They call him Morokei."

At the name, Falion blanched.

"What? You know of him?"

"A legend," Falion began hesitantly, "Albeit one based in historical fact. The terror of Hjaalmarch, during the Merethic era, or so the tale goes. He was a dragon priest - A powerful wizard, granted power and influence by the dragons. He ruled from the seat of Bromjunaar, oppressing the ancient Nords at the behest of his draconic masters. Those enslaved included the ancestors of Morthal's people. Though the details have faded, the memories, though ancient, remain."

"What interest does Falion, court wizard of Hjaalmarch, have in such legends?" Lysana mused, crossing her arms over her chest.

Falion shrugged. "Tell me," he deflected, "Does Savos Aren still sit as Archmage of Winterhold?"

When she nodded, he continued, "Then you should ask him of Morokei - the Dragon Priests were a particular obsession of Aren's."

"You were a student of his?"

"A peer," Falion corrected with a sniff. Her assumption, it seemed, had touched upon an old wound. "We… disagreed about how magic ought to be taught. Savos always looked to the past - I told him it would destroy him one day. Legends and myths of magic long spent are best left buried."

"Unfortunate, then, that a race of magical beings thought to be dead for thousands of years have returned to plague us," Lysana said, lacing her tone with a hint of sarcasm.

Falion raised an eyebrow. "The rules do not apply to Alduin - his nature is cyclical, not linear. His magic does not bow to the flow of time, not as we perceive it."

"That must be why you serve Ravencrone, then," Lysana reasoned, "Her gift, that is - to see the future, to challenge the shackles of time and fate."

The wizard shrugged again. "It is intriguing, a rare gift indeed. The Jarl is a clever old woman, and I daresay she does not make it easy to observe or study her precognitions. I will admit a great personal fascination with her, and her lineage: long have her ancestors possessed the Sight. But that is not my main area of magical focus - and that is a discussion best left for another time."

There was something vaguely off-putting about his words, but Lysana decided to honor his suggestion. Her unease, however, did not abate. Have I made a mistake, to trust this strange swamp mage?

"I came here to deliver a message, from the Jarl." Falion continued, "You know the full extent of the terror that plagues Skyrim - and yet you also know our last hope. Or so she spoke."

"I think I know where this is going," Lysana said wryly.

"The Dragonborn is come; he walks among us" the mage continued, ignoring her, "Yet he… hesitates. He shelters himself, preparing for that which has already come to pass. He must take his place on the board, or the game is lost. It may be already."

"He's trying to recruit dragonslayers," Lysana said impatiently, "Rebuilding the Blades. So the rumor goes, at least. Surely they are of better aid to him than I ever was."

"He will fail in his attempts," Falion murmured, "Idgrod has foreseen it. He beats at a corpse abandoned by life long ago. His trajectory must be… corrected."

Lysana felt a new, fresh chill run down her spine. She did not like the certainty with which Falion spoke - after all, hadn't he just said how unreliable and convoluted the Jarl's gift truly was?

"What do you mean? He won't succeed in training others to help him? Or -"

"It matters not," Falion interrupted firmly, "Your fates are intertwined, the two of you. He must have your aid."

His words made Lysana uncomfortable and angry.

"Now we are veering into the realm of prophecy," She said sardonically, "A most capricious, fallible, downright idiotic domain. Unless you mean to tell me Idgrod has an Elder Scroll up her sleeve."

Falion's eyes flashed in momentary annoyance. 'Of course not," he snapped, before returning to a more cerebral tone. "But the Jarl has dreamt that a Scroll -"

"Please, spare me," Lysana did not bother to keep the scorn from her voice, "I've had enough of this. Your master may truly have this power, I can't know for sure, but I've an important task to complete, and the ravings of a loony old woman with delusions of grandeur aren't quite enough to convince me to rush off to give my life for some foolish boy facing an impossible task."

Falion cocked his head in a way that Lysana found conspicuously elvish. Then he sighed.

"The Circle always did prioritize short-term achievement over prudence and foresight. Perhaps the Dragonborn is fortunate that one so doubtful of his abilities does not travel beside him." He said his words quietly, observationally, without judgement.

