(The Arrival Arc)
Chapter 1: Stay of Execution
Daemon Actorius awoke with a pain in his head, finding his arms bound together by rope restraints as his vision gradually returned to him, and that he was in the company of three other men who were similarly restrained in the back of a carriage (one of whom was gagged). They were Nords (as far as he could tell) unlike him who was of the Imperial breed.
What in Oblivion…?
The last memory he could recall, Daemon had been in the country for the course of weeks when a skirmish had broken out after parting ways with Cornelius Fabius (who had departed for Solitude ahead of him). Having come at the request of his patriarch to settle a business arrangement with a prospective partner. Ordinarily he would have declined—having grown weary of his father's political and business matters and being preoccupied with his recent marriage to his Breton bride, Cerys Dimun, from High Rock whom he had consummate his marriage to and left impregnated with twins—however his father had been insistent on the matter; proclaiming this would ensure that their family would not be troubled by matters of finance for some years and unfortunately he had agreed. How could he not? One does not simply say no to Kaeso Actorius. Many would sooner displease the Wolf Queen of yore. It was once said that during the Great War—in the prolonged event where time slept and swords woke—that the one brave soul to defy the Imperial nobel's father met a death quite unpleasant and gruesome. Mind you, Kaeso had not personally slain that particular Legionnaire himself, nor did he order his brother Regulus or one of his subordinates. The Quaestor was merely given a position in a battle which conveniently went poorly in which the defyer was to be overwhelmed in battle and was originally believed to have fallen in battle only for it to be later discovered that the Dominion instead tortured him to death. Whether the conclusion was as his father had intended or a happy divine providence (fortunate for Kaeso, not so for the Quaestor) was debatable. It set the precedent for how most would conduct themselves around Kaeso moving forward, with even Regulus disturbed. The father and third son did not have a good standing, especially since Kaeso regarded him as a "ill-made, spiteful creature of envy, lust, and low cunning." For this Daemon was pleased to be writ differing from the patriarch, preferring to be like his allegedly disgrace of a grandfather, Crassus. It should have been his oldest brother, Ardyn, however he was away securing political boons of his own in the Summerset Isles with Celebrimbor and the more friendly High Elves and thus the task fell to the Byronic Daemon alone. In hindsight, whilst attempting to make sense of this perplexing and vexing nightmare scenario he found himself unable to wake himself from, it felt as though he was being punished for his past transgressions—be it some random act in his youth or his participation in the slaying of insurgents who were still spurned by the the end of the war with the Dominion with the White-Gold Concordat in the streets of Kvatch beneath the dark skies which still earned him considerable scorn among the noble houses.
"Hey, you." One of his fellow passengers in the wagon suddenly whispered. "You were caught trying to cross the border, same as us, yes?"
The imperial cast his gaze over to the prisoners, seeing the one with the long blond hair talking to him. He was brawny looking, the kind Daemon imagined his sister would be jumping at the chance to wed.
Daemon nodded his head in response, telling them "Yes…the last thing I remember was coming to this province and…" Attempting to fully remember what happened next. Then he remembered a soldier had noticed his presence, more than likely assuming that he was with these men they were squabbling with and he was clobbered once over the head with a sword pommel. "I was hit over the head by a soldier not long after."
He had been informed there were some issues in Skyrim, ever since High King Torygg's slaying, but had not believed them to be this extreme.
One of the other prisoners looked at the blond-haired man and snarled "Damn you, Stormcloaks. Skyrim was nice till you came along. The Imperials were nice and lazy." Thus providing Daemon with some much needed elucidation as to why he was treated so harshly and the reason for the skirmish. Skyrim was in the midst of a civil war. The High King had been murdered and a Rebellion was launched in earnest. The soldier who attacked Daemon must have assumed he was another of the rebels—at the very least he was grateful he only got off with a bump on the head. The second man then looked to Daemon "You and me, we shouldn't be here. It's these Stormcloaks they want."
"We're all brothers in bind now, horse thief."
The thief was far from through with his indignation, so much so that he ended up insulting the gagged man.
"Watch your tone, thief." Blondie told him when a nerve was struck. "You are talking to the rightful king of Skyrim."
"Ulfric…?"
What?!
