Sil Life-Singer look regretfully at the coast. Windswept – the ship she had bought passage on – was moving away rapidly from Raven Rock's port and what for the last twenty years, her entire life, had been her home. The wind was picking up; she could no longer taste the tang of ash in the air and smell the burnt soil of Solstheim. It was so … fresh and new, like a new life ought to be, but Sil was still wondering if she had done the right thing in leaving.
Her father, Ano Sadrelas, had died a month ago. Sil had left their trusted old housekeeper, gathered all her valuables and left the town with her little brother, to find the mother she had last seen sixteen years ago.
Arengar, her half-brother, came and stood beside her, at the prow of the ship, looking at the blue, new horizon. He was eighteen, which was no age for an elf, but he was half-human after all and the rashness of his youth just inflamed his enthusiasm more. He thought it was a great game. But Sil needed him with her – Skyrim was a dangerous place, more so than Solstheim, and she was no warrior.
The wind was favorable, so the Windswept sped along the waves at a breathtaking pace. It wasn't evening yet, when Sil saw the coast of Skyrim, and they had started late in mid-morning.
As their destination drew nearer, Sil remembered about their appearance. Her shock of purple hair, dyed in scathecraw juice, could be hidden easily beneath a shawl, even if her outfit in which she moved as gracefully as any Dunmer woman betrayed her upbringing. But there was no disguising Arengar's red eyes and the bluish tint to his skin, even if his face was closer to Nord proportions. His stalhrim armor was covered by an enormous black cloak that made his muscled bulk seem even bigger, in contrast to Sil's slight, short form. They were sure to draw questioning looks in any city they entered.
The captain, who was not at all hostile to the Dunmer, living half his days on Solstheim, enlightened the siblings to the situation at Windhelm. The city, he said, was a nest of Nord overlords, directing their war from the castle and not worrying about the quality of life for their citizens. Dunmer were practically slaves there, in all but name, those who hadn't escaped before the Day of Tears, as the proud Nords liked to call it. There had been no resemblance to the Night of Tears of course. The Nords killed any Mer or Argonian to raise their voice in protest and imprisoned the others. This remainder was first starved, then put to work, breaking up the frozen fields of ice around the city to plant grain to feed their overlords. That day all Imperials in the city were killed on the basis that they might be spies and all Bretons exiled. The reign of King Ulfric had begun.
Or that was how they saw it. The 'Imperial side' of Skyrim noticed only when reports failed to arrive in time, but General Tullius had no time to worry about what the enemy was doing. He had his own problems – the multi-cultural pot that was the Legion was about to over-boil and the Thalmor were not helping. Where the Stormcloaks had one goal, summed up under 'Skyrim for the Nords!', everyone in the Legion and in the entire West seemed to have a different reason for staying, and they never agreed. Still, that didn't make the Legion worse – they held their ground, gave it and advanced, holding the land in a permanent deadlock for twenty years. And in this turmoil Sil and Arengar expected to find their mother.
To make things worse, they knew only what father had known about her and that was not much. Sure, all of Raven Rock still remembered her feats sitting around a bottle of Mazte, talking how good it was that she saved the Councilman and reopened the mines, and yet all Sil knew was that she had been a Companion once, under the name of Silver.
Arengar got up from the crate he had been sitting on, sharpening his stalhrim blade, and put his hand on Sil's shoulder. "It's going to be alright." he said, but nothing could reassure Sil at that point. She gave him a shawl to wrap over his face. They could almost make out the walls of the city now despite the slight mist. Sil was getting more jittery by the moment and cursed herself for ever stepping on Windswept.
The ship was docked masterfully and only passengers beside Sil and Arengar, two Redguard traders, scurried off. One of them, the woman, turned back and said sympathetically to Arengar, "Be careful. Windhelm is a dangerous place for Dark Elves."
Sil stepped off first. It was good to feel solid ground under her feet again, but the guards were making her nervous. They stared at her and Arengar, and though their faces were obscured by their helmets, Sil could feel the gazes full of animosity. 'What do you want?' they seemed to ask without words. 'You don't belong here, outlander.'
She pulled Arengar after her in search of a boat that could take them to Dawnstar. The docks smelled of fish and filth. The whole city reeked. The few Nords that passed Sil were not rich judging by their clothes, and yet they had evidently invested in perfumes. Skinny Argonians in rags worked, diving for fish and cleaning them, loading timber and crates off ships.
Sil let go of Arengar's sleeve and approached the nearest guard. He was standing on one of the docks, overlooking the Argonians work and otherwise looking quite bored.
He gave directions with a suspicious tinge in his voice. The next ship to Dawnstar would be the Northern Child, leaving on the morrow. They should go and get a room in the inn, because the guards tolerated no loiterers and yes, there was a tax for entering the city.
That presented no difficulty. The guard before the gate got so caught up in Sil's illusion spell that he almost forgot to check what kind of money she was giving him. Of course it was real, not the new Imperial currency, but that didn't matter much anyways. Not to him, considering how much Sil overdid the spell. Thankfully there was no one close enough to notice the guard giggling.
The street just inside the gate was one continuous dingy puddle, populated by dogs and small children. The guards didn't seem to mind them entering – Sil supposed they only worried about people leaving. A smell of corruption even more penetrating than Sil had expected made them almost choke. Solstheim had smelled too, but it had been a smell of ash, clean in its way. The odor that permeated the city felt dreadfully organic and promised corpses around the next corner.
The inn was not hard to find. It was light and crowded. All the while Sil was purchasing a room for herself and Arengar, an old, shriveled lady talked in screeching tones about politics and war to the young, handsome fellow minding the counter. He escorted the siblings to a room himself, probably to get away from the old woman, Sil thought.
The room had two beds and a single night table in between. Sil dropped her shoulder bag on one on the beds and sat down sighing. Arengar locked the door behind them. It would not be good if someone accidentally came in and saw either his face or the unusual armor.
Sil passed the time until reading books that someone had left behind while Arengar alternately paced or did little tricks with fire all the Dunmer had an affinity for. When the evening bell rang and called all the guests for dinner, it was long since dark outside. Sil got food for them both and they ate alone in their room, not in the hall like all the other guests, instantly achieving a reputation as reclusive and secretive people. Nords didn't like people they could not see.
Getting to sleep was difficult. Sil tossed and turned in the unfamiliar bed for hours, stewing in the hopes of meeting her mother soon, and dread of long the journey stretched out before them.