28 Last Seed, 4E 201, Falkreath
After a time, Ivar looked up and saw the Falkreath gates standing open in the distance.
Not a bad morning's walk, from Riverwood.
Ivar strode forward, watching the two men standing guard. Then he slowed, the greeting dying on his lips, as he realized they were paying him no attention at all.
"By the gods!"
One of the guards abandoned his post, dashing into the town. "Everyone inside, now!"
Ivar frowned. Do they have this reaction every time a stranger turns up at the gate?
Then he heard it, the rush of air over great leathery wings, much too close.
By the time the dragon made its first roar and settled atop the jarl's longhouse, Ivar had already run into the center of town and unslung his bow. He fired once, then twice. Falkreath guards came running from all sides, using their own bows.
The dragon spoke, and fire washed out across the attacking guards. Ivar heard screams, as at least one of the men went up like a torch. The thatch roofs of two buildings ignited.
Ivar growled and ran forward, just as the dragon lifted into the air once more. His head swiveled, following the worm's progress through the sky. He fired twice more, missing both times.
Damn. How do we get that thing to land? Preferably before it burns the town to the ground?
It swooped low then hovered for a moment, its scaly head scanning the streets below.
Ivar didn't have time to think. He took a deep breath, opened his mouth wide . . .
"Fus!"
The Shout had almost no effect against the dragon's bulk, but it did attract the creature's attention. Its head snapped around, and two malicious eyes stared down at the smith.
Ivar fired again, the arrow flying true for the space between the dragon's eyes, and he had the satisfaction of seeing it flinch slightly.
It opened its mouth. Ivar had a moment to realize that he stood much too far from any possible cover. Then he dropped his bow and desperately brought his shield up to protect his face and eyes. He heard the dragon's voice . . .
It seemed rather like standing in the forge-fire for an instant. Bright light, blazing heat, enough to curl the tiny hairs on his arms and raise a few blisters.
Then the dragon made a groaning roar and crashed to the earth. Ivar lowered his shield a fraction and blinked, seeing three arrows sunk into the thing's long neck. Some guardsmen must have gotten lucky.
He put the pain of his burns out of his mind, drew his sword, and charged.
"To Oblivion with you, worm! You think a smith is going to fear flame?"
Then he stood directly before the beast's head, sea-grey eyes against virulent yellow eyes, bashing with his shield.
"Fus!"
The dragon flinched once more. Ivar took advantage of its momentary distraction, hewed with his sword.
The Falkreath guards saw their chance. They moved in on both of the dragon's flanks, some of them continuing to pepper it with arrows, others advancing with spears.
One spear punched through under the dragon's wing. It hissed, like a white-hot blade plunging into a cold quenching bath, and turned to snap at its tormentors.
With a yell, Ivar sprang. He landed on the dragon's head, held on just long enough to drive his sword down like a spike behind the beast's skull.
It howled and died.
Ivar stepped down, backed away, wondering what would happen next. His answer arrived almost at once. In full view of the jarl's guards and half the civilian population of Falkreath, the dragon began to dissolve into a roar of golden light. The light spiraled upward, and then swept down to wrap the smith in its wings, skittering and writhing over his form until it all of it was consumed.
An awed silence spread, broken only by the sound of burning thatch.
Ivar looked around at all the staring eyes, his heartbeat and breath falling back to normal.
I appear to have made a very dramatic entrance.
"By the gods," whispered one of the guardmen. "Dragonborn?"
"So it would seem," said Ivar. "Shouldn't you be putting out those fires?"
"Oblivion take you, don't stand around gawking!" Someone new strode forward: a stocky man, older, with a bald head and a long steel-grey beard. "You, you, and you, get buckets. Aelfrith, get your cart over here to the inn's cistern. Is everyone out of those buildings?"
The old man's voice carried the ring of command. People rushed to obey.
Ivar cleaned his sword, returned it to the scabbard, went to pick up his bow.
The old man watched, and then stepped close to offer his hand. "Dengeir of Stuhn. Until four months ago, I had the honor to be the Jarl of Falkreath."
"Ivar Ragnarsson."
"The new Thane of Scarstone, I'll wager. The one they're calling Dragonborn, up in Whiterun."
"Yes to the first. I'm not so sure of the second."
"After what we just saw? I know the old stories perfectly well, lad. If you're not Dragonborn, the gods are playing quite the joke on all of us."
"Hmm. I suspect there is a joke involved, one way or the other."
"Come. You're here to talk to my nephew, I've no doubt. Let's you and I have a drink together first."
"What about putting the fires out?"
"The guards have it in hand, I'm too old to be carrying water, and you and I need to talk before you go see that worthless nephew of mine."
"As you wish, my lord."
The two men turned and walked together down the street, finding an establishment called the Dead Man's Drink. Dengeir led them inside.
"Shor's bones, a handsome man in Falkreath!"
Ivar glanced aside. He saw a Nord girl, young and well-built, with russet hair and bright green eyes. She caught his glance and gave him a rather predatory smile.
Well. Things are looking up.