Thus, further explaining the predicament. Which meant the situation was even more dire than Daemon initially believed. Ulfric Stormcloak, the Rebellion's leader. He was certainly not what the son of House Actorius had expected in appearance based on the stories to reach the imperial's ears. His clothes were dirtied but still refined enough to mark him as from a position of importance, with pieces of his garments torn and showing signs of wear from a big fight. If they had him in the same carriage as a horse thief and Daemon it could only mean one thing: they were not getting out of this alive. A realization the horse thief was sharing. "Oh gods. If they have you then…?" but by then it was too late to panic—at least for Daemon, as the thief did plenty of panicking—and they caught a glimpse of the town their carriage was approaching.
"Helgen." The blond called it when he wasn't groaning about this girl from there he used to be sweet for. He was brave about it, at least, saying they may as well not keep the Gods waiting. He was handling it better than the thief who was praying to the Divines—to all of them, to any that could aid him in this moment of peril—and looking a mite pathetic in the process as far as Daemon was concerned as he was of a similar mind to the blond haired man. Don't misunderstand Daemon was unhappy about it—those damned fools were going to execute him over a coincidence—but losing his mind would do the imperial little boon.
As the wheels of their crude carriage near the climax of its journey for the day, Daemon caught a glimpse of the man in charge speaking with a Aldmeri woman garbed in the black robes of a Thalmor sitting atop horseback.
The wagon stopped, a captain who sounded as though she had a stick lodged up her ass barking "Get these prisoners out of the cart. Move it!" as Daemon and the rest were unloading themselves; and one by one they were called to the front. The thief, revealed to be named Lokir, attempted to talk his way out of this and when it failed he tried fleeing only to be felled by an arrow and the word of an arrogant woman in charge. Blondie, who they called Ralof, went up without a word. But when it came to Daemon's turn there was a snag and the imperial durst to hope. He wasn't on the list. The soldier bearing the list in his hand seemed sympathetic and looked to the one above him in the pecking order. "Captain, he's not on the list, what do we do with him?"
"Forget the list." She said callously. Not wanting to rock the boat. "He goes to the block like the rest."
The man looked toward Daemon, still sympathetic in his eyes, as he said "I'm sorry. We'll make sure your remains are returned to Cyrodiil."
Small comfort, Daemon thought. He cared little for what became of his remains once he had departed for Sovngarde or whatever awaited him beyond Nirn—they could leave it to rot in the wilds for all he cared. All he desired was to see Cerys one last time or to have a message delivered to her—though he doubted the captain or Imperial soldiers would permit such a thing. There was some irony in his own people killing him, he spent years praising the existence of the Legion but now they were leaving a severe distaste in his mouth. They were a disgrace to the armor they wore.
He made no effort to run as the horse thief had attempted. What good would it do? He merely found himself a place to stand among the condemned as he watched General Tullius—once a respectable man among the legionnaires, but now just another disgrace to Cyrodiil as far as Daemon was concerned—castigate Ulfric. Mocking how some may call him a hero, sanctimoniously proclaiming how a real hero wouldn't have used a power like the Voice to slay the High King and usurp the throne. Grabbing the weathered chest cloth of Ulfric's tunic and getting in his face as he said the last part. Daemon despised him, loathed the sight of Tullius and the ground he treaded upon. Seeing that since he last saw him in the parade traversing through the city streets of his birth he still had a log shoved up his ass. If he had the chance the imperial would have killed him.
If only…
Suddenly there was a disturbance. A faint and distant cry could be heard—one which sounded unlike anything Daemon had heard in all of his life—which echoed out from the heavens above disturbed Tullius self-righteous condemnation of Ulfric.
"What was that?" a smart one among them asked.
Tullius dismissed this by stating "It's nothing. Carry on." Gesturing to his aggressive throng captain who was eager to please him and continue to not rock the boat.
The captain did not hesitate to order around the Priestess. "Give them their last rites."
The Priestess began to preach the rites, but one of the Stormcloaks was eager to get things underway. "For the love of Talos, shut up and let's get this over with."
"As you wish."
The rebel was brave, similarly to Ralof. Daemon could respect that. He faced death fearlessly, telling them before the ax came down "My ancestors are smiling down on me, Imperials. Can you say the same?" It pained Daemon to see him lose his head.
"You imperial bastards!" one of the female Stormcloaks barked in response. A local counted with "Justice!" and another said "Death to the Stormcloaks!"
