Nariilu knocked on the door to Stormcloak's chamber, and knocked again when she didn't hear any signs of movement inside. And then knocked a third time before she finally heard a sniff and rustling fabric, and stepped back so the door wouldn't swing into her face.
"Breakfast," she said simply. "It's likely started without us; Uthgerd came by nearly half an hour ago to let me know."
Stormcloak paused to look her over, and Nariilu grasped at the edge of her sleeves to keep from pulling at the belt she used to hike up her Graybeard robes, the hilts of her swords hidden beneath fabric folded over itself. She knew she looked nearly ridiculous in the giant thing, but the clothes Uthgerd had brought her were all either too tight or too rough on her regrown skin. His grip twitched on the handle to the door, like he was considering slamming it shut. "Let me get my boots." He only had to turn around to right the blankets and furs on his cot; his sleeping chambers were easily half the size hers was.
"Sleep well?"
He made deep, throaty noise that could've meant anything as he shoved his feet into his boots, reaching down to straighten the leather over his ankles and calves, fasten the buckles up the sides.
"Want to stay another day or off to Skuldafn?"
"Suddenly you aren't on a schedule?"
"I can go to Skuldafn alone again," Nariilu replied. "My only schedule is to make it to Solitude in time for Vittoria's wedding."
"Far less urgent than you were in Whiterun," Stormcloak huffed. He clasped the last of the buckles with a soldier's precision and speed, an unfortunate necessary skill in war.
"There wasn't a single reason to stay in Whiterun another second."
"You're still limping."
"I'm faking it," she half-lied. "I need to exercise it, not let it rot in some cast." Stormcloak stood and threw a thin cloak over his tunic, eyes narrowed. A hole in the wool caught on his elbow, a perfect slice she hadn't caught him take yesterday. Stormcloak had probably gotten it when he tackled her to the ground like an oaf-perhaps she should tell him the true reason her limp was back. She'd had everything under control, before he stepped in and hurt her leg, gotten her stabbed, didn't he get stabbed, too, at some point? She stepped aside to lead the way to the banquet hall. "Do you want to go to Skuldafn to see the army or not?"
He fell into step just behind her, taking on a lumberingly slow pace as she tried to walk as fast as she wanted. "My ancestors were buried there for thousands of years, and for centuries not a single member of the Stormcloak Clan has been able to pay their respects. I'd be honored to break that line, but it wouldn't be a sentimental visit."
Nariilu hoped the other Draugr had cleaned up the…corpses. "It could be, if you like."
"I'd rather save it for…" He trailed off, clearing his throat before he spoke again. "I want to meet the army. The dragons. See how things work for myself, instead of hearing it from you and Alduin's second."
"Good. Then we'll leave after we eat."
Sure enough, breakfast was winding down by the time they arrived. Bowls sparsely filled with berries and hearty fruits, a handful of simple pastries, a few slices of quiche sat in the center of the long table. Nariilu looked over the crowd from the perch above Alduin's Wall-her Wall; her Dragonguard chatting somberly amongst themselves, Forsworn unfortunately mixed within. Esbern, nowhere to be seen, but those two that had already decided to leave were sitting a seat away from her Dragonguard at the far end of the table dozens of feet away. A quick headcount-Esbern was the only one missing from the Guard.
And the conversation slowed when her Dragonguard spotted them. Nariilu was grateful they didn't completely stop, stand to a strict attention like most in her Legion had to when she entered a tent. Stormcloak didn't stop at the top of the wall like she did, continuing down the stairs towards the main level, only hesitating a step when he noticed she had paused at the top. Uthgerd greeted him, waved him to a space beside her and Salma with her free hand, the other wrapped around Salma's waist.
Nariilu let him grab a pastry and take a bite, wipe a flaked crumb from his beard before she spoke. "Good morning to you all!" She paused, letting the chatter stop and eyes rise towards her. A mix of mostly-Nords, a handful of Redguards and Imperials and Elves, two Orcs, maybe a dozen Bretons, none of whom looked particularly like the Forsworn that liked to ambush her whenever she dared to take a step in the Reach. She met healthy expressions, interest and anticipation for what she would say painted on most faces. A lightened mood from yesterday when Esbern decided to slam her with all sorts of degradations in a mess of emotion that did more to make her Dragonguard uncomfortable rather than sway them to believe his ramblings. "I look forward to leading the Blades into a new era alongside your new Grandmaster, Uthgerd."
