Interlude 2 – The Castle of the Wolf
A dark citadel looms at the edge of a grand city unlike any other in the entire province of Skyrim. The city stands atop a colossal natural arch, a distant spur of the Haafingar Mountains overlooking an ice-free port sustained by a languid river. Its estuary is crammed full with all manner of watercraft including low-draft Nordic knarrs, simplistic Breton cogs, many-sailed Dunmer junks, and enormous Imperial galleons. The city-arch is wreathed by lofty peaks to the west and south, but to the east it meanders into fetid marshland. Northwards lies the sea.
It's early morning in the capital city of Imperial Skyrim, the busiest time of day for all echelons of society. Merchants and craftsmen swarm the narrow streets, bustling alongside travelers and foreign visitors drawn to the goods, services, wealth, and otherwise numerous commodities offered by this multicultural metropolis. Noblemen and soldiery of every race imaginable circulate among them, hastening to fulfill their duties to the Empire or to the weight of their coinpurses as the case may be. Some men's armor and finery are adorned with stalks of mauve-petaled flowers or cuttings from indigenous douad shrubs, the contributions of a grateful and enduringly patriotic populace.
To the east, on the opposite end of the city from the dark citadel, stands tall and proud a sprawling palace of innumerable windows and blue-tiled domes, the illustrious seat of Skyrim's High Kings for many centuries – though no longer, for the High King is dead by a rebel's hand and his widow now rules in his stead. Some call her an commendable warrior-wife whom even the harsh weight of grief could not bring low. Others call her a mindless puppet of the Empire, subjected to the whims of her betters.
But it's the aforementioned citadel that most readily dominates the city's skyline. Crimson wolf-head banners hang from the battlements alongside others displaying the Imperial dragon. Moss-grown walls and a grassy courtyard make the fortification appear somewhat rundown, though this is contrasted by the dozens of figured bustling about. It's a hive of activity, with armored and crimson-garbed legionaries suffering through grueling training regimens, blacksmiths crafting weaponry and other equipment, and a plethora of servants and courtiers rushing to perform a variety of tasks. All of the necessary elements to ensure the continued functionality of a legionary fortress.
However, this is more than your standard legionary fortress. As one of Solitude's oldest existing structures, Castle Dour was once the epicenter of this ancient city upon its foundation in the early days of the First Era, or possibly even earlier. This fortification has served many purposes over the course of its long history, but in the modern day it acts as the principal headquarters of the Imperial Legion in Skyrim.
Bow-armed and keen-eyed veterans patrol the ramparts with watchful efficiency. Broad-shouldered Orcs and hulking Minotaurs stand guard before the gates, polite in their redirection of curious onlookers but at the same time unfailing vigilant. Officers and logisticians strategize, exercise, rest, eat, and sleep throughout the veritable warren of chambers comprising the castle's expansive interior. Deep below, quite possibly the most secure dungeon in the entire province houses a multitude of insurgents, deserters, dissidents, and their ilk – and in some cases, only what remains of them.
High on the northern wall, a single man presides over this energetic fortress. His fortress, as it happens.
His visage exudes hard-earned proficiency and expertise, and none could mistake him for anything other than a grizzled veteran of the Imperial Legion. His bright silver hair is closely cropped, his forehead is crisscrossed by pronounced wrinkles and scar tissue, and his solemn brown eyes are narrowed against the unceasing oceanic wind. The only attribute to mar his otherwise distinguished countenance is the scruffy beginnings of a thin salt-and-pepper beard.
His armor is a gold-embossed leather lorica bearing prominently the sigil of the Imperial dragon, ornate in the traditional Cyrodiilic fashion while retaining sufficient functionality to last through the fiery cauldron of battle. His tunic is embroidered vermillion, and a cape of the same color hangs from woven golden cord around his shoulders, flapping listlessly in the chill breeze. A utilitarian sword hangs from a plain leather sheath on his belt. Unlike the vast majority of his subordinates, he does not carry a helmet. All told, he cuts a striking figure.
Were his worn features, worried expression, and calloused hands tightly clutching stone crenellations to be seen by his subordinates, then his reputation might be somewhat demeaned in that regard. That's precisely the reason he has taken refuge atop these windswept walls, alone as he observes the frigid seas below. The sight is majestic in that untamed manner which seems to universally define this rugged province, but even so, the northern ocean's wild beauty is never quite sufficient to thwart his troubled ruminations for long.
