Curiosity

It takes a great deal of restraint to keep from sprinting back to Dragonsreach. The last thing Lydia wants is for the guards to report back to her father about her disappearance. The longer her disappearance goes without arousing suspicion, the better. So, she manages a brisk walk to the Cloud District and into Dragonsreach.

At this time of day, Jarl Balgruuf and her father are likely in the war room with the rest of the council to determine Whiteruns future. A perfect distraction for Lydia to retrieve what supplies she needs for the journey ahead. But again, she must be careful lest she rouse suspicion. If her father knows she is leaving with Malenia without his say, he will raise a fuss that will shake the surrounding holds.

So she tries to walk as casually as she can, climbing the many steps deep into Dragonsreach. The Great Hall's fire burns fiercely, well fed at the start of the morning to warm the cavernous chamber. Long shadows stretch from it, dancing amongst the pillars and along the walls. Lydia flinches when one log pops and sizzles, a pocket of moisture burning away in the flame. By the Divines, she is on edge.

A breath steadies herself, and she surges up the stairs behind the Jarl's vacant throne. The one unfortunate obstacle of Dragonsreach's layout is that in order to get to her quarters, she must pass through the war room first. Though to be honest, the war room is more of a repurposed study. Like most things in Dragonsreach it is vast and open, with one wall dominated by trophies, bookcases, and a table covered by a map of Skyrim.

It is around that table that Jarl Balgruuf, Proventus, and her father Hrongar are gathered. All three men are far too embroiled in an intense conversation on the proper import tax for mammoth tusk to notice Lydia slowly slipping towards the door that dominates the opposite wall. Irileth is conspicuously absent from the group for once, probably drilling the guards in the event of a dragon attack.

Lydia casually strides forward without so much as sparing a glance at the assembled council, and slips through the door. Though its hinges groan and it shakes the threshold upon closing, no one reacts to her passing. From there, it is a quick run through quiet halls to her personal quarters.

Like most of the Jarl's family, Lydia has her own bedroom. She is blessed with a rare feather bed, her own stock of finely crafted dressers and bookcases and a small iron rimmed table for private dining. A pair of foggy glass windows crisscrossed with iron barring rest on either side of her bed, letting pale morning light cast its eerie glow through the room. The walls are notably bare; she has no feats of trophies of her own with which to decorate them.

Not yet anyway.

She grabs a pack and begins filling it with provisions. Blankets, a well worn cloak, extra undergarments, etc. Extra gold is tied to the side just in case, and she counts out an amount she'll need for potions from Arcadia's Cauldron. Once the pack is secure on her bed, she strips off the casual clothes that befit her status as part of the Jarl's lineage, and opens her closet.

Inside she finds an old gift from Adrianne.

Though it does not match the splendor of the Companion's armor or the might of Jarl Balgruuf's personal suit of plate armor, the armor is sturdy and unique. Adrianne put quite a bit of her heart into this gift.

After securing the rough padded jacket and leggings, the sleek steel chestplate and waistguard go over it and are locked in place with leather straps. A set of steel pauldrons rest comfortably upon her shoulders. Fur lined gauntlets and boots, armored with plates of steel, fit perfectly. The plates along her chest, the pauldron, arms, and legs are lined with ancient nordic runes, some decorative and others her clan name. An incredible gift from an incredible friend that until today she has had no real reason to use. Its only real flaw is that it comes with no helmet, but this is perfectly fine for Lydia. Better she see her opponent coming and avoid a hit all together than to be stunned by a blow upside the head and be killed while she recovers.

Such morbid thoughts are tossed aside when she goes to retrieve her blade, only to find it missing from its chest! Panic grips her. Lydia tosses the chest over and frantically searches through its contents to no avail. No blade nor sheathe is anywhere to be seen. She falls back on the floor and holds a hand to her head. By the Divines, how has she managed to lose her sword!?

Someone clears their throat at the door. Lydia whirls to see Irileth standing there, one hand on her hip and the other holding Lydia's blade in its sheathe. The expression on the dunmer's face darkens Lydia's mood. Irileth knows.

Irileth makes a show of admiring the hilt of the blade as she speaks, "It is interesting, Lydia. You may be Hrongar's daughter, but I swear by the gods you carry far more of Jarl Balgruuf's blood in your veins. Had I not firmly reminded him of his duties, he would likely be in your place at this very moment."