Lysana felt her cheeks redden. Her first instinct was to lash out further, but she did not reply to his statement. Instead, a strange feeling gently prickled away at her frustration. It took her a moment to recognize that it was shame.

"Regardless of what I think," she said after a moment, choosing her words carefully, "Morthal and Whiterun must be warned of what gathers in the mountains."

Falion nodded. "I will guide you through the marsh," he said, somewhat reluctantly, or so she thought. "The quickest way to Whiterun is through Morthal."

Lysana nodded wearily. She came to the sudden realization that she hadn't exactly been forthcoming, grateful, or even mildly agreeable towards him, and her shame only grew. "Very well. I've not much in the way of supplies, though, and traversing the Drajkmyr… well…"

She didn't want to finish her thought and betray her trepidation. Luckily, Falion understood.

"I know the swamp well," he said, inclining his head ever so slightly, "Follow closely in my footsteps and no danger will come to you."

Lysana only nodded in return.

---

Consciousness kept slipping away from Jakt like a well-greased skeever. A curious grey twilight, like the empty space between worlds, grasped at him with a strong, greedy hand. He flitted in and out of awareness, his fevered, anxious dreams blending with brief moments of clarity, coupled with searing pain. His chest screamed in agony, when he could feel anything at all.

Occasionally he would awake - or so it seemed - to find Whiterun burning. Black-hooded figures stalked about him, cruel blades in their hands, soft laughter on their lips. Great winged beasts circled above, bathing in the fire and destruction that consumed the city. One, scales darker than the rest, crowned with horns, hovered above Jakt like a rogue thundercloud. Occasionally it would speak in harsh, guttural language. Jakt only understood a few words, but the implication was clear.

Dovahkiin - you are nothing.

One prominent silhouette reached up with inky black hands to remove its hood, revealing a beautiful young sorceress with red hair and a freckled face. She smiled wistfully for a moment before the first moonstone-tipped arrow slammed into her torso, followed by another. The shafts, fletched with golden feathers, materialized out of thin air, arcing gracefully through the haze to pierce her body, smoke trailing in their wake. Her piercing eyes blinked away blood-red tears as she sunk to her knees. Her mouth opened in a silent scream. Then she melted away, one more fevered hallucination.

A blonde Nordic woman stalked him through a forest, clad in wolfskin and brandishing two nightmarish knives forged of shadow and flame. She seemed to fade in and out of the mist, appearing first in his peripheral vision, then over his shoulder, and finally in front of him. She laughed in His voice, spoke Their language, then rushed forward, a howling whirlwind that erased everything it touched.

A man appeared, tall and thick, blond and bearded, clad in bearskin and loosely brandishing a long-handled battle axe. He stood on a field of battle, surrounded by corpses clad in black and gold, but he was untouched. Warmth rolled off him in waves, but Jakt couldn't see his face; it was blurred, unfocused. A splotch of blue decorated where his left eye might have been. The man turned around and walked away, towards a far-off mountain peaked with snow and ice.

Father…

He became aware of a pressing need to scratch his chest. His arms were clumsy and dense; with great effort, he raised his hand and maneuvered it from his side to his torso. Something soft and cotton protected the itch: it was wrapped tightly around it, trapping it in. He grunted and opened his eyes to get a better sense of the troublesome object.

Cruel light speared his sensitive eyeballs. He cried out, screwing them shut. A voice to his left spoke, surprised, but Jakt was too disoriented to understand the words. He blinked several times and tried to sit up, but the itch in his chest burst into a chorus of pain. He flopped back down onto what he understood to be a thick, soft mattress - the kind he hadn't slept upon in many nights. His stomach suddenly felt very empty and his throat quite parched.

"Water," he croaked, pawing outward toward the voice, which was now accompanied by another. Some scuffling ensued, and Jakt felt a cold metal goblet touch his palm. He grasped the vessel and opened his eyes ever so slightly to catch a glimpse of his benefactor.