There is much on which to ruminate, unfortunately. The events of these past months… Divines, where would he even begin? The mission to apprehend Ulfric Stormcloak in the heart of his own territory – in his own Hold, even! – was executed flawlessly. Authorized by the Emperor himself, he considers that raid to have been his greatest accomplishment in his capacity as Skyrim's Military Governor to date, and the only source of hope in an otherwise hopeless mess. Their retreat back to Helgen was handled impeccably as well. The avalanche that blocked off the Pale Pass was an unfortunate case of inexplicable bad luck, but it wasn't enough to forestall Imperial justice. He wouldn't have allowed it to be. Ulfric Stormcloak was due for a meeting with the headsman's axe, and there was no possibility of him weaseling away from that fate.
Or so he'd thought. He first grew worried when the Thalmor insisted on dispatching a team of their justiciars to act as neutral observers – as if they've ever been anything of the sort. He's no fool. If they could conspire to free Ulfric Stormcloak and abet the continuation of his rebellion, then he's sure they would do so gladly.
Of course, in hindsight that isn't the threat he should've been worrying about. What instead arrived to free the Stormcloaks and their damnable Jarl was something straight out of his darkest nightmares. Even now, he feels an incredulous bout of laughter threatening to burst forth at the wretched memory.
A mythic creature, a dragon, saved Ulfric Stormcloak from certain death and in doing so doomed Skyrim to the hardship of an elongated Civil War. The sheer irony of such a thing is downright sickening. That the sacred symbolic being of the Empire should be the cause of such difficulties, furthering its decay and bringing the preeminence of Man one step closer to its inevitable end, is maddeningly outrageous.
His Nord subordinates have offered a million and one explanations for the dragon's sudden assault – which not only allowed Ulfric to escape, but also destroyed the Imperial Legion's gateway to the north and a site of considerable strategic importance. And in the end, he ignored the vast majority of their superstitious idiocy and inane gibberish. Nord legends mean little to him. He's a man who has furthered his illustrious career by dealing exclusively in cold hard facts rather than the desires or opinions of himself or others. If only the same could be said for his contemporaries.
His lips twist into the beginnings of a sneer, though not directed at anyone in particular. Despite his highbrowed ideals, the fact remains that he barely survived the disaster at Helgen. Many of his men, even some of his closest and most capable aides, did not, and even now he still mourns their loss. It was such a waste for good Imperial soldiers who committed their lives to fighting against these rebels, for the sakes of their homes and families, to be disgracefully slain by a Divines-damned dragon. And as they died, there was nothing he could do except run away.
He recognizes the necessity of such an action. It was the only logical recourse. Even so, he feels his cheeks growing hot from the anger and shame. A man of Cyrodiil must always comport himself with honor, but there was nothing honorable about what happened that day.
The province for which he's responsible has now been thrust back into the horrors of renewed war. The current conflict hasn't grown much worse than it was prior to Ulfric's capture, but he fears that it will soon. Even in this most recent fortnight, he's already received reports of worsening commerce raiding in the Sea of Ghosts and a spate of bloody skirmishes across the frontier in the Pale. The harsh northern winter draws near, so perhaps the weather will temper the rebels' aggression for a time. However, he knows that he can't count on the snows to last forever. He must eventually make a move, or else Ulfric will force his hand. With the threat of dragon attacks now an important consideration in the defense of loyalist Holds, the Emperor and the Elder Council will almost certainly never again authorize a raid-in-force to capture Ulfric. Even if they did, the likelihood of the rebellious Jarl putting himself in such a vulnerable position a second time is effectively null. Full-scale war is inevitable.
With such weighty thoughts to occupy him, it's hardly surprising that he would want some time to himself, even if only a little. Escaping his Nord Legate was a difficult task, but he managed. He's sure that she must be searching for him with more logistical papers to review even now. He snorts, eyes roving across roiling sea far below. Moments of peace such as this are few and far between. He often forgets to cherish them properly, but he resolves to do so now.
In typical fashion, the Divines have other plans for him today.
"DOV-AH-KIIN!"
The disturbance seems distant, as if having traveled across a great expanse to reach the ears of Solitude's inhabitants. As a result, its sheer volume seems all that much more remarkable.
The General peers across the horizon, north, east, and south, searching for whatever this strange noise might herald. Is it an attack? Some sort of communique? What could it be?