Without even looking at her, Irileth tosses the blade to Lydia who catches it with one hand. She makes no attempt to hide the confusion on her face. Irileth's lips twist up in a rare smile.

"Whiterun's newest visitor is an enigma, but if half of what she says is true, she may be the city's best hope for the future. So, your secret is safe with me on one condition."

Lydia straps the sword to her side and stands. The familiar weight gives her strength and she finds her voice to speak. "What do you want of me, Irileth?"

"Just keep an eye on Malenia." Irileth says. "Watch her, learn from her. And anything of interest you learn, report to me."

"I'm not a spy, Irileth." Lydia is insulted that the dunmer would even consider this, let alone mock her with these implications.

Irileth rolls her eyes, "We live in uncertain times with uncertain allies and enemies Lydia. We must know which is which to survive what is coming. So learn from Malenia, follow her path and watch her blade. When the time comes and you return, speak plainly. Can we trust her or not? That is what I want you to discover, no more no less.

There is truth in Irileth's words, but much like a potion it is bitter and sour. Lydia grabs her pack and slings it over her shoulders, hesitating only once more to hook her shield to it. Then she heads for the door and stops by Irileth.

"I will tell you what I think when I return. Then you'll never ask me to act in such an underhanded way again, or we will have words."

Irileth steps back and bows, "As you wish, my lady."

Lydia snorts and storms out of Dragonsreach, leaving the dunmer and her schemes in her wake.

Lydia works hard to push her encounter with Irileth from her mind. Though she manages with some success, the housecarls words never quite stop nagging at her. Fresh air and the buzz of Whiterun at least drown it out. Soon she is able to force it into a temporary silence, and focus on her excitement instead.

After a quick stop at Arcadia's and Belethor's to stock up on supplies, Lydia finally meets the Lady of the Haligtree at the gates with a smile on her face. Malenia regards Lydia impassively. After a moment of near unbearable silence, she nods once and departs for the gates. Lydia takes this as assent to accompany her, and rushes after her.

Though Malenia clearly slows her pace for her companions sake, her stride alone ensures that Lydia has to keep up a brisk walk to keep step with her. Lydia makes no complaint though, as excitement has overwhelmed any such thoughts at the moment. And how can she not be excited?

Rumors of Malenia and who she is and what she has done have spread far and fast after her arrival in Whiterun. Everyone knows how she saved three members of the Companions Circle by slaying a Giant in single combat with one blow. Many speak in hushed whispers that she hails from a land of dragon slayers. And some even whisper that she is a demigod, an agent of Talos sent in Skyrims time of need to face the returned dragon.

Though Lydia is inclined to doubt any claims of divinity, she certainly can see why they were made. Malenia walks with an unnatural fluid grace, as if the world moves to accommodate her presence. Impressive on its own, more so considering she does so on feet of gold. Though Lydia has heard of wizards and strange warriors using Dwemer artifacts as prosthetics, she's never seen any such devices and she knows in her gut that the artificial legs Malenia walks on are anything but Dwemer in make.

Yet, in spite of this grace, Lydia remains skeptical. Yes, Malenia treads on gilded feet with poise unseen by mortal eyes. Yes her hair burns like a raging fire. Yes her eyes shimmer like gold and seem to peer into one's very soul. But in spite of all of this, Lydia doubts it.

Perhaps it is the patchwork clothing Malenia wears; a cloak that ill fits her and a tunic and shorts that awkwardly hang off her frame. Maybe it's the pox scars that line her forehead and the pits of her eyes. Or, conceivably, it is the exhaustion in those eyes. In spite of her poise and supposed skill and in spite of the assuredness in her words, Malenia is by all appearances exhausted.

She's seen it in the retired legionnaires and some of the elder Companions. A perpetual exhaustion hangs from Malenia. Though she hides it well, her eyes twitch and lose focus with surprising frequency. The world has hung hard on this woman; and a demigod would not bend under such a weight.

There is no shame in this of course. No one is perfect and that Malenia is striding forward in spite of this weight speaks volumes of her character. But it is a mark of mortality, not divinity. So even though the crowds of Whiterun part for Malenia as though she is royalty, Lydia remains by her side and feels a bit of pride in recognizing this truth.