Ralof looked on mournfully. "As fearless in death as he was in life."
"A shame he had to die here. Like this. Killed by cowards." Daemon muttered, earning a smile from Ralof.
The captain must have heard him. She looked at him angrily. "Next: the renegade of Cyrodiil!"
Renegade of Cyrodiil…? Sounds a little flamboyant…I like it.
The one so concerned with his lists looked to Daemon, still full of so much pity. "To the block, prisoner."
With a nod, Daemon complied. Thinking he may as well be as brave as the Stormcloak before him who faced his death with decorum and bravery. Stepping toward the chopping block and forced to his knees. As he looked down at the box containing the dead man's head, the renegade imperial asked mockingly "Enjoying yourself?"
The captain uttered not a word. She merely forced his neck onto the chopping block. Daemon faced the headsman, looking him deep in the eyes with an intense, condemning glare; filled with hatred and disgust. This failed to deter the executioner from preparing to perform his duty.
So this is it? What a damn farce.
Daemon was not going to pretend he had lived a sinless life. He had committed a number of wrongs since he drew his first breath. But this scenario seemed a bit extreme.
As the bloodied ax was raised, Daemon remained firm in his gaze. It was because of this he saw a spectacle of a sight. A black, winged beast which landed on the building behind where the executioner was standing—preparing to take the imperial's life.
"What in Oblivion is that!?" Tullius cried out.
The captain, oblivious of what had the attention, asked "Senties, what do you see?" and then the beast, which Daemon recognized as a dragon—as preposterous to think, even in the privacy of his own mind—, unleashed a thunderous roar and chaos ensued.
There was a call for someone to retrieve the battlemage.
The "renegade from Cyrodiil" struggled, but he managed to pull himself up.
Gazing upward to find that the prisoner who had accompanied himself, the Stormcloak chieftain and the horse thief on the carriage to deliver them into Helgen, Ralof, resting on his knee as he told Daemon. "Hey, imperial. Get up! Come on, the gods won't give us another chance."
Daemon nodded in agreement and followed him into the nearest tower.
"Come on, this way!" Ralof told him. "In here!"
Once they were in, Ralof slammed the door shut and used a nearby table to barricade the entrance and block out any newcomers from joining them. Daemon doubted the door would do them much to keep that…winged monstrocity outside from getting to them, but at least the bastards who attempted to steal his life from him wouldn't be able to get in and face what he chose to perceive as divine punishment.
Though the other stormcloaks present with him in the tower would perhaps not have seen it with as much generosity; especially the two on the ground groaning in agony from their injuries.
He didn't care who was killed, be it from the flames, smoke, or claws of the beast. Be they man, woman, or child. As cold hearted as that may have sounded, even to himself. Everyone one of those bastards out there who weren't one of the rebels or that thief were more than willing to allow Daemon—a man who they didn't even know, a complete stranger—to be put through state sanctioned murder, so he hoped they all perished in agony.
As he pondered over that, listening to the thunderous roars of their serendipitous savior, Ralof glanced at Ulfric who at last was able to speak with his gag removed. "Jarl Ulfric! What is that thing? Could the legends be true?"
"Legends don't burn down villages." was Ulfric's answer before another thunderous roar and explosive sound bestowed the rebel leader with a stronger sense of urgency. "We need to move! Now!"
Ralof nodded in agreement before looking to the nearby circular stairs, and then to Daemon. "Up through the tower! Let's go!"
Daemon agreed. Though there was a brief pause in his movement as he glanced at the wounded Stormcloaks on the ground, instilling him with much regret. He didn't want to abandon them—they may have been strangers to him, and if he hadn't been arrested with him may have even hated Daemon's guts, but it felt wrong all the same (as Ralof said in the carriage, they were brothers in bindings now)—but his hands were still bound together with no means of cutting the ropes and he lacked the means of aiding them even if they weren't for the spells he knew were intended more for combative applications and self-healing. He could do nothing for them. So he forced himself to press forward, regardless of how desperately every fiber of his being was demanding him not to.
Damn it!
