An Unfortunate Face

Isran had never been a man for speeches. He gave one anyway. Short and to the point, he spoke of bravery and honor and of sacrifices that would never be forgotten. He didn't mince words. He didn't pretend to know each of them personally, what kind of people they were, where they came from, why they joined and he didn't need to. That they were where they were when they were needed was enough and if they hadn't been, they might not have won the day.

The pyres were lit afterwards. A torch held by himself, Sorine, Florentius. Gunmar's twisted ankle prevented him from joining and it was Agmaer who insisted on taking his place, forcing himself out of bed against Florentius' wishes. He held the torch with the arm not strapped to his chest and fought back burning tears as he lit the wood beneath Durak's body.

Though the young man had pulled through when many feared he would not, their count still went up to eight. Sceoland, one of Gunmar's hounds, had joined the fight and hadn't survived his injuries. His brother, Bran, kept by Gunmar's side, sitting, more obedient than he had ever been beforehand.

Isran reached the other end of the pyre alone and set fire to the wood beneath Celann. Face and body cleaned, his eyes had been gently closed. Isran almost wanted to believe he was sleeping. When was the last time they had spoken, he couldn't help but wonder. Before his departure to the Rift? No, not even then. Isran could feel his upper lip curl and forced the anger welling within his stomach back down again.

Sorine and Agmaer stepped down from the pyre, her arm wrapped around his shoulders as he finally lost the battle with his own grief. Isran returned to the other end before the bodies, watching the flames, Florentius at his side, muttering prayers beneath his breath. When Isran turned away from the flames, his eyes fell on the crowd, traveling its length until they landed on Serana, all the way in the back. Hood up, he could still see the glimmer of her eyes. Her gaze snapped up to his and she turned away.

When the appropriate time had passed, the Dawnguard left their fallen to burn in peace and retreated into the fort. Most made for the dining hall, for the ale and mead caskets. Others retreated to their beds, duties and training suspended for the day.

Not Isran. He wanted neither to forget nor to ignore. He wanted answers. Gunmar, Sorine and Florentius were to meet him on the upper level of the castle, the same rooftop where he had faced Idessia. Serana followed; uninvited but not explicitly forbidden.

"Idessia, a vampire…" Gunmar murmured, as if having the entire night to accept the revelation had not been enough. His injured leg was propped up on an extra chair at the center of the circle they had arranged themselves in. He took the wineskin held to him by Florentius and nearly drained it by half before passing it to Sorine.

"Arkay had spoken to me about it, you know." Florentius' tone lacked its usual annoying enthusiasm. Almost as if he blamed himself. "Said something dead had just entered the fort with Isran. I assumed it was Serana."

The girl, situated further away, perked up at the sound of her name but said nothing.

"How does a Vigilant become a vampire?" Gunmar asked.

Sorine wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. "Unwillingly."

"She was not unwilling." Like Serana, Isran stood slightly apart from the others, leaning on the railing that overlooked the courtyard below.

"Why would she let herself be turned?" Sorine's voice rose with anger and frustration. Her hair was uncombed, having been washed to clean the blood out. "Why betray her comrades? She knew us. She knew all of us. Godsdamn it, she knew Celann!" Her voice cracked when she said his name.

Silence fell over the crowd. The wineskin empty, Florentius tucked it away into one of his pockets and then pulled out a flask of hard liquor. Gunmar broke the quiet gently, his eyes on Isran's back. "Serana told us that Felwinter was brought up in your fight."

Isran said nothing. His eyes remained straight ahead. "As well as a woman named 'Alva'. Isran, if you know something-"

"I clearly do not," Isran snapped. He paused, pushed down his anger and then spoke again. "Whoever this woman was, she and Idessia were close."

"Family? Good friends?"

"I don't know." Isran turned his gaze west, towards the sun setting behind the trees. Towards the western Holds. "But I know how to find out."

More silence. "We could send a letter," Sorine offered.

"So he can use it as kindling?" Isran pushed off the stone balcony, grimacing slightly at the strain in his ribs. "I need to go to Whiterun. I need to speak to him."

Sorine shook her head tiredly. "He won't like-"

"I don't care."

"Maybe you should," Florentius said, "How much information are you going to get out of him if the two of you can't even share a room without coming to blows?"

"That was one time!"