In the courtyard below, legionaries and servants look about in confusion, awaiting orders or at least some indication of what could be happening. Throngs of people crowd the streets of the city with similar reactions. Some turn their gazes to the sky, others to the Blue Palace, and yet others to Castle Dour.
The General wishes he had an answer to provide. Standing atop the ramparts in clear view of so many beyond the walls of his keep, he can only clench his jaw and stand up straighter, projecting a veneer of confidence and poise for all of these people who depend on him for such things.
Beneath the layers of his stony mask, his thoughts are in turmoil. His previous worries have been greatly exacerbated by this sudden development. Again, what could that have been? Such an occurrence clearly isn't natural, and if the reactions of Solitude's populace is anything to guess by, it clearly isn't commonplace either. He needs answers.
He turns on his heel, crimson cape swishing around him in a stately display that he's spent more time perfecting than he would care to admit, and marches for the nearest corner tower and the staircase housed within.
He's only taken a few steps before the heavy wooden door to that same tower bursts open and spits out an armored figure. Her heavy segmented plate cuirass and high-crested helm denote her as a soldier of significant rank. The newcomer makes a beeline for him.
He halts and waits for her arrival in a manner upholding the dignity of the Legion, a state of being that has been ingrained into him for the majority of his life. As she draws closer, he's able to identify her as his aforementioned Nord Legate by the strands of sandy brown hair and weathered features peeking from beneath her helm.
The woman skids to a stop in front of him and thumps a mailed fist to her steel-plated chest in a hasty but nonetheless well-executed salute. "General Tullius!"
"Legate, do you care to explain what that was about?" He consciously maintains his usual dry tone, not daring to reveal his unease. "Judging by the reactions of my men, I'm assuming it was not a regular occurrence for you Nords."
"No, General…" She works her jaw but doesn't elaborate.
Tullius isn't in a waiting mood. "Report," he orders flatly.
She hesitates. Her eyes fall to the paving stones beneath their feet, not knowing what to say. This is very unlike her usual outspokenness.
His patience is already wearing thin. "Legate Rikke."
"Sir!" she barks automatically.
"If you would be so kind, explain to me what manner of absurdity we're dealing with now."
"Sir. I…" She sighs, lifts her gauntleted hands, and removes her helm. The action informs the General that he probably isn't going to like what she says next. Rikke has served under him long enough that he's willing to allow for such displays of familiarity on occasion. Unfortunately, she's made a habit of taking advantage of that familiarity whenever she delivers bad news. Which has been increasingly often of late.
A cascade of braided hair falls to her shoulders as she cradles the elaborate officer's helm beneath her arm. For the first time, the General notices that the strands of sandy brown are flecked all over with silver and white. He currently has more pressing things to worry about, but a small part of him reflects that he isn't getting any younger either.
"General Tullius, I'm sure you heard that… noise just now."
"I did," he barks irritably, wanting Rikke to get on with it. She hears and obeys.
"I'll speak plainly, sir. I'm certain it was the Voice of the Greybeards. For the first time in six hundred years, they've spoken – even to us here in Solitude, so far from their monastery atop High Hrothgar on the border of the Rift." A flicker of excitement dances across her face. "They've announced the appearance of a new Dragonborn."
The General swiftly processes this revelation, gears turning with adept efficiency in his mind.
He concludes that Rikke's claims are lacking. "That's utterly ridiculous."
"General?"
"A Dragonborn?" He chuckles mockingly, as if humoring a dog. "You know that there are no longer any Dragonborn in Tamriel. I won't tolerate that kind of foolishness, Legate. I'm frankly surprised to hear it coming from you. I expected better."
"Sir!" Rikke retains just enough professionalism to avoid sounding offended. "Please, just listen-"
"Such a thing is simply impossible. The bloodline of the Septims died with Saint Martin at the conclusion of the Oblivion Crisis two hundred years ago. He was the last man to bear the blessing Akatosh and the Dragonblood. There can't be anymore Dragonborn," he stresses.
"With due respect sir, we Nords believe otherwise."
"Bah. I shouldn't be surprised. Your people are many things, but rational has never been one of them." He motions for her to continue. "We don't have long before others follow you here, no doubt to pester me for answers and platitudes. Be quick with whatever else you wish to say."
The Legate gathers her thoughts. "Saint Alessia was the first Dragonborn, as you know, and the line of Dragonborn emperors that succeeded her were her direct descendants. But there were others who came after Alessia, who weren't of her bloodline nor that of the Remans or Septims. Dragonborn heroes as opposed to emperors."