He followed Ralof and Ulfric in ascending the stairs, finding another Stormcloak in the midst of decluttering an assortment of debris (that was somehow present) that was blocking the path of going further, saying "We just need to move some of these rocks to clear the way!" That was all the rebel had to say or had the chance to say as before Ralof or Ulfric could help with with the task, the behemoth's head smashed through wall of the tower and unleashed a breath of flame upon the Stormcloak, reducing the man to a charred carcass, then just as abruptly excused itself from the scene.
By Stendar…
If that thing really was one of the legendary dragons, it was certainly living up to their reputation of power.
Ralof rushed to the hole in the tower, looking out to observe the beast's movements. Daemon joined him.
Ralof's focus then altered to the nearby ruins of a building that had once been an inn, with a hole in the roof. Tapping Daemon's shoulder, getting him to see it as well with an index finger point. "See the inn on the other side? Jump through the roof and keep going!"
"Are you insane!" Daemon protested. "If I don't make it I'll be back out there, possibly with a broken arm or leg and where those bastards can get me, assuming the dragon doesn't."
"No time to tarry." Ulfric told him.
"Go!" Ralof remained firm. "We'll be following after you."
"The gods shit in my meal once again. Why me?" Daemon took a step back, hoping a running start would help, he charged forward yelling "Damn it all!" before launching himself out.
The transition of location was quick. Once he jumped out he landed, albeit with a little discomfort to his landing, hitting the ground hard but no permanent damage or at least any sort that may hinder his movement while in the vulnerable state.
He looked back to the two "Okay, blondie, your turn!"
Ralof was seconds from following after him when the black dragon maneuvered around to play the tower a visit. It must have noticed them and decided Ralof and Ulfric were worth the effort of trying a second hand at crushing them (despite in comparison to it in size and power they were essentially ants).
The sight of it made Daemon furious. If he had a sword and was unbound at the wrists he may have even been willing to try attacking it. But he wasn't, so he couldn't. He couldn't do a damn thing, it made him feel powerless and it sickened him. Aware of how little he could do to help them, he could only run for the ruined inn's exit and hope his new allies of convenience were able to avoid serious injury.
Making his way out into the streets, Daemon was horrified by the scene which was more horrifying than he could have imagined by the noises he heard while inside the tower. Buildings were burning if not outright destroyed. One piece of a structure was left crashed into the ground and being used as cover by one of the Helgenites as the Legionnaire who had been holding the list when he got off the wagon was standing alongside another of his comrades exposed to an attack from the skies if the dragon had noticed him..
The Legionnaire was preoccupied with a boy who seemed to be crippled with fear at the carnage unfolding around him. "Haming, you need to get over here." The boy began to step lightly at last, much to the list man's relief. "That a boy. You're doing great."
Suddenly the dragon dropped to the ground before them. The list man's companion grabbed the Haming boy and tossed over seconds before the dragon unleashed more fire from its repulsive jaws to engulf the brave soldier in flame.
"Torolf!" the list keeper screamed in horror. But then the dragon turned its attention to him, the boy in his hand, and Daemon. "Gods…everyone get back!"
Daemon joined them behind the cover, surviving another bout of flaming breath. The former list keeper looked at him, seemingly surprised he was yet to remain among the living. "Still alive, prisoner? Keep close to me if you want to stay that way." They waited behind that cover until the barrage of flames ceased, the dragon grew bored and sought out another humanoid to kill. The ex-list keeper looked to the man behind the cover with them. "Gunnar, take care of the boy I have to find General Tullius and join the defense."
Tullius…Daemon hoped to see him as well. Eager to get one good strike in against that sanctimonious prick.
Gunnar nodded understandingly. "Gods guide you, Hadvar."
So that's his name.
Daemon followed behind Hadvar, fumbling to avoid tripping over some of the rubble, weaving through the ruins, narrowly avoiding the notice of the flying titan, to reach the entrance gate he was brought through by the carriage only it was still closed, much to his frustration. There, low and behold, the shit stain the disillusioned imperial was so eager to find, Tulius, leading the forces while a villager was bleeding out in the streets from a wound to the gut.
Without hesitation, Daemon rushed to slam his forehead into the general's face. Rationalizing he was a dead man regardless, so he may as well enact a little payback. Earning a strike from the fist of a Legionnaire. The only thing preventing them from performing any further violence against him—or even finishing what the headmaster was robbed of the opportunity to do—was Hadvar.