"And your nose is stuck like that permanently. Quite a first meeting, wasn't it?" The priest chuckled darkly. The drink was getting to him. "If you want answers, let us go and get them."

"No." There was no discussion to be had. Isran moved away from the balcony and rounded the group. "I will go to Whiterun. The rest of you will see to our forces here," he ordered, "Repair what is damaged, reinforce what is not. Anyone who comes through is to be checked thoroughly. Large groups are to be turned away. On threat of death, if need be."

They all had their protests but they knew better than to argue back at this point. Isran started for the exit. He'd leave come morning.

He didn't make it very far when he heard feather-light footsteps come after him. "I'll go with you," Serana said, "Just to make sure Felwinter listens."

Isran doesn't spare her a look, pushing open the door and starting down the stairs. "No, you won't."

She continued to follow, pulling down her hood when she was out of the sunlight. "Fine. I'll travel alone."

"No, you won't."

She scoffed at the back of his head. "You can't keep me from Whiterun or Felwinter." He ignored her. Clearly bothered by it, she spoke louder. "Whether you like it or not, I'm Dawnguard too."

It took every bit of control Isran had to not erupt in flames. He whirled on her, loomed over and said between tightly clenched teeth, "This is none of your concern, leech." He spat the word like poison on his tongue.

To her credit, she did not flinch. Her golden eyes bore into his, held his scrutiny better than most. He could almost see Idessia in them. "No. No, this is your concern. A personal concern." She moved in close, quiet and quick as a shadow. Isran recoiled on instinct, his palm heating up.

Serana's voice dropped to a whisper. "So personal, you even smelled like her," she said, head cocked to the side. "Do the others know that?" The beginnings of a smile played on her lips. "It may answer a few burning questions if they did. About how she got past your defenses so easily. About what you were doing with her when the attack began and your men were being slaughtered."

Serana pulled back, her smile dropping. "I will meet you in Whiterun," she said pointedly, satisfied that the conversation would end there.

But now it was Isran's turn to speak. When she began to circle around him, he grabbed hold of her wrist and roughly yanked her back. Isran shoved her against the brick wall, pinning her arm against it in one vice grip.

He leaned in close. "You helped us kill your father," he said, voice lower than it had ever been before. "That has not been forgotten but threaten me again and it will be, am I understood?"

Her eyes burned defiantly. "You wouldn't dare. Felwinter-"

Isran suddenly brought the other hand up and slammed a palm full of fire against the wall right next to her head, blackening it. She flinched violently but his body caged her in. A body that began to shimmer with enough sun magic that her lips turned down in an uncomfortable grimace. "Will he bring you back to life? Will he put you back together piece by piece? Try me again, leech, I dare you. I'll dump your overdue corpse at his feet and be damned about what happens next."

It flashed by quickly and was hidden even quicker; a glimmer of fear. Isran pulled away and started back down the stairs. She remained where she was until she was sure he was gone.

Isran growled audibly at the memory. It hadn't been his proudest moment, what he said, even if she had crossed a line. He turned his attention to the city of Whiterun drawing closer. Even from the outer gates, he could see Dragonsreach, the Jarl's seat, standing high over the rest of the city. Signs of Ulfric's attack persisted even months after. Isran led his mount towards the stable before the first gate into the city. He climbed off and immediately began to take down his belongings; his bags, his weapons. The horse sighed in relief.

A throat cleared behind him and Isran turned to find a thin middle-aged Nord waiting expectantly. Isran turned back, reached into the saddle again and pulled out a bag of coin. He held it out. "For three days," he said and lowered his arm when he felt the bag leave it. The man opened it and counted it out, taking his fee and handing Isran back the rest. He nodded. "She'll be well-taken care of. You have my word."

Isran grunted and stepped back, letting the stablemaster take the horse's reins and pull her away. Isran went on his way, up the path that led into the city proper. He moves with and against people coming in and out, some alone, some with others, some with carts and animals in tow.

He wasn't surprised to be receiving the looks he did. From the stablehand's young son answering his father's summons to a guardsman at the final gate into the city to another Redguard who had a young girl trailing his heels, too busy talking to notice Isran as they passed him by. Through it all, he saw no signs of Serana. Thank Stendarr for small mercies.