Of course, if she wishes to remain in the good graces of her companion, she still needs to make herself useful. So, once they reach the outskirts of Whiterun, Lydia chooses to speak up.

"Lady Malenia, if you're looking for reliable transport to Riften, then you'll want to find Bjorlam. His prices are fair and his services are reliable." As she speaks, she points to a worn but sturdy looking carriage parked near the first fork in the road that leads east and west of Whiterun. A broad shouldered nord with dirty blonde hair and dressed in traveling leathers is reclining in the driver seat, soaking in the pale morning sun.

Malenia acknowledges her advice with a nod, and approaches the cart. The nord sits up in his seat and turns to the approaching customer, "You need a…" he trails off when he actually sees Malenia.

She holds up a bag of coin and asks, "How much for a trip to Riften?"

Bjorlam blinks twice before her words register. He settles back into his seat and says, "20 septims. I only do one way trips though. If you want to come back to Whiterun, find Sigaar. Good lad, fair prices."

Malenia, somehow, reaches into the bag and retrieves twenty septims that she promptly drops into Bjorlams' outstretched hand. She manages this with only a single arm and no sound of complaint. After he quickly counts the total, he jerks a thumb towards the rear of the cart and says, "Climb in back and we'll be off then."

To her surprise, Malenia allows Lydia to seat herself first, though the reason for this becomes apparent soon. After seating herself on the left side of the carriage, Malenia carefully steps in and settles opposite her. The cart groans and shifts under her weight, before settling into place.

The cramped condition of the cart is bearable at most for a person of average height, but Malenia is forced to pull her legs to her chest and sits awkwardly in the carriage. Bjorlam snaps the reins and the cart surges forward. Once it does, a wave of excitement rolls over Lydia.

This is it, she is finally leaving Whiterun! After years of denial, her opportunity to prove herself has come! The sun is shining, the air is clear and the wind whistles softly through the valley. It is a perfect start to what is sure to be a glorious tale!

Three hours after they leave Whiterun, it begins to storm. As is common in Skyrim, it begins with a breath of frigid wind, and in minutes the skies have darkened and water has begun to blanket the land. Like its people and culture, the weather of Skyrim is loud, boisterous, lacking in subtlety and incredibly impatient. Lydia at least has the foresight to have packed a proper cloak for just this occasion.

Malenia's own cloak, a clearly ill fitting thing thrown together in a rush, does little to protect her from the rain. When Lydia offers her own cloak, her offer is turned down.

"You need it more than I. I have faced fiercer storms than this."

Bold words. Familiar words.

Lydia is certain that by the end of this journey, Malenia will be as sick as a dog and regret her words. But stubborn pride is exactly why Lydia made sure to pack plenty of potions from Arcadia's Cauldron. Cures for Bone Break Fever, the Rattles, Rockjoint, Witbane, and even Ataxia filled a bandaloire, flanked by health potions and even a potion of frost resistance. An absolute must when traveling Skyrim.

All this said, Malenia proves remarkably resilient to the weather. Though the rain does not abate for most of their journey, the woman remains unmoving save for the occasional jostling of the cart. As roads curve through woods and mountains, as rain filled skies crackle with lightning and the wind howls its fury, Malenia the Lady of the Haligtree moves for none of it.

She may not be a nord, but she certainly shares their stubbornness, Lydia decides.

At some point during their journey after several failed attempts to start a conversation, Malenia relocates to the rear of the cart, letting her long legs dangle off the edge as opposed to holding them tight against her chest. A wise choice that sends a clear message to Lydia. Malenia has no interest in conversation.

So the ride is cold, wet, and quiet until Masser and Secunda begin their silent rise. At this time, Bjorlam pulls the cart off the road and finds an overhang of several large pines that provide some shelter from the rain. Soon, with Lydia's help, a small but blessed fire is burning in the center of a circle of twin tents. Though Malenia offers some help in the process, she sets up no tent of her own and remains content sitting at the edge of the camp staring off into the foggy rain.

While setting her cloak by the fire to dry, Lydia asks Bjorlam, "Do you still have that old tarp you used to cover the wagon in?"

Bjorlam looks up from the jerky he is chewing on "Hm? That old thing? Yeah I keep it around for extra leather. Why, what're you thinking?"