She gestured towards her friend, who blushed slightly and nodded around the table, continuing, "The era of the Dragonguard is upon us once more. May we leave the errors of the Blades behind us along with the harm the Thalmor have brought towards the old faction. As Dragonguard, we start fresh, working for the good of the people." A few low cheers, claps rang out. Good enough for first thing in the morning, for people she had mostly never seen before, she supposed. "And as we must constantly improve ourselves…I offer one last opportunity to leave."
The mood in the grand hall shifted as she twisted her tone to the beginnings of a threat; fidgets, swallows, but nobody stood to leave. Nariilu locked eyes with some of the Dragonguard around the table, they met her with strong, sure faces. Good, good! Great, even, if they would hold those faces by the time lunch rolled around. However, she had a promise to keep, a statement to make, heads to roll. Uthgerd leaned to whisper something in Salma's ear. She startled slightly, pressing her lips together and whispering something back loud enough that Stormcloak turned and knit his eyebrows first at the two women, then at her.
His shoulder twitched and he looked down to his empty waist-he hadn't thought to bring his sword even seeing that she was wearing both of hers to breakfast of all things. "Brammun, Tirod, Eidna, Brydel, Marga, Dal, Unnach, Ayclilnach, Nedkla, Kaza, Lothnikh, and Kaustin, would you please stand?"
Silence. Stares. Waiting. No one stood. "Well?" She repeated. "I will not have the Dragonguard tarnish our reputation by including those from a life of plunder, banditry, murder, atrocity, and general lawlessness in this fine group. So, Forsworn, stand up, unless you're too coward to own up to your personal failures."
And that challenge had the Forsworn-a handful more than who she'd called out, the names Uthgerd gave her last night-jumping to their feet, pushing up on the table and scowling and cursing her. "I've done nothing wrong! No murder, thieving, whatever!" A Nord man yelled up at her, the others that had stood agreeing. He stood on the far side of Stormcloak, who was already tensing and sizing up everyone who'd stood. He rest his hands on the table, casually ready to push himself away from the Forsworn beside him. Only a light frown and tight shoulders marked him as anything other than apathetic to the situation. Nariilu caught his jaw twitch and his breathing deepen.
"Tell me," Nariilu pulled her hands behind her in a mimic of a dignified clasp to hide the spell weaving between her palms, "which camp are you from? One of the ones without a pile of skulls marking the entrance?"
"Trespassers, the lot of them." A Breton woman cut her hand through the air, a furious motion that was met with half-drawn swords, maces, axes from the very few who'd come armed. Others stood in response, their stances a fairly-well trained defense compared to the Forsworn. Five of them, maybe, had come armed even with just a dagger, but she kept a closer eye on the ones who grasped at empty hilts, not the least bit concerned when their hands flexed and twitched around nothing.
"And so I have Forsworn trespassing in my Dragonguard," Nariilu replied. "I suppose you've just named your punishment. Death."
She ducked low, a ball of flame hurtled above her head and crashed into the wall behind her, battle cries and startled cries rising from around the table as the Nord man had enough of her threats. "Tiid, Klo Ul!" She Shouted, letting time lurch to a slow, horrible, frozen crawl around her. The last Word of the Shout tasted like hatred, pain, a stolen eternity of peace and battle in Sovngarde to be your slave-
Nariilu dared a second wheeze once, stand up straight, take inventory of the unfolding chaos that stood still below her. Fifteen stood in frozen anger, another twenty Dragonguard watched with their eyes on her, on the Nord man who'd thrown the fireball. Seven of the Dragonguard moving to stand, three reaching to draw weapons they'd hopefully have no use of by the time they were able to unsheathe them.
All those fifteen were either Forsworn, or…They were Forsworn. Had to be, in honor-obsessed Skyrim, to stand when she personally slighted those Uthgerd had named as recruits from the camps. The rest, pushing up on the table to stand on the defensive, they sensed a fight about to break out. Breaking out. A fight that would be over before they were able to realize, before time itself managed to realize.
Two ice spears were all she cast-magicka fatigue daring her to try anything more. She'd been draining herself for days to speed up her healing, façade what she couldn't afford to wait for the priests and potions to heal, steady her steps and fight those ungrateful Dragonborn Souls she kept safe from Alduin.