Isran had only been to Whiterun once before and it hadn't been for long. It was a gentle place in both its people and its structures. Not like cold, hard Markarth or that rats' nest, Riften. Simple wooden homes and buildings lined the main road, leading from the gate to the town square, outlined by market stalls. Dragonsreach remained ever-present, visible no matter where one went in Whiterun. The Jarl might need to be informed of what happened. The last time a force such as what hit the Dawnguard attacked anywhere else, it had been here. Though no signs of the attack remained, it was unlikely it had been erased from public memory so quickly. First encounters with these creatures were not something one forgot. This, he knew well.

The closest building to the town entrance was a smithy, an Imperial woman heading its forge, bent over an anvil and striking away at a red-hot piece of metal. Isran started towards her.

A gaggle of children came running from around the corner of the house next to the blacksmith, shouting, making a general nuisance of themselves, as children did and should do. Their path went through his own so he stopped to let them by. Unlike others, they paid him no mind, or at least, most of them did. One at the back of the group turned his attention away from where he was going and locked eyes with Isran.

It was only for a second. The next second, he lost his footing. Flailing arms failing to catch him, he tripped over his own feet and fell to his knees, keeping his momentum and roughly sliding across the dirt ground. He bit back a cry but gasped in pain. The boy sat upright, grasping the injured knee and peeking under his fingers, as if he were afraid to see if there was blood.

By the time he remembered why he had fallen, Isran was at his side, looming above him like a tree that blot out the sun. The boy started once he realized Isran was there and gaped brazenly. Isran came down to one knee, letting his pack on the ground. He bat away the boy's hand pressed over the wound and gestured for him to roll up the leg of his pants. Shyly but quickly, he did.

Skin deep was the wound, a scraping at worst. An easy enough fix, not that he was going to do it. Consequences needed to be learned and besides, most people would not appreciate a stranger casting spells on their child. Isran wasn't interested in making trouble with strangers in a foreign city. He'd have more than his share of it soon enough.

The boy, short-haired and round-faced, an Imperial by Isran's guess, continued to gawk. Growing tired of it, Isran's gaze snapped to his eyes, causing the boy to hurriedly look away. "If you want something for the pain, find a healer," he said, "You'll watch where you're going next time."

Isran rose to his feet, bag in hand. The other hand, he held out. Reluctantly, the boy took hold and let himself be pulled to his feet. He winced when he put weight on the leg but otherwise, it could be moved. "I'm looking for the Thane of this hold," he said, "Tall, black hair, skin color like mine. Do you know where he is?"

"No, sir." The words came out roughly, as If Isran was scolding him.

"Who does? The Jarl?"

The boy shrugged his shoulders. "Use your words, boy and look me in the eye when you speak."

"Maybe, sir," he answered, his voice taking on a bit of an edge in place of shyness. "Or my father, he's up in Dragonsreach too."

Isran looked back to the castle and let out a weary breath. Then, he reached into his pocket and tossed two septims at the boy's chest. He was surprised to see him catch them, almost with ease. "Thank you, sir," he said, the beginnings of a smile spreading across his face.

Isran grunted and jerked his head, telling the boy to be on his way. He moved and after a few steps, Isran watched as he put a hand to his raised injured knee for a few seconds. He felt the shift, small, incredibly subtle but it was there. Then, the boy lowered his leg and tested the knee. Isran saw the smile on his face grow into a full-blown grin. Only then did he finally start running again to catch up with his friends, but not before turning to catch one last look at Isran's face.

He disappeared down the street and around a corner. Isran moved on himself. In the commotion, the blacksmith had disappeared. Deciding his energy would be better spent elsewhere, Isran made his way to the square, his attention on the road and the buildings but taking in bits and pieces of the conversations of others as he did, listening for anything useful. There was talk about a recent Thalmor visit, Stormcloak deserters, the upcoming Moot, more nonsense out of the College of Winterhold but nothing that pertained to his immediate goal.

Unsurprisingly, one of the biggest and best-maintained buildings in the square was the tavern, called the Bannered Mare. The news Isran had was important but he was under no such delusion that the man he had to give it to would open his home to him as a guest. The sun was past its midpoint. He could settle lodgings now, continue the search later.

The place was livelier than one would expect for early afternoon, with most lunch breaks over with and evening meals not yet started. He walked over to the bar, adjusting the hammer on his back so that it remained in place instead of bumping against every beam he passed. It was empty but as soon as he spread his hands out against it, a Nord woman came out from a room on the side. "Apologies, sir, if you've had to wait long," she greeted with a small and slightly tired smile. She was tying her hair up as she approached the bar, likely just waking from a nap.