Staggeringly pulling himself up, bringing his hand up to touch the black stumbles on his face as he popped his jaw.
"We don't have time for this." Hadvar pointed out. "Or did you forget about the flying argonian raining fire down on us?"
"Agreed." Tulius grunted. "Hadvar! Into the keep, soldier, we're leaving!"
With that Hadvar helped Daemon to his feet. "It's you and me, Prisoner. Stay close."
"Fantastic." Daemon grumbled sarcastically. Before glancing back to Tullius, considering if he should try his hand at yet another attack.
Tulius grew annoyed with his tarried position. "Run, you idiot!"
Reluctantly, swallowing his pride, Daemon did as he was expected. Chasing after Hadvar, the pair came upon Helgen's keep; and as they did a familiar face with blond hair stepped into view now armed with a battle ax.
But no Ulfric in sight.
The sight of Ralof peeved Hadvar, causing him to snarl at him. "Ralof! You damned traitor. Out of my way!"
"We're escaping, Hadvar. You're not stopping us this time."
Interesting…
By the manner in which the pair spoke to one-another with such hostel familiarity Daemon assumed they were acquaintances before the rebellion went full vogue—the idea of them being old friends possessed some feasibility, but it was just as possible to be unlikely; regardless whatever their relation may have once been it was safe to assume that it was long since soured.
"Very well." Hadvar sighed, then stepped past him as he was of less priority at the moment (which pragmatically, speaking, he was). "I hope that damn dragon sends you all to Sovngarde." Promptly running for the keep's door to the left of the building's side while Ralof went to a door more to the right.
Daemon followed Ralof without much consideration. Hadvar may very well not have been a bad guy—in fact, he struck Daemon a decent man (it was the one thing about the man he was certain of)—, but (while less callous) much like that bitch captain he was more than unbothered by vacuously sending him to the chopping block so that he may lose his head. Thus not to be trusted.
Once they were inside, Ralof closed the door and used a thick plank of wood to bolt the door shut. As was the case with the table he had slammed against the door in the watchtower it would not do much against the flying fire breather but it would do wonders in keeping out any imperials who could attempt to pursue them.
With that task completed, Ralof took the moment to catch his breath at last. Their safety was not secured at the moment, but it was close enough for Daemon and his Stormcloak friend to feel a little relieved.
They stood in silence for a brief moment, feeling disoriented to their core; gathering their thoughts, the weight of what just happened still sinking in as Daemon asked "What now?"
"Looks like we're the only ones who made it," Ralof sighed bitterly, sounding more than frustrated deep inside. "That…thing, it was a dragon. Just like the children's stories and legends. The Harbingers of the End Times." Fear was clear in his eyes, but he was doing his best to put on a brave face and maintain his composure. "We should keep moving."
What was your first clue?
"I'd love to." Daemon told him, holding up his still binded together wrists. "There's just the tiny matter of my wrists STILL BEING BOUND TOGETHER, you ass!" Before calming himself. "Care to do something about it? Unless, of course, you want to do all the labors and fighting henceforth all on your lonesome."
Ralof looked at Daemon with a great, another joker look on his face. "Of course, no need to be hostile" Grabbing a dagger off the nearby table. "Hold still, bindings are always tough to cut without harming the binded."
It turned out he was merely being modest. As he was able to cut through the ropes in a matter of seconds—he was using a dagger, not a kitchen knife—and the ropes dropped to the ground rather quickly.
Rubbing his wrists once the ropes were cut off him, feeling sore at his own touch against the chafed and raw skin which hurt as much as his bloodied feet did from all that damn the running through that rough terrain among the myriad of ruined buildings, no thanks to those worthless, gods forsaken footwraps he awoke wearing, Daemon nodded at Ralof. "Thanks, Nord."
"Think nothing of it, Imperial."
They made for an interesting partnership. An Imperial nobleman and a Nord rebel who looked as though he would not have known the first things regarding finery or refinement. It certainly would make the coming hours as amusing as they would be fraught with some perils.
His new Nord comrade suggested Daemon search the big room they were inside for something that would be of some use, which he agreed to. The room they rushed inside to escape from the chaos outside with the burning buildings and corpses was certainly full of some spots for concealing some goods. There were a few beds, some tables, and shelves. As well as a weapon rack. Unfortunately there was not much for him to use. Even the chests at the foots of the bed were not as fruitful in treasures within. Aside from a few shiny septims on the table.