It was an old man's face - familiar. Esbern. Jakt felt a rush of relief: the old Blade was alive! He opened his eyes fully, discovering that the harsh-seeming light in reality was quite dim, emanating from several lit candles that decorated the room. It had no windows, and the walls were stone, but it was richly furnished.

Esbern looked ragged and worn, even by his standards. The bags under his eyes were even more pronounced than usual. Another grey-bearded Nord man sat beside him. Whereas Esbern was tall and scrawny, this man was built like a fighter, barrel-chested and thick-necked. Esbern's short-cropped beard couldn't hold a candle to his friend's, which was quite lengthy and seemed to waver and bristle. His face was scarred and weathered, adorned with a pair of small, pale eyes. There was something strangely feral about him: the way his steel-grey hair rippled like fur, or perhaps his long, pointed nose that seemed to crinkle up like a canine snout when he scowled. He wore a dark wool tunic decorated with the motif of a silver wolf, which Jakt found appropriate. He held himself in the proud manner of a warrior, perhaps past his prime, but formidable nonetheless.

"About time you woke up," Esbern said, standing up with a groan. His tone was neutral, even impatient, but Jakt could see relief brimming in his eyes.

"How long have I been out?" Jakt said, after downing the glass of water. It was frigid, and washed through his mouth like snowmelt, freeing his tongue from its desiccated stupor. The dull ache in his head began to recede, but only slightly. His jaw felt sore.

"Several days," the stranger said. He had a thick provincial accent; his voice was raspy and rough. In his hand he clasped a mahogany smoking pipe; strong, sweet smoke wafted up from the wide end, which was ringed with silver.

"Our friends in the marketplace coated their blades with something pretty nasty," Esbern said, shifting his eyes towards the other man and wrinkling his nose at the pungent odor of the pipeweed, "Deathbell, we're pretty sure. It's made the healing process slow - any attempt at alchemy has proven fruitless."

"They were fast," Jakt admitted, "What happened? After I -"

"You were lucky," the thicker Nord grumbled, furrowing his bushy eyebrows. "Several perished: guardsmen, ill-prepared to face such methods of the cloak and dagger." He reached over to the table beside him and picked up a small, thin oject. It was a tiny bolt, fletched with crimson feathers.

"That's right," Jakt murmured, remembering the one-handed crossbow his assailant had brandished. He pressed his hand to his side, identifying a small scar where the bolt had pricked his flesh. It hadn't hurt - the opposite, rather. The flesh that ringed the small wound was still slightly numb from whatever had coated it. He felt a pang of guilt. More dead - innocent men, no less - because of me.

He forced himself to concentrate. What had Cosnach said, upon his rescue from the Forsworn? He and Marcurio and poor Benor, struck down by hooded assassins wielding tiny crossbows with poisoned-tip quarrels…

"It must have been dipped in... something." Jakt said, "Not poison, but some sort of anesthetic - a sleeping potion, or medicine perhaps."

"Canis root extract," the pipe-smoking old man rumbled, "Even a light dosage has a strong paralyzing effect. Strong doses can kill: the heart stops beating."

He cleared his throat and shook his head once. "A coward's tool - perfect for those sneaking in the shadows, too afraid to face a man with naked steel in hand."

Jakt looked at Esbern quizzically at the old warrior's words. Esbern just rolled his eyes.

"Jakt, allow me to introduce Kodlak Whitemane," he said, "Harbinger of the Companions of Jorrvaskr."

Jakt was dimly aware of the Companions: a mercenary band, but one that held itself to a strict set of principles. The name carried no small weight amongst the sellsword circles he had once frequented in southern Tamriel, but he'd heard negative comments thrown around as well - words like inflexible, old-fashioned, and sanctimonious.

Kodlak took a puff of his pipe, paused, and exhaled a perfect ring of smoke. "You're the Dragonborn everyone's yammered on about?" He raised an eyebrow skeptically as he spoke. "Talk is cheap, it seems."

Jakt got the feeling Kodlak wasn't impressed. It made him feel defensive. Before he could retort, Esbern spoke.