Instead of answering, Lydia stands up and hunts around the clearing until she finds what she is looking for. Soon she has a bundle of thick, sturdy branches that she sets into makeshift stakes next to the cart. Bjorlam catches on quickly and helps her pull out the tarp that they secure to the stakes with knots of leather strips around the corners. It is far from pretty, but it is an effective awning that will keep the worst of the rain out.

Then, Lydia approaches Malenia and taps her shoulder. The woman looks at her with that infuriatingly unreadable gaze. Lydia ignores that and gestures at the awning. "Look. I won't pretend to know why you do what you do or what goes on in your head. But I'm not going to let you just sit out here in the rain until you catch your death. That is for you, please use it."

There is a moment, a slight hesitation, where it seems that Malenia will protest Lydia's charity. But it quickly passes, and the woman gives a single nod instead. "Thank you."

Though her exceptional height made setting it up a challenging task, Lydia is pleased to see that Malenia comfortably fits. Though Malenia says nothing as she settles under it, there is a calmness to her that was not there before. Whether she admits it or not, it's clear Malenia is thankful for the gesture.

Once she settles in, silence falls over the camp. Thankful or not, Malenia remains steadfast in her silence. Any attempt at small talk, as always, falls upon silence. Annoying in some ways, but relieving in others.

Irileth's request still eats away at Lydia, a poison that is shaking her resolve. But Malenia's stone-faced refusal to engage in conversation gives Lydia a convenient excuse. The conversation is easy to imagine.

'Sorry Irileth, I tried my best but she's just too damn tight lipped.'

The anxiety that is worming its way into her system fades at this thought. It is a relief that she will not have to concern herself with betraying Malenia's trust. Maybe the mer and imperials would be okay with that kind of dirty work, but Lydia is a warrior. She would rather face her problems head on than skulk about in a cloak of lies and deceit.

That said, the lack of conversation is terribly boring.

Eventually, Lydia gives up and turns her attention back to Bjorlam who is surprisingly silent. The reason, it turns out, is because he himself is preoccupied. He is retreated into his tent with a small stack of half counted coin and a pile of parchment he is reading through.

Lydia smirks, "Double checking our coin to make sure it's legitimate, Bjorlam? I'm almost insulted."

"Don't flatter yourself, Lydia. You're not clever enough to fake septims." Bjorlam does not look up as he speaks, though a smile is obvious on his face.

"That's because someone actually clever knows better than to scam a merchant." Lydia replies.

"Ah, so you can learn."

Bjorlam looks up and pockets the coin. "Tomorrow we're passing Fort Amol. Damn place has switched hands more times than I can count. Depending on who's living in it, will depend on what I have to put up with to pass."

Lydia frowns, "Last I heard, it was in Imperial hands."

"Aye." the nord nods, "It was. But it's also been in bandit hands and Stormcloak hands. Fact of the matter is, with the war being what it is, you can't trust any of the forts these days. Even old Fort Greymoor swaps owners every few weeks."

"So you think we'll have to bribe our way through?"

Bjorlam shrugs, "Maybe. Like I said, depends on who's living there. If it is Imperials, then I just need to show my paperwork and we're good. If it is Stormcloaks then they'll either let us pass unmolested, demand to know where our loyalties lie, or ask for coin to 'support the cause'."

"This is common?"

Lydia and Bjorlam both freeze and turn to Malenia, who is finally speaking again. An expression that could almost be mistaken for curiosity, rests on her face.

Bjorlam clears his throat, "Unfortunately, yes. Things haven't been stable in Tamriel for a long while. It wasn't always this bad, I think. When I was lad, before the war, the forts weren't in the best shape but they were all Imperial. Roads were pretty safe, folk lived nice. After those damned Thalmor started the Great War, the forts were abandoned for a while. Things got… chaotic. When the war ended, lot of angry legionnaires came back. Lot more never came back at all. But we nords are sturdy folk, it looked like we were going to pull together and get through the hard times like always. Then the Stormcloaks popped up and everything went to hell."

He sighs and rubs his eyes with one hand. "It's been fifteen years since then. Lot of fatherless sons and daughters are left trying to figure out their place in Skyrim. Some join with the Legion, some with the Stormcloaks. Some just run off into the hills to become bandits. The rest of us just try to survive until this cursed war blows over. Those of us still around? We've lived this way for a very long time now. So yeah, I'd say it's common."