It was a strange thing, for the spell to hang frozen in the air like they did. Four foot long pillars of ice, glistening along razor-sharp facets that she never got to study, to appreciate her craftsmanship. Aimed just so they would each pierce two Forsworn, three if she was lucky. She never got to line up shots quite like this, when time wasn't at her beck and call with just three short Words.
And time lurched from ice to honey; thick, barely there movements began to roll through the crowd in a crawl. Nariilu jumped down the last few stairs, drawing a sword before her feet hit the ground. And to the closest standing Forsworn, a Breton man with a dagger in his left hand and a lightning spell in his right, she plunged her sword up, through the soft bottom his chin and tongue, up, through the set of bones in his palate, up, squelching through his brain, up, until the point of her sword touched the top of his skull.
Down. And there was almost no blood, except for what painted her blade. Bits of flesh tore from the man, sticking to the guthooks of her sword, but his blood stayed still where it should be spraying from the broken artery. The first syrupy drops collected at the wound, ready to explode as her Shout faded, as time resumed. Three steps forward. Up, through the second chin belonging to that Breton woman, up, to stare in her eyes still locked at the top of the stairs, where Nariilu should be standing.
Down. Step. Up. Down. Run five steps. Up. Down. Rush to the other side of the table; the rest on this side would be impaled by one of her ice spears. Jump over the table to the other side, because she was taking too long and her Shout wouldn't hold forever-the ice spikes were nearly halfway to their first targets and another fireball was careening towards the stairs and most everyone at this point was almost standing, the Forsworn with one leg out ready to charge at her ghost on the stair.
Stab, stab again, again; it lacked the same pulse in her stomach, killing like this. It was so easy to tell herself that she was just attacking training dummies swaying in the wind, as slowly as they moved. She ran past the next pair of Forsworn, yanking down a Dragonguard sat between the two; the ice spear was nearly at position to impale the first of them-and he was beginning to dodge.
And the Forsworn she hadn't killed yet, the Dragonguard, were slowly reacting to her apparent sudden disappearance. Nariilu bit her tongue to distract herself from the pain shooting behind her eyes as she held out her hand to cast an ice spike into the base of an Orc's-it must be Lothnikh, she thought-skull as she hurried past. It buried itself within his skin, shattering deep in time with another of her spears, the other impacting a fraction of a second later.
Sound hurried back to her, stretching before it hit her ears in wretched wails. Battlecries, not pain, yet, it had barely been a second since she Shouted, maybe not even a second, to judge on how quickly her spells usually traveled. Nariilu's lungs burned, time beginning to pull her back to it, along with the pain in her lungs, in her head, in her stomach, hip screaming under a bruise the size of a plate. Yesterday's stab wound throbbed with a memory of itself alongside old pulled muscles, magical and mundane hunger, and an ache from the raging Dragonborn she'd learned the last Word from.
My name is Ulferth, you fucking BITCH-
Slow reactions around the table, most focused on how she wasn't at the top of the stairs anymore, few low-twisted shouts from those around where the Forsworn stood collapsing on themselves. Blood finally bursting from wounds, icy spears piercing through one chest, the second victim of each almost seeming to realize they were doomed. Lothnikh's head opening from the base, gory splatter beginning to erupt from where the heel of her palm made contact with leaf-green skin.
Perhaps she should've considered the gore, brains, blood that would fall on the food. She'd have nothing to eat for breakfast out of this spread, no matter how sharply her magicka reserves demanded it.
An easy dodge to avoid a wildly swung sword, its owner scanning the room to find where she'd gone instead of aiming. What was Delphine, the Forsworn teaching them? He'd nearly hit a Dragonguard out of carelessness. Angled thrust through his side, guthooks clinging to bone and skin and wool until she yanked her blade with such force she felt her shoulder rip from its joint as her sword ripped free from the Nord.
A deep thud echoed, and another, another-bodies hit the floor. And just like that, it was far, far too late to choose differently, to have a different start to her day, to her Dragonguard. Nariilu tossed her sword into her left hand and stabbed up, through the chin of the Nord man who was on his fourth fireball and only just now had confusion in his face about where his target had gone.