"Now now, Kodlak," he chastised, his delivery meant to mock, "Even the biggest, baddest, smelliest warrior is plenty susceptible to a poisoned blade in the ribs, wielded cleverly and covertly by a lesser man."

"I'm sorry," Jakt said, irritated and amused at the same time, "But how do you know one another?"

"Kodlak is a Blade sympathizer," Esbern replied, "Or an elf-hater, rather."

"Not true," grumbled Whitemane, "We've a Dunmer in the ranks now, Esbern. Fights smarter and braver than most of my ilk. The Thalmor boil my blood black like any good Nord, 'tis true, but I'm no Stormcloak."

"Yes, well, he saved my life regardless, when they hunted me. But that was long ago."

Jakt was surprised. "An Imperial loyalist, then?" he asked Kodlak. He tried to keep any indication of judgement out of his tone, but Kodlak's snort in reply indicated that he had failed in that regard.

"Son," the old Nord said, "Battles fought twixt brothers aren't worth the blood spilled. I've no dog in this war, uncivil as it is. The Companions have naught but better to do - keep Skyrim safe, for one. And right now neither Ulfric nor the Empire have her best interests at heart."

Jakt looked over at Esbern: he was nodding slowly, but clearly not paying attention fully. Jakt decided to change the subject.

"Where are we?" he asked, though he had a pretty good idea already.

"Jorrvaskr," Esbern replied, confirming Jakt's suspicions. He knew a little about it: said to be the oldest structure in Whiterun, it was a huge mead hall built by the first men. Upon his last visit to Whiterun, they hadn't had the time to investigate it, though its sweeping architecture had certainly caught Jakt's eye.

"Does anyone -"

"Know you're here?" Esbern interrupted, finishing his query. He looked uncomfortable. "Yes. I mean, no. Er - well, almost no one does."

"Esbern, who knows? Balgruuf?"

"No, no, not Balgruuf," Esbern said, shaking his head frantically. "Er, some chap.. Well, let's just say our hooded friends aren't the only ones who've been keeping an eye out for you."

The old Blade's manner, usually so cantankerous and unapologetic, was beginning to make Jakt uneasy.

"Esbern… what aren't you telling me?"

Before he could reply, there came a sharp rap on the door. Kodlak rose, shoving past a fidgeting Esbern and throwing open the heavy wooden portal.

In stepped three men, all dressed in dull, unassuming leather garb. The man in the middle gestured to the two flanking him; they went and stood by the door. They looked conspicuously like soldiers - the way they held themselves, obeyed silent orders without a query or a qualm - reeked of military discipline. Jakt threw the covers from his legs and forced himself to sit up, to put on a pretence of wariness, but his chest ached horribly, along with the wounds in his arm and sides. Couldn't even fight off an angry mudcrab, let alone a trio of soldiers. He silently thanked Mara for the fact that his rescuers had deigned not to remove his trousers.

Their superior held a plate full of food in his arms. He walked towards Jakt, nodding respectfully to both Esbern and Kodlak as he passed. A familiar smell wafted towards Jakt's nose: roasted pork, potatoes, topped with leeks. His stomach awoke in a fury, yearning for nourishment.

Jakt restrained himself from pouncing on the meal and instead looked closely at the man who held it. He was an Imperial, tall and thin, with a young man's face. He had a shiny black goatee that was accompanied by a week's worth of stubble that made him appear haggard. A full head of straight black hair was barely visible behind a rough-hewn cotton head-wrap. Though his smile was wide, his eyes were small and cold. There was an air of familiarity about him that Jakt couldn't place.

He held the plate forward and bowed slightly. "Compliments of Legate Rikke." When he spoke, Jakt remembered the man.

"You," he snarled, leaning back. There was not much he could actually do, but the gesture was enough to make the Imperial recoil.

"You know each other?" Esbern said, hesitantly.

"Aye, we've met," Jakt said, giving the man his best evil eye. "Gaius Maro, Imperial spook and a real son of a bitch. I'm surprised you'd let a snake such as he into Jorrvaskr's hallowed halls, Kodlak."