Silence, broken only by the patter of rain, fills the camp. The fire hisses as a small stream of water falls into it from a tree branch overhead. The earthy smell of rain and acrid stink smoke are of small comfort at this moment.

Malenia is unreadable as always. Practically carved of stone really. So Lydia is surprised when the woman tosses the rest of her coin across the fire to Bjorlam. The man catches it with a surprised expression on his face.

"You need it far more than I." Malenia says simply. She offers no explanation, laying down under the makeshift awning and cutting herself off from further conversation.

An obvious hint that perhaps the night has gone on for too long. Lydia and Bjorlam soon retire as well, letting the fire die while the rain continues to fall.

Settling onto the leather bedroll, Lydia's mind is left racing. The more she thinks she understands about Malenia, the more she realizes how little she really knows. Lady of the Haligtree she may be, but who she really is underneath that title? Lydia has not the faintest idea.

And she's not sure how she feels about that.

They break camp early the following morning, and repeat their journey from the previous day. Malenia sits at the rear of the cart while Lydia sits near the front and makes small talk with Bjorlam. Thankfully the weather has abated and the rain has ceased, though what has replaced it is scant better. Instead of an unending torrent of water, a featureless wall of gray rolls over Skyrim to replace it. This fog makes it difficult to see more than ten feet in front of them.

In Whiterun this would be a mild inconvenience and call to enjoy a warm cup of mead at the Bannered Mare. On the road, it dulls every sound and blinds them to any possible danger. Even the ever present groan and creak of the carriage feels muted and distant in this fog. Any sound from the woods that encroach upon the road are impossible to determine the origin of. If a pack of wolves come charging out, they wouldn't know until they were practically on top of them.

So while Lydia makes casual conversation with Bjorlam, she keeps her sword drawn and her shield on her arm. He does the same, holding a small but wicked steel dagger in his off hand. Only Malenia seems unconcerned with the fog. Lydia is already well aware that however Malenia may appear, is entirely incompatible with the truth beneath her stony facade.

This facade remains unchanged for most of their journey, much like the fog itself. The road is their only guide through these endless walls of gray. It is difficult enough to follow that breaking camp until the fog passes is seriously considered. Ultimately though, Bjorlam insists that they will make it to Riften on time, and they continue onwards.

At some point in the day, Lydia cannot tell, the fog shifts. It is not a great change, but a subtle transformation. The way forward widens, and faint light peers through the misty day. This light flickers and flares at their approach, and is soon joined by a looming shadow. Lydia knows this place, she has passed it in past travels.

The Valtheim Towers slide out of the fog like a ship across the waves. The taller of the towers sits on their side of the White River, connected by a long stone bridge to its twin on the other side. Their ancient gray stonework is an odd contrast to the lighter shades of the fog. A dying campfire struggles for life in front of the tower entrance, abandoned by whoever had lit it.

The travelers crane their heads to stare at the rising tower as they pass it. The groan of the cart, the crack of iron wheels on stone pavement, and the nickering of the horse are the only sounds to accompany them as they pass. The towers offer nothing to them as they pass. Only the unsteady gleam of torchlight through the windows makes it clear that someone has claimed these ancient towers for their own.

For a brief moment, Lydia sees a face in one of those windows. A sad and grimy thing outlined by the torch behind them. Broken eyes that match the broken face, watch them as they part. They are gone as quickly as they appeared, and their journey continues ever on in deafening silence.

Lydia releases a breath she has been holding since the towers revealed themselves, and settles back into her seat. Those towers are old, older than many of the holds in Skyrim, and their owners have been many. It is good fortune that today's owners hold no interest in their party.

She spares a final glance at the rapidly fading shapes of the towers. It is a sad thing, to be so plainly confronted by the realities of what the Civil War has done to Skyrim. In Whiterun it is easy to ignore these realities, the neutrality of the hold and its natural wealth mean that it is sheltered from the worst of the fighting. But out here, there is no shelter from the truth; Skyrim is dying, and will continue to die so long as the Civil War rages.

These thoughts torment her for hours. People like Bjorlam, men and women that sought only to live their lives, suffered under this reality. Everyday, they were at risk of losing it all. And the truth of the matter is, Lydia is not sure if any of the fighting is worth it. To win glory in battle is one thing, it is another for brothers to slay each other.