Time was back to a speed of a cold morning; lethargic, slow, but passing. Passing enough that she locked eyes with Stormcloak as she hurried to the last Forsworn, a Breton man, on the other side of Salma. She was pulling at Uthgerd's sleeve with a clenched fist, the other pointing across the table at where her ice spear had met its targets. Uthgerd herself was well on her way to standing, twisting, toward the man who'd been throwing the fireballs, her face twisted in a sneer and fists raised and ready to jump over Stormcloak and pummel the Forsworn.
She might just land a punch before his corpse slumped to the ground. That's what Stormcloak should be staring at, glaring at; Uthgerd was launching herself over him, and he was focused on following herself, to the best of his ability. Slow eyes followed ever faster as Nariilu held her sword out and sped towards her last target, the last Forsworn in the Dragonguard.
She slammed her blade into the Breton, not daring to slow to aim as time came racing back to a proper flow. Her sword's hilt pressed into her chest, bruising ribs that probably weren't cracked anymore. Her blade grazed the man's arm, pierced his chest. He gasped, choked along with a dozen other standing dead, death rattles and final thuds of falling bodies sounding louder than the rising cacophony of confusion from the Dragonguard.
Nariilu wrenched her sword from the man's body and returned it to its sheathe as casually as she could with the wrong hand, making a mental note to clean it before she left for Skuldafn. Nobody would notice her shoulder was dislocated under her ill-fitting robes, and it wasn't a good look to have gotten injured when nobody was even fighting back. She squared her shoulders as much as she could, breathed as deeply as she could for a few breaths against burning lungs.
The Dragonguard quieted, whispers of there and did she do that and they're dead echoed in the hall. Nariilu felt all eyes on her back, different than yesterday when she'd stood above Delphine's body. No, Delphine hadn't been very popular at all, Uthgerd had said, and the Forsworn weren't very popular, either. But this wasn't some paranoid, hard-ass Grandmaster, this was a fair fraction of those who'd been Blades.
Soldiers tended to get feisty when too many were punished, even if an entire group was to blame. Much better to make an example of the ringleaders of whatever mischief they'd gotten into as a warning to the rest of the troublemakers and to the entire unit. But the Forsworn weren't a part of the Dragonguard, not when they were about to be delegated to history. And soldiers liked nothing better than watching another unit get what was due to them, especially rivals. And the Dragonguard and the Forsworn would be rivals, if for however brief.
She turned to face the Dragonguard, her face grim serious but with an optimistic lilt to her eyes that she hope passed as excitement for the future rather than as a manic, murderous craze. "Well, Dragonguard, to new beginnings, and the death of the Forsworn."
Ulfric nearly fell off the bench when Uthgerd jumped over him to pummel the man-Tirod, he'd introduced himself as, Forsworn, he'd realized with no small anger-next to him, the heat from his witchfire singing his face as it passed to explode at the top of the stairs. Where the Dragonborn addressed the Dragonguard, identified quite a few Forsworn around the table including Tirod next to him, and then nearly had her head melted from her body. Where she most definitely wasn't standing now, not after Shouting something Ulfric didn't quite catch either for her horrible, mangled pronunciation of Dov or for his own preoccupation with getting out of the way of an errant spell and a pouncing, furious Uthgerd.
No, she definitely wasn't standing at the top of the stairs, or dodging or casting her own spell back at the Witch, because she was beside him, thrusting a sword through Tirod's jaw too casually, coming from the wrong way to have just been at the stairs. And the Dragonborn was moving…strangely. Too fast, too fluid, too…otherworldly; he'd never seen anything like it. That Shout… She sprinted past him too fast, but slower with every step. She met his eyes as she passed to another standing Forsworn, breaking the stare at the last second to focus on where to point her sword.
She braced her hilt against her body, finally coming to an unsettling stop when she ran the man through. Ulfric almost missed when she struggled to sheathe her sword-she held it in the wrong hand-Uthgerd kicked hard in his lap as she tackled Tirod. Rather, what was left of Tirod. He gurgled, slumped over his empty plate, then pushed over to the floor with Uthgerd. Blood smeared over the table, the bench, the floor, splattering when Uthgerd punched him once before realizing he was either dead or as good as it.
Confusion rose, shouts of alarm, whispers, gasps; Ulfric looked up to see more death around the table. Some had rushed to bodies thrown far from the table, abdomens missing in gorey splatter on food, clothes, stone. He turned away from Uthgerd and Tirod, watching her curse and take in the body beneath her. The Dragonborn turned, barely a drop of blood on her for all the death she'd no doubt caused.