"I have not." Isran pulled out his coin purse. "I'm in need of a room," he told her.

She nodded. "Of course, that'll be ten per night. And if you ever find yourself short on septims, there's always wood outside to be chopped. Each piece lowers your bill." The woman stood on her toes to look over his shoulders. "Saadia, dear?"

"Yes, mum?" Isran turned slightly at the sound of light steps rapidly approaching and at the familiar accent. A short, young Redguard woman approached, her eyes flitting to him twice before returning to the innkeeper.

"If you would see this man to his room, please?" She pulled out a key from under the bar and placed it on top. Isran stepped aside, so that Saadia could take hold of it.

"It's just up the stairs. Follow me." Isran turned back to the innkeeper, to nod and give his thanks but she was already walking off. Isran pushed off the bar and followed.

"Are you new in town?" Saadia asked, her voice rising just slightly above the rest of the patrons.

"Yes."

"Well, you've come to a good place, especially with the war over and done with," she said. She turned a corner. "Do you know anyone in Whiterun?"

"Why?" he asked.

"Oh, I don't mean to pry, sir. It's just…you remind me of someone. I'm just not able to place it at the moment. Oh well." She led him to the end of the hall and pushed her key into the door, opening it. "This is yours." She stood to the side to let him pass and enter. "I'll be downstairs if you need anything." Isran nodded to her silently and returned his attention to the room. Quietly, the door clicked shut.

Isran let his shoulders sag, let himself feel every ache and strain he had earned on his journey there. His ribs pained something fierce. He dropped his pack roughly by the small table against the wall and then unstrapped his hammer, placing it by the nightstand next to his bed.

He dropped down on the mattress, firm and sturdy, and resisted the urge to lie down and let sleep overcome him. He had to plan the ensuing conversation like he would a battle. His best chance was to explain their situation, simply and quickly, not allowing time for any personal matters between them to come to the forefront. Impress upon him just how hard and quickly they were hit. Bring up Gunmar's leg and Agmaer's brush with death. Tell him of Celann's passing and of Durak's. Even if he cared little for Isran, it was clear the others were important to him. It was why Isran could still send him the locations of vampire threats, provided he did not write the letter himself. He would tell Sorine or Gunmar or Florentius, they would send the letter and then, they would receive one back saying the situation had been handled.

Isran pinched the bridge of his nose as he felt a headache coming on and glared at the wall. Explaining Idessia was going to be a trial. Explaining their relationship, even more so. Friends were all they had ever been, though there was a short-lived time she seemed to wonder if it could go further. Idessia had a cunning mind, a sharp tongue, a sense of humor and a kind heart. All of that was…more than he was prepared to deal with.

'Alva'. No matter how much he wracked his mind, he could not recall the name. All of this was for her. Idessia betrayed their friendship for her. Became a vampire for her. Killed his people for her. Isran reached for his pack and pulled it close, digging in and pulling out an amulet. Carved into Stendarr's sigil, Keeper Carcette had given it to him personally when he finished his initiation. Placed it around his neck, ordering him to crouch first so she could reach, much to the amusement of everyone present. Idessia had been initiated alongside him and Tolan. She had laughed first, prompting all the others. Even himself, to his own surprise. Custom dictated that something be carved into the back, a way to distinguish them. Others chose their initials. Isran chose Kali and Kiara. A reminder of why he did what he did and of what he promised before their graves after he had buried them.

Idessia had Celann's amulet. The amulet, four years later, that Isran himself had wrapped around Celann's neck as the Keeper had done for him. Isran hoped she kept it. He hoped she took good care of it until the day he could track her down and take what he was owed; the amulet and her life. Then, he'd put it to flame, returning it to Celann one last time.

Isran sighed wearily, rubbed a rough hand down the length of his face and beard. He had lost all desire to argue today. He would find a meal, turn in and return to his search tomorrow; ruin both their mornings.

Isran pushed out of bed and quickly peeled out of the rest of his armor. After, he put on clothes he could move comfortably in and left his room. He came down to an inn that was busier than it had been an hour ago. If more people and more drinking and more conversations meant fewer stares, so be it.

"Saadia, correct?" The Redguard woman placed two tankards down before turning. She seemed surprised to see him again. Isran nodded towards the front door. "How much for the chopped wood?"