Eventually this line of thinking is too much for Lydia to bear, she needs to distract herself. With that in mind, she slides down the bench until she is sitting behind Malenia. As usual, the woman gives no indication that she is aware of Lydia's presence.

Lydia softly clears her throat, and asks, "So… Lady Malenia. Not that your charity is a bad thing, but… you didn't give all your coin away to Bjorlam, did you?"

Beneath her veil of scarlet hair, Lydia sees one golden eye snap open and swivel to look at her. Malenia says not a word. Instead she holds up a small bag of septims in her lone hand.

"Fret not. I have coin enough for lodging at Riften for a night or so, and for the return trip." she assured Lydia. There is a pause, before she adds, "That is, enough for myself. Apologies for any presumptions, but I assumed that the niece of the Jarl was capable of paying her own way."

Lydia nods, "Yes, yes of course I can-" then Malenia's words register.

Admittedly, Lydia had not gone out of her way to hide her heritage, but she had not advertised it either. Her hope is that Malenia respects her on her own merits, instead of whatever respect her heritage grants her. But apparently, Malenia has known for some time.

Lydia starts to speak, "When did you-" but is interrupted by Malenia with a raised hand.

"Be silent."

Abrupt as it is, Lydia finds no insult in the command. Malenia clearly means no disrespect by it. The woman has turned her attention towards the fog shrouded woods which have only darkened as the day has moved on. Obviously, she heard something, but Lydia does not know what.

Her hand slowly falls to the hilt of her blade, and her eyes scan the edge of the road. Banks of fog roll between trees, lost spirits in search of a home. A faint breeze tugs at needle lined branches, carrying the scent of pine with it. The horse nickers nervously as Bjorlam pulls the cart to a stop. He feels it too, something is off.

Over fog wrapped trees and spreading greenery, Lydia's eyes wander. After a time, they move up into the distant heights of the ancient pines.

Dozens of eyes stare down at her in kind. HIdeously large creatures covered in a sickly white chitin have taken residence in the trees. Thick strands of webbing line them, from which six of the monstrosities rest. Frostbite spiders, one of the greater menaces of Skyrim, and every single one is watching their carriage with hungry eyes.

"Shor's bones!" Lydia rips her blade from its sheath. She is ready for battle, ready to face these creatures head on.

She is not ready for Malenia's reaction.

The cart shakes and rocks as Malenia bolts in the opposite direction across the carriage, nearly bowling Lydia over its edge in the process. She practically tackles Bjorlam out of his seat in a dive, and rolls across the ground to come to a stop in front of his panicked horse. It happens so fast that neither he nor Lydia have time to respond. A moment later, they have no time to complain.

A shard of ice as long as Lydia's forearm shoots through the space where Bjorlam was sitting but a moment ago and buries itself into a tree on the left hand side of the road. Lydia follows the direction of the projectile, and sees its source in the fog.

A trio of hooded figures stand in the fog. The center-most one holds out their hand, frost dancing from gloved fingers. They drop it to their side and speak in a voice that echoes in the fog.

"Stand down now travelers. Surrender to us, and we will guarantee a quick death. Struggle, and you will suffer at the venom of our pets."

Lydia cannot help but glance at the unmoving frostbite spiders hanging overhead. On their own, a challenge but manageable. But at the command of wizards? Those are odds Lydia does not care for.

Malenia stands, helping Bjorlam to his feet as she does. She regards the trio cooly and says, "Let us pass without incident. Your transgression will be forgotten. Press this issue and you will not live to see tonight."

The three figures exchange a silent glance amongst themselves. When their attention returns to Malenia, the center one speaks again, "Perhaps you do not understand this situation. So allow us to demonstrate to you the scale of our power."

The two behind him clasp their hands together. They pull them apart in a slow but controlled gesture, letting their fingers trail across one another like strands of webbing. Strange white light dances between their fingers and fills the fog. As one, they suddenly rip their hands apart, and the fog surrounding them parts.

Fort Amol stands behind them, its decaying edifice clear to see in the late-day sun without the fog concealing it. But the tired structure is not the true concern. Men and women line the walls of the fort and stand in ranks before the castle. Their uniforms are a mess of stormcloak, legion, and bandit, with no unifying factor beyond one. Their eyes burn with a baleful blue light and their skin is deathly pale. There are at least thirty of them, maybe more hidden within the fort itself.