"Your words wound me, Jakt," the Imperial said, widening his eyes in mock outrage and placing a hand on his chest. He set the plate at the bedside table. "I'd so looked forward to our little reunion."

He gestured to Esbern, grinning widely. "Look, you've even accomplished your little task!"

"What in Oblivion's he on about?" Kodlak grunted. He hadn't taken well to Jakt's flippant remark, it seemed, for his cheeks had gone red and his beard started to quiver in discontent.

"Ah," Esbern interrupted, understanding. "He must have been the one who interrogated you, after the embassy heist." He looked Maro up and down. "Penitus Oculatus?"

Maro clapped his hand. "A clever old man, this Esbern. Surprising, given that he's an ex-Blade."

Esbern only cackled in reply. "Don't you fret, Jakt," he said as he turned towards him, "We're in little danger. The Penitus Oculatus are nothing but oafish pretenders, high off Titus Mede's farts."

The young Imperial laughed. "Funny that, coming from the last of a decrepit order hunted to extinction by a bunch of fancy, foppish elves."

Kodlak slammed his fist down on the wooden table beside him. "Enough! Lieutenant Maro, Legate Rikke - a dear friend - vouched for you, so you'd do best not to embarrass her in mine eyes. And as for you two -" he swept a mean glare over Esbern, then Jakt, "You should know that Maro and his 'oafish pretenders' saved both your arses during the marketplace attack."

Jakt looked back at Maro, and was surprised to see the man looking slightly sheepish. After a moment the Imperial spoke.

"Whitemane has the right of it. Rikke sends her regards."

"Why doesn't she deliver them herself, then?" Jakt replied, not bothering to disguise the feelings of dislike and mistrust that stirred in his gut.

"Rikke is… well, she's clever," Maro replied, beginning to pace. "She understands that right now you're of more use as an independant than as an ally, cut-and-dried."

"I'd sooner-"

Maro cut him off, rolling his eyes as he spoke. "Yes, yes. Spare me your scorn, I've no interest in hearing it once more. But appearances can be misleading, which is why we meet now in a nonpartisan house, under the hospitality of a neutral party." He gestured to Kodlak, who took another long draw of his pipe and narrowed his eyes.

"After all, we wouldn't want Ulfric and his boys turning away the likes of the Dragonborn just because some fool milk-drinker spotted him in the company of an Imperial Legate."

Jakt's stomach turned. "You knew-"

"Oh, we knew all along, Jakt," Maro said, "You've made quite the name for yourself, in the circles that we shadows tread. I've been keeping an eye on you for some time now, since even before your reckless embassy heist. While you've been sodding off down in the Reach, building yourself a nice little fanclub, matters in the mainland have boiled to a fever pitch."

"How?" Jakt felt frustrated, out of control. "What do you mean, keeping an eye on me?"

Maro shook his head. "I can't let you know that - and though you'll not believe me, it's actually in your best interest."

"Gwynlach," Esbern muttered, shaking his head.

Jakt looked to him, raising his eyebrows. "You really think she'd-"

"Delphine was right, I'd wager," Esbern mused, "She's an informer, but not for Rhydderch or any of the rest of his brethren." he turned meaningfully towards Maro. "A manipulative serpent you are indeed. Perhaps the Inner Eye has managed to extract itself from it's own inner arse after all." His expression and words were cutting, but Jakt could detect an undercurrent of respect in the old Blade's voice.

Maro, to his credit, smiled. "Very well, master Blade," he replied, "The Forsworn girl served as our eyes in the Reach. I divulge that tidbit to you in good faith. Do what you will with her should your paths cross again, but know that she acted on the understanding that we sought to protect you - as we have."

As usual upon dealing with the Empire, Jakt felt small, out of control. He struggled to regain some sort of momentum, but Maro's revelations were coming too quickly for him to process. He was disappointed in Gwynlach, but the guilt he still felt for killing her kin, along with the girl's strange, inexplicable attachment to him, calmed his ire somewhat.

"I don't blame the girl, Maro," he said, "And I shant hold it against her. But I'll not meet with her again - she is beyond my trust."