"Oh…" Somehow, her surprise seemed to grow. "Two septims for every block."

"How much for a meal?"

"Six septims."

He nodded again and left her, moving around the occupied tables and out of the building. Whiterun's cooling air struck him and instinctively, he filled his lungs with it, feeling the heat of the tavern run off his skin in waves. He always did run hot. He rounded the inn's corner to find the stacks of uncut wood along with a stump and an old axe buried within, hidden behind the building, a respite from the eyes of the rest of the city.

Injuries be damned, he'd eat and sleep better once he worked the tension from his bones. He first put a hand to his torso, numbing the nerves there in preparation for the aches to come before he wrenched the axe from the stump, feeling its weight, testing its swing. Then, he palmed the first log and placed it down, lifting the axe overhead and splitting it in one go.

Isran woke to sunlight streaming through a crack in the curtains of his window, his hand coming up to block it. He rolled out of bed without hesitation, cursing and numbing the pain that ran through him, washing and clothing himself and after some thought, strapping on his armor. He left his hammer against the wall but kept the hunting knife strapped to his lower back.

He came down to an empty inn and a morning meal, paid for by his work the night before. Well-rested and smiling, Saadia placed down a plate of eggs, sausage, cheese, freshly-made bread and ale he quickly cooled with a touch. It was surprisingly better than most meals taverns sold. He couldn't remember the last time he enjoyed a meal. He ate when he had to, no other time.

Warming air and a cloudless sky ahead, Whiterun was waking up by the time he left the Bannered Mare. People were hailing their neighbors, shops were opening and some had even managed to make a sale or two. As unlikely as it was, there was a chance he would be awake as well. The night before, after bringing them enough wood to last them the next half week, he asked both the innkeeper and Saadia on his whereabouts. Neither had a clue and Isran couldn't shake the feeling that they were lying. If that were true then their feigned ignorance told him more than they had intended. That he was a regular patron and that both were on good enough terms with him to not divulge information to strangers who may wish him harm.

Would the Jarl be any better? Unlike the women of the Bannered Mare, Jarl Balgruuf wasn't a man who could be plied with coin, assurances or threats. Still, he remained Isran's best lead so upon leaving, he started up the path to Dragonsreach, determined to seek an audience.

His determination fizzled once he reached Whiterun's heart, a circular road lined with buildings and homes, branching off into three roads that led left, right and directly ahead to the Jarl's residence.

At its center stood a tree. It was a tall thing, looming higher than many of the structures around it. Its trunk and branches were thick with age and life and benches were situated among its roots for people to sit under and enjoy its shade. Shade created by a full head of leaves. Leaves that were a bright and gentle pink.

Isran stared at them and became lost in a world of his own memories, even as the outside world continued to move around him.

"Beautiful, isn't it?"

The voice startled him, had his hand halfway to his knife before he stopped it. The woman who had spoken to him, hands clasped before her, had a gentle smile. One that did not waver even though she could see where his own hand had been going. Isran lowered his arm and berated himself for being caught so completely off-guard. Still, he admits, in a soft, roughened voice, "It is."

"We call it the Gildergreen," she told him, turning her eyes back to the tree. "A daughter of the Eldergleam, a tree blessed by Kynareth and one of the oldest in Skyrim.

"I've heard of it." He looked her up and down, took in her robes and the pendant that dangled from her neck. "You're a priestess," he said.

"And you are Dawnguard." At the look on his face and the intentionally stretched silence, she explained, "I've seen the armor before. We have our own member of the Dawnguard living right here in Whiterun. Perhaps you've heard of him? He's very famous."

She turned to him, her smile widened. She was being funny. Isran decided to push the topic anyway. "He's the reason I'm here. Do you know where I might find him?"

"I can't say for certain." Her smile lowered somewhat. "The Jarl would be a better man to speak to."

"Is it so easy?" Isran asked, "To just demand an audience with the Jarl?"

She shrugged. "Not typically but on matters concerning the Dragonborn, he tends to make exceptions. As I said, you are Dawnguard. Our Jarl holds your order in high regard, I'm sure he will listen." She returned to the tree. "He helped save this tree, you know."

"What?"

"The Gildergreen had been dying, hanging by a fraying thread for many years. Felwinter came one day, I told him of it and he asked what he could do to help. No hesitation, I might add, even when I tried to impress upon him the dangers."