Lydia has not seen one before, but Faringar's lessons have been informative. Besides, even without them, Lydia knows in her bones what stands before them. Necromancers have taken over Fort Amol.

Malenia regards all this with her characteristic calm. If the display of magical prowess and undead soldiers intimidates her, she certainly shows no sign of it. Her hand drops on the greatsword strapped to her hip, and she responds to the lead necromancer.

"Heed my words, sorcerer. You do not want to press this confrontation. I offer one final time. Let us pass, or face my blade."

Silence falls.

The trio of necromancers, their features obscured by the dark hoods they wear, regard Malenia coldly. Around them, the undead await their masters orders even as the fog slowly begins to creep back and obscure them. It is only when the necromancers have faded into the fog, that their leader speaks.

"Kill them all."

As soon as the words leave their mouth, Malenia surges forward into the fog, blade drawn. The tip of her blade crashes into the leader, sending him sprawling across the ground. She is already spinning, twisting to bring her blade down upon the one to her right. A flash of light dances along her blade's edge, magic energies barely deflecting the blow. She leaps back, farther than should be possible for a figure of her size, and lunges for the third necromancer.

There is another flash of light, and a blade of ice nearly as long as Lydia is tall slides from the fog to intercept the blade. The shape of an atronach of ice looms from the fog, its impressive height making it tower even over Malenia.

This is all Lydia has time to see, before the gates of Oblivion are flung open.

The frostbite spiders descend from the trees in a horde, their massive legs clicking across the ground like a stampede of horses. Their oversized mandibles rub together in anticipation of a new meal, while venom drips from their fangs to sizzle on the ground.

There is no more time for thinking, Lydia jumps from the carriage and slams her shield into the face of the first approaching spider. Tales say that some spiders can grow as large as a house, but these are only the size of a small horse. Lydia digs her boots into the road and shoves the spider back, knocking it into one of her fellows.

Clicking sounds to her left. She whirls, shield raised to meet the weight of one spider trying to crush her beneath its great weight. Its fangs scrape against the steel of her shield, its massive fore limbs smashing at the ground behind her. Lydia holds firm even as her muscles scream in protest at the weight. With blade in hand, she thrusts up into the unprotected belly of the spider, burying it to the hilt.

The spider squeals in agony, stumbling back off the blade and collapsing back onto the ground. Its many legs thrash in agony from the blood, and sticky black ichor pours from the wound. That is one dead, and five more to go.

Lydia charges at the next nearest spider, roaring as she does. Her shield makes an excellent battering ram to stun the beast. She crashes into it hard enough to split chitin, and leave it open for a quick thrust between its unfeeling eyes. It screams and thrashes, forelimbs scraping against her armor, before collapsing dead at her feet.

The remaining spiders cautiously circle now, recognizing the threat Lydia poses. With some effort, she pulls her blade free of the spider and turns to face them, shield ready. The clicking of their strange feet against the cobblestone road barely distracts from the utter chaos Malenia has unleashed in the fog. Lydia desperately wants to join her companion, but the spiders must be dealt with first. frostbite venom is hideously dangerous if left untreated.

One of the larger spiders rears back and sprays that vile liquid at Lydia, a thick green sludge that splatters against the ground and against her raised shield with a sickeningly wet slapping sound. Her shield sizzles at the touch of the venom, but remains intact.

Lydia raises the smoking weapon and charges again. The spider rises up, ready to meet her challenge, but it is a feint. Lydia jerks at the last second, sending all her weight crashing into the spider to her immediate left. Her pauldron gouges its eyes and leaves it open for another stab.

Unlike the last two, her blade scrapes off its chitinous form, leaving a bloody gouge but nothing more. The spider pushes back against her, and Lydia has to struggle to maintain her balance. A blow to the back from the spider she feinted knocks her to one knee, and the remaining spiders swarm her.

It is a sea of dripping fangs and slightering chitin, forcing Lydia to raise her shield to her face in a defensive position. Rivets pop and wood cracks with each blow, and venom pools on the ground around her. Lydia lashes out with her blade, cutting at the forest of limbs around her. A few blows land home, and cause enough harm to make the spiders retreat. She seizes her moment and backhands the nearest spider with her shield.