The General offers a skeptical glare. She continues undeterred.
"Nord legend tells of these Dragonborn heroes who were chosen and blessed directly by the Divines rather than inheriting the gift. They were warriors without peer who could slay dragons and steal their power."
At the mention of dragons, the General conceals a wince.
"Ysmir Wulfharth was allegedly one of these Dragonborn, to give an example. Like Tiber Septim, he was summoned by the Voice of the Greybeards to receive their teachings on High Hrothgar. Such was the case for all Dragonborn across our peoples' history, if the bards are to be believed."
"And this summons of the Greybeards…?" Despite his earlier dismissal, the General has heard much about Skyrim's esteemed order of isolationist monks. There are few who haven't. They're renowned across all of Tamriel for their wisdom and steadfast pacifism, and above all else for their legendary role in the rise of Tiber Septim to conquest and godhood.
"I believe that sound we just heard was their holy proclamation," Rikke confirms. "Another Dragonborn, just like Tiber Septim, has come to Skyrim. I don't know what else it could be."
The General stands quietly atop that lonely battlement, stewing in his agitated thoughts for some time.
Tamriel has ever been a land of meritocracy, at least among the races of civilized Men. Birth matters to some extent, but skill and power almost always carry a greater weight. The Empire is a nation of heroes where respect and trust are earned, not given blindly. The greatest Emperors of Man – Reman Cyrodiil, Tiber Septim, and others – were so well-loved because of their actions, not their words or their lineage.
One of the more recent historical examples is Prince Attrebus Mede, hero and savior of Tamriel during the Umbriel Crisis, who married a common girl named Annaïg Hoïnart. He didn't do this for political gain or even necessarily because he loved her – though he reportedly did. Above all else, it was because she too was a hero. She was accepted as Empress upon Attrebus' ascension to the Ruby Throne because she was a hero. To the Men of the Empire, that matters far more than anything else.
All that to say, the emergence of a new Dragonborn in this day and age would be… dangerous. Very, very dangerous. He can't begin to imagine what sorts of political ramifications this development might entail, but needless to say, they will be numerous and exceedingly far-reaching.
His decision now made, he turns and strides purposefully for the corner tower. Rikke falters, taken off-guard by his sudden departure.
"Come, Legate. We must reorder the troops and ensure the city doesn't descend into chaos. With beliefs like those, only the Divines know how our Nords citizens might react."
"Sir?"
"Perhaps there is some veracity to your legends. After all, a 'legend' turned Helgen into a pile of smoldering rubble. I won't dismiss your concerns out of hand."
"Then-"
"But understand this. As far as the troops are concerned, there is no Dragonborn in Skyrim. The last thing they need right now is to believe a potential pretender to the Ruby Throne is running around somewhere out there. Their morale is fragile enough as it is. Speaking of which, the Elder Council will almost assuredly become involved in this situation if what you say is the truth, as will the Thalmor. I don't know how exactly the Dominion will react, especially since their emissaries were present at Helgen during its destruction, but whatever mischief they get up to, I'm certain it won't be good. The last thing we need in this frozen wasteland is even more outside political interference," he grouses.
"General, could we not seek to track down and recruit this Dragonborn? Surely having somebody like that in the Legion's ranks would be unimaginably beneficial for the war effort! The Dragonborn are uniquely suited for defeating dragons, and they could be an invaluable asset for us if another should appear. If nothing else, just imagine the boost to morale in knowing that a Divines-blessed successor to the greatest heroes of the Empire be standing and fighting right alongside us! This isn't an opportunity we can afford to throw away!"
Tullius stops just before reaching the tower and glowers at Rikke from the corner of his eye. The shade offered by the tower as it shields them from the rays of the rising sun casts a dark shadow over his face. "The Dragonfires burn no longer. The Amulet of Kings is destroyed. The lineage of Saint Alessia is dead and foolish men with no claim to righteousness have taken their place on the Ruby Throne. The glory of the Septims is gone forever and Tamriel has descended into an era of degeneration. As far as I'm concerned, the Dragonborn no longer exist, and if they do then they no longer matter. Whether or not one has appeared is ultimately extraneous. These dragons are just another threat to add to our roster, and they'll fall to Imperial steel the same as all the rest."
He enters the tower, leaving Rikke to stare wordlessly at his receding silver hair and crimson cape. He disappears behind the closing door, his parting words causing her to scowl.
"The Empire doesn't need the Dragonborn anymore."