The wind blew, rattling the leaves. Isran turned his eyes back up just in time to see several petals come loose and drift towards the ground. Some landed on him, rubbed against his skin on their way down. Isran blinked rapidly and had to squeeze his hand to keep his fingers from trembling. "Why?" His voice came out as a croak.

The priestess reached up and picked one off that had landed on his shoulder, tossing it to the ground beneath the tree. "Kynareth works in mysterious ways. Maybe she spoke to him. Maybe he is secretly a gods-fearing man." Isran leveled her with a look and she let out a small laugh. "His daughter tends to spend time beneath it and has even asked me questions about it. Regardless of his reasons, I'm sure he is glad he did." The woman turned and nodded to him "Danica Pure-Spring," she introduced herself. She gestured to a small but well-kept building off to the left of the tree. "Our temple, if you ever need healing or a moment's peace." She bowed. "Kynareth's blessings upon you, sir."

"Isran."

She blinked, confused. He spoke louder. "My name is Isran. I was a Vigilant of Stendarr."

Her smile became sad. She bowed again. "Blessings upon you, brother. The temple's doors are always open to a man of the faith, whenever you should need it."

Isran watched as she walked off, greeting those in her path before pushing through and disappearing behind her temple doors. Isran's eyes returned to the tree and he sighed heavily. The light patter of feet cleared the fog from his head and when he turned around, he found the Imperial boy from the day before, skidding to a stop before him. He managed to keep his footing this time. The boy was dressed differently today with simple leathers over his forearms and shins and a padded coat over his torso. "Oh, sorry sir," he said, breathing hard.

"Where are you running to this time?"

"Training, sir." He pointed to their right, towards a large and wide wooden building with old shields forming a ring around its middle. Two wooden dragons perched on opposite sides of the curving roof, which reminded him of the underside of a boat.

"Um…" Isran returned his eyes to the boy. "I spoke to my father last night," he said, "He said he never saw you."

"That is because I did not seek him out."

"Well, he also said that you might not know he was my father. That, if I saw you again, I could lead you to him."

"You don't look like him?"

"No, sir."

"You look like your mother then?"

"I don't know. I've never met her."

Isran looked him over. Recent experiences told him that this was a waste of time. That he should send the boy on his way and speak to the Jarl rather than entertain another deliberate dead-end. It was almost admirable just how many were willing to lie for a man they must have only known a few years. But the boy looked insistent and he bore Isran's scrutiny better than he had the day before.

"Where is your father?" Isran asked.

The boy simply pointed to the longhouse again. "This way." He began walking without waiting for Isran's permission. Isran followed him anyway, around the tree, past a brazen statue of Talos and up the stairs to where the building stood, even more imposing up close. Above it was the massive stone carving of a bird of prey, wings half enclosed around something that was belching black smoke into the morning sky. He could see the flames reflecting off its eyes, even in the light of the sun.

The boy led him up a path towards the bird. They reached the top after a short climb. The smoke was coming from a forge, placed beneath the shadow of the statue. Opposite of it stood two men, looking down over the ledge into what sounded like a training yard behind the longhouse. Isran's eyes fell on one of them, an older Nord whose white hair fell past his shoulders.

But when the boy called for his father, it was not the Nord who turned in response but the Orc right beside him. He was shorter than Isran though he was built broad and strong; a warrior through and through. A soldier even, given the way he carried himself. He had his own leather guards on both arms and an axe of pure ebony strapped to his back.

Black hair had been tied up above his head with gray streaks beginning to appear at the temple. The Orc had a face that was set in stone and was just as unmoving. His eyes still narrowed when they landed on Isran but he said nothing to him.

"This him?" The Orsimer asked the boy.

"Yes, sir." The boy looked from Isran to his father. "This is him."

The Orc looked him up and down and still, his eyes gave away nothing about his thoughts on what he saw. He nodded to the training yard below. "You're late, so you're with Aela today. Now, go on."

"I…" The boy's tone told Isran that wasn't a good thing. Still, he said, "Yes, father." Isran watched him hurry back down the path and disappear, hearing he had reached the training yard when several voices went up in greeting. Then, he returned to the Orc, whose eyes had never left him.

The Nord turned to look at the new arrival from the side of his eye. He did so once, looked back at the Orc and then twisted on his heel. He returned to the forge, leaving the two of them alone to speak.