While it reels from her blow, Lydia rises in a quick motion of violence, stabbing her blade in between its oversized mandibles. Like her last kill, this blow is enough to kill the spider after a moment of agonized screaming. And then there are only three remaining.

But she is no longer facing them alone.

Bjorlam comes rushing from behind his carriage and leaps onto the back of the nearest spider. The beast hisses and attempts to buck the carriage driver to no avail. Instead, while holding tight with one hand, Bjorlam brings his dagger up and drives it down into the head of the beast over and over. Ichor spills with each blow, bathing them both in its blood until the spider collapses on its side unmoving. Venom harmlessly drips from its fangs onto the ground below in small puffs of smoke. Lydia looks at Bjorlam, covered in the blood of her foe, and gives him a nod of respect. He grins, and returns it, and both turn towards the remaining two spiders.

The remaining spiders, at this display, back away with their large forelimbs raised as a warding gesture. But they are no longer the greatest threat on the road. From the fog, the dead come.

They rush forward in their mismatched uniforms, bearing the weapons they once used in life with none of the skill or capacity they once had. The first catches Lydia off guard, slamming an iron mace into her side. The blow knocks the air from her lungs, but her armor holds and she responds in kind by driving her blade into the undead man's neck and pulling hard to the left. His head goes rolling and his body collapses to the ground in a pile of ashes.

There is no time for respite though. The dead rush them, a tide of blades and fists. By skill and valor they hold their own, Lydia covering Bjorlam to the best of her ability with her armor and shield, while the carriage driver attacks furiously with his dagger. A small but steady pile of ash begins to blanket the ground around them, and yet the tide of dead does not cease.

The fog is aglow with flashes of light and the sounds of clashing steel. An occasional explosion rocks the ground and some of the dead cease acting during these times. It is a reprieve, but only a temporary one.

At some point, after Bjorlam has slit the throat of an unfortunate former legionnaire, Lydia sees one of the spiders creeping behind him. Like Malenia, Lydia shouts no warning, she simply rushes forwards. The spider barely has time to react when Lydia barrels into it, and gores it on her blood-slick blade, between the mandibles.

But this is a mistake.

In its death throes, the beast vomits a torrent of poison straight into Lydia's unguarded face. The immediate pain is unbearable like a knife peeling her skin and stabbing her eyes. Lydia recoils and stumbles aimlessly, dropping her sword and shield to desperately wipe the vile fluid from her face. Her gloved hands are soon soaked in it, and start to numb from the poison.

Bjorlam is shouting something at her, but Lydia is barely able to process her own thoughts, let alone his words. She collapses to her knees, staring at a world gone gray. Blurry shapes come in and out of focus as the poison eats away at her. Something big smashes into her shoulder and she crashes into her back. Something in her pack shatters, and there is more pain, but it is nothing compared to the poison.

Her vision flickers for a moment, and she sees a stormcloak raising a two handed-axe overhead for a final strike. Her final coherent thought in that moment under all the agony and pain, is a quiet indignity at how inglorious her death is.

And then a Voice shakes the world.

FUS-ROH-DAH!

An invisible wall slams into the undead, sending it tumbling into the fog. And a chorus of voices join the first in a cry of battle.

"For Skyrim and its people! For the Stormcloaks! For Sovngarde!"

Figures come rushing in now, charging into the undead and hacking them down where they stand. Lydia only barely recognizes any of this. But she does recognize the man that stoops down by her side, concern on his face. How could she not recognize the face of the man that started the Civil War?

A/N: This chapter took way longer than it needed to, mostly because figuring out Lydia's narrative voice was a bit difficult. I wanted this chapter to show Malenia from a different perspective while establishing Lydia as a more developed variant of her game counterpart. Hopefully I managed to separate it from Malenia's enough to make her character distinct.

Now I will say there is one thing fun about being able to write out events in Skyrim is that those events are not limited by a game engine. So 'level-scaling' is out of the question, as are the gamey limitations of magic. Throwing a trio of master necromancers/conjurers sounded like a fun time that would at least slow Malenia down and give reason for the Stormcloak involvement. As for their and Ulfrics appearance... well, you'll find out what he's doing here very soon. Next chapter, we're going to Windhelm!

Anyway, hope you all enjoyed the chapter. Please leave any constructive criticism or comments down below and don't forget those title suggestions. See you next time, bye!