A commander's smile graced her face; wild optimism that was usually faked to rally troops before a battle was completely genuine in a determined twist. She looked like she had just given a hell of a speech and knew it. "Well, Dragonguard, to new beginnings," she spoke firmly, silencing whispers and demanding attention, "and the death of the Forsworn."
And she locked eyes with him again; Ulfric barely caught the question she asked there. 'Do you believe me? Do you trust my word?' Ulfric tilted his head-yes. And she lectured the Dragonguard, outlining how Delphine had been going behind her back for months, how her paranoia reached a breaking point, how she would be returning soon with dragons to put an end to the Forsworn. And she offered one last opportunity to leave.
"But," she warned, "only leave if you do not want your name in song."
Estormo slammed the door shut behind him collapsed to the floor, gasping for breath, rubbing his hands together to create some sort of spark that would save him from freezing to death in this damnable tomb. The skeletons were barely-held together necromancy, the trolls were some trouble but few in number, but an undead dragon-that had thrown him for a loop. The chamber shook, the dragon still trying to fit through that little tunnel, "Fo-!"
He winced as ice crept over the door, but it stayed comfortably shut. A dragon. A literal dragon had crawled out of the ground, an undead dragon-Estormo didn't even want to think about the kind of Necromancer that could pull that off. He coughed and swallowed around the taste of blood in his mouth, wishing he'd brought more than a single magicka potion with him.
Even more, he wished Ancano would just send a message so he could respond and tell him about the Labyrinth, how those Synods had led him right to the only other place in Skyrim that held an artifact anywhere near the power of the Eye. Another month had passed without any correspondence, not even a 'no news' note appeared under his pillow. Middas after Middas had come and gone; Ancano had never gone longer than five weeks without sending anything. But he'd wait until ten passed to be concerned, and more to break orders and contact first. With Skyrim's stupid war over, the Dominion would be moving in, Ancano would be busy.
It was somewhat warm in the chamber, he realized after the dragon's chill had left him, and not very much dirt and dust layered the floor. A well-preserved ruin, all things considered, locked off from the world for however many years the Nords considered to be ancient. He struggled to his feet, directing a bit of magicka to his left ankle. He'd twisted it somewhere between tumbling to the ground as a dragon upturned the earth beneath him and scrambling to an exit after it became clear that he was no match for the beast.
He tested his weight on his foot, taking a gentle step, then another, then standing up straight to return to his normal gait and find another way out of the cursed place that didn't involve hauling ass past the dragon behind him. Upon Auriel's own, there was a skeletal dragon in a Nord tomb. A Nord had likely done that!
He dropped to his knees at the revelation-no, he'd been stabbed through the gut, through his heart, he was vomiting all over himself and bleeding from his eyes. His bones ached, his skin burned, his flesh crawled-magicka fatigue. Acute, advanced fatigue that only hit foolish novices determined to work beyond their skill, Battlemages who gave their literal all to protect their comrades, burning up in a pyre to Magnus, leaving behind a hollow shell of a body.
Estormo would take the dragon any day over this kind of death. He hadn't used much of his magicka at all, but here he was, curling in on himself in a puddle of blood and vomit and piss and he didn't even care. He just wanted to rip himself apart, set himself on fire, eat himself alive, anything to get the pain to stop-
And it did, as suddenly as it had hit him, he felt fine. Tired, tingly, but fine compared to what he'd just felt. Estormo catalogued himself; the deep, stabbing throb in his heart remained, a tingle of lightning ghosting over his skin. Mild magicka fatigue, then. But…what in Oblivion had just caused…that? He sat up, brushing the worst of the sick and dirt from his robes with shaky hands.
Outright pain, suffering was replaced with deep-seated dread; something had caused that. Something had resurrected a dragon, something was keeping all these undead alive for hundreds, thousands of years. And when the coarse, torrid words hit his mind, sounding miles away and inside his ears all at once, he gave up trying to dispel any Fear spell that he'd been cursed with. No, the fear he felt was very, very real. The magicka in the air was a palpable, thick slush that froze him to his core, bit away at his skin-
"Wo meyz wah dii vul junaar?"