"Some would contend that she was beyond your trust from the start," Esbern noted quietly. Jakt huffed uncomfortably, knowing the old man was right once again.

Maro shrugged. "Your decision."

"Why did you go to such lengths to watch over me?" Jakt changed the subject, for he was genuinely curious. After all, mere months prior the Empire had nearly taken his head.

Maro laughed. "Isn't it obvious? You're Dragonborn. This war - Ulfic, and the Thalmor, for that matter - they're longer-term problems. The Dragon Crisis has worsened, I'm afraid, during your self-imposed exile. Tullius and Ulfric have both suspended large swathes of their campaigns in order to shore up their borders against his new threat. My superiors in the region have decreed the resolution of the dragon threat to be the Penitus Oculatus' main objective from now on."

He paused and placed his fingertips together before continuing. "I'd have preferred we not meet again - to have handled you from afar, so to speak. But recent developments have… forced my hand."

"You refer to our hooded assailants," Esbern grumbled.

"Who were they?" Jakt asked, swallowing his annoyance at the concept of being "handled" to instead focus on the matter at hand.

Maro's general air of smug superiority disappeared. He rubbed the back of his neck with one hand while he stared at the ground.

"Yes, well," he began slowly, "We have reason to believe that they belong to a small cult of assassins known as the Dark Brotherhood."

Jakt snorted. "'Dark Brotherhood?'" he began, his tone mocking, "They've a flair for the dramatic, or so it seems."

Maro didn't seem to find any humor in the situation, but more surprisingly, neither did Esbern.

"Impossible," the old Blade growled, "The Brotherhood? They're dead. Long dead, and buried deep."

'Yes," Maro said, after an awkward pause, "Allegedly. Between the Blades, the Oculatus, and, surprisingly enough, the Thalmor, we thought they'd been stamped out for good."

"Just who are they?" Jakt asked, confused and still a little nonplussed. His chest ached, his head hurt, and he was beginning to feel quite fatigued by Maro's bubbling brook of steady information. He chanced a look over to Kodlak, who sat in the corner puffing his pipe, apparently unfazed.

"The Brotherhood spans back an age," Esbern said, "Assassins first and foremost, but also shrewd shapers of situations both political and economic. They've stuck their black-fingered hand into every major political upheaval since the Septims first came to power - the War of the Red Diamond, the Oblivion Crisis, the Warp in the West - you name it."

"Let's just say they're… extremely competent," Maro continued, "On top of that, they worship some sort of shadow god, who grants them dark, evil powers."

"Sithis," Esbern spat the name out like a curse. "Neither Daedra nor Aedra, but rather a deification of nothingness - an aspect of utter misanthropy." He shuddered. "Necrosis incarnate."

Jakt raised his hands. "Hang on, Esbern," he said, not quite leaning in to the alarming turn their conversation had taken. "Are we sure they're really who you think they are? I mean, didn't you say they'd been hunted to extinction?"

"Let's see," Maro began, holding up his hand and counting on his fingers. "Three dark-robed killers, utilizing poison-coated blades and sophisticated handheld crossbows, attacked you, the Dragonborn, in the middle of the afternoon in a crowded marketplace, murdered two of my boys and three of Whiterun's watch in the process, put you in a coma, and then escaped completely unscathed."

He turned a patronizing glare on Jakt. "A brutally daring attempt, with a taste of theatricality, executed with deadly precision. Not to mention that they left this at the scene - the Brotherhood's calling card."

He withdrew a folded piece of parchment and passed it to Jakt. He opened it to find it blazoned with the familiar symbol of a black hand. Jakt felt a stab of dread: Cosnach had handed him a similar parchment.

"You think a shadowy organization like that would stick to subterfuge," Jakt said after a moment, using his annoyance at Maro's condescending tone to mask his growing anxiety.

"Not if they're trying to make a point," Esbern interjected, "Or to re-establish a sense of dominance. Historically, the Brotherhood was as much a business as it was a cult: Assassinations don't exactly happen on the cheap. Can you think of a better way to get yourself noticed in this time of troubles than to kill the Dragonborn?"

"Assassinate the Emperor," Maro said matter of factly. He followed up his remark with an incredulous chuckle.

"So you think they're trying to kill me just to turn a few heads?" Jakt said, skeptically.

"Well, probably not just that," Esbern said, itching his beard. "My guess is they've got a client. They need coin to operate, like any enterprise."

"Can you think of anyone who wants to kill you?" Maro asked, smirking.

Jakt's head was beginning to spin. This was all too much. The smell of the food perched on the bedside table beside him was making his mouth water.

"Quite a few have tried," he replied miserably, "More as of late."

"Perhaps we finish this talk at a later time," Kodlak finally spoke. He leaned forward. "The Dragonborn is not fully healed."

"Very well," Maro said, "I must take my leave anyways - I am needed elsewhere. Before I go, however, it would be best to discuss our next steps."

"Our next steps?" Esbern asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Apologies, how misleading of me. I care not where you go," the Imperial spy clarified, "As long as you pursue our joint goal and figure out a way to solve the dragon crisis. It's in everyone's best interest that you succeed, after all."

"So we're to be your agents now?" Jakt asked, gritting his teeth.

"Hardly that," Maro replied, raising an eyebrow, "Contractors, at best. How you do it is up to your discretion, and I'll instruct my agents not to meddle unecessarily. But you must leave the Brotherhood to me and the Penitus Oculatus."

"No skin off our backs," Esbern said sardonically. "Sure you can handle them?"

Maro walked to the door, motioning to his two guards, neither of which had said a word or moved a muscle. One opened the door for him and stepped through; the other stepped forward, positioning himself behind his superior. Maro turned to look back at them before going through.

"I certainly hope so," he said, looking them both in the eye. His grim, almost dejected tone did little to inspire Jakt. Then he was gone, the door clunking shut behind him.

"Great," Esbern muttered, "There's another variable to contend with."

Kodlak grunted. "Be thankful he was following you," he chastised Esbern, "If not for him and his ilk, you'd have perished."

"I guess we know what we're up against, thanks to him," Jakt said, glumly. He didn't particularly care for the arrogant Imperial, and was not enthusiastic about being followed around by his Penitus Oculatus stooges. But he had to admit that Maro had saved him from almost certain death - and gifted him valuable information.

"You can smuggle us out of the city, Kodlak?" Esbern asked, changing the subject. "We can't chance leaving through the gates."

"Aye," the old warrior stood. "Through the Underforge. Though the boy needs further rest before your journey."

Jakt lunged towards the nearby plate and began wolfing down the meat and potatoes. Somehow it was the best meal he'd ever tasted in his life.

"I'll be fine," he said between bites, "I can heal on the road."

He finished quickly and looked up to see Esbern and Kodlak both looking a little repulsed at his uncultured display of rapid consumption. His hunger sated, he put down the dish and raised himself gingerly from the bed. Standing on both legs felt a little strange, and the half-healed wounds on his limbs and torso throbbed their complaints. He swayed for a moment before stabilizing himself.

"Where are my things?" he asked, frowning at the effort it took to stand.

Esbern's expression turned uneasy.

"Well, erhm," he began, stammering in an uncharacteristic way, "The chestpiece of your cuirass was torn to bits - we'll have to replace it. The rest was okay."

"And Dragonbane?" he asked slowly, looking around the room. The sword was nowhere in sight, and Esbern's obvious agitation was making him nervous.

Kodlak and Esbern exchanged a look.

"Esbern?"

"It's… gone." the old man replied guiltily. "We think, ergh, we think one of the assassins may have taken it."

Jakt lowered himself back down to the bed slowly. The frigid fingers of despair clutched at his heart.

"Shit."

---

A/N: Gaius Maro was originally supposed to be a bit character, but I enjoyed writing him so much last time that I brought him back for more! In any case, now the original triumvirate (Drake, Lysana, Jakt) is back. Sorry for the sporadic nature of chapter uploads - I will try to update more frequently in the future. For now, comments and criticism are always welcome!