"Damn." Daemon muttered, before grabbing the handle of an iron sword inside one of the chests and pulling it out. Telling the Nord "Nothing useful, it seems. Let's be on our way." as he joined Ralof's side.
Ralof nodded and pulled on a circular handle connected to a chain on the wall which caused the see through bars of the gate to the doorway which was opposite of the door they had entered from to go downward into the ground.
From there, the pair stepped lightly through the stone block halls of the keep in anticipation of a Legionnaire (possibly Hadvar) to come across them; and a prospective fight. Passing a black banner with the crimson symbol of the empire, which Daemon could not resist tearing down.
Quickly they came upon a circular room. There were a few trophies on the wall—a stag head, a wolf head, and a few others—and a table with two chairs and the corpse of another Stormcloak resting beside it on the floor, its death gaze looking in the direction he had entered from.
It didn't appear as if a Legionnaire did him in; but rather the dragon had wounded him enough before he got inside and then succumbed to his wounds.
Ralof knew him. Daemon could tell by the look on his face as he looked down toward it with a melancholic expression. Calling him Gunjar as he knelt down on one knee. Telling the dead man "We'll meet again in Sovngarde." before closing the eyelids.
He looked to Daemon to tell him "You may as well take some of his gear, my friend won't be needing it now." Though the imperial had some reservations at the thought. It did not seem appropriate.
But he needed more appropriate gear to use, so he took the cuirass and fur boots; although it just barely fitted him.
Then they heard footsteps emitting from the corridor which was connected to an entrance which was to the left of the one he and Ralof emerged from. Daemon looked to Ralof, neither uttered a word, almost instinctively knowing what the other was thinking, and then hid themselves to the side of the entrance.
"Come on, soldier!" he heard a woman barking. "Keep moving!"
That voice…Daemon recognized the owner of the voice. It was that captain bitch who had been with Hadvar, the one who ordered him to the chopping block along with the Stormcloaks. Knowing she was approaching gave Daemon cause to smile eagerly. I'm going to enjoy this.
Once the gate of the entrance went down and the two Legionnaires entered, Daemon grabbed the captain with a "Excuse me, soldier." before throwing her to where he could have her to fight and Ralof could have good space to fight with the nameless drone who had been accompanying her.
"You!" the captain hissed, before drawing her own imperial sword. "You're that prisoner."
"The very same." Daemon told her angrily. "The one you decided to have beheaded for convenience." before a song of blades echoed through the room.
She may have been an ass, but at the very least she was a competent fighter. Slashing at him, attempting to keep Daemon on his toes. In a fair fight she would have faired well. But since Daemon didn't fancy those—believing that in a fight the only thing that should matter is winning and losing, living and dying—, and she did not deserve to have one, he chose to play dirty. Sweeping one of her legs to take her off balance, then driving his fist against her helmet-covered head—knocking that aforementioned helmet off her.
The captain retaliated with a slash that was intended for his exposed head, but Daemon jerked his face back a second ahead of her swing to avoid. He parried another blow. Then, as she thrust her blade forward, intending to stab into his unarmored chest, Daemon spun to his side and followed with an upper slash of his own which tore through her wrist, nearly severing it from the arm and leaving the hand dangling on as it was only just still connected by a tendon.
In more than one, she was disarmed.
Her arrogance vanished as she staggered back, gripping her stump as she let out a cry of agony before the iron sword's point was plunged into her throat. Tearing through one half of his neck and then slicing the other half off as well. Now, she was the beheaded one.
He loomed over the body, feeling exaltation flowing through him.
"Well done," he heard Ralof say.
He looked over to see the Nord had done as well, with his own enemy bleeding on the floor.
Daemon shrugged his head. "I get by." Before noticing that Ralof's bleeding foe was crawling to retrieve his weapon, and pointing to the Legionnaire to tell him "You may want to deal with him, by the way."
Ralof agreed, driving his ax into the man's back.
Satisfied, Daemon began searching the Captain's headless corpse for something useful—particularly a key for the door to the right the entrance they had used. Unlike the previous door they used, it had a commonly implemented latch instead of bars that were opened with a pull chain.
He found one, unlocked the door, and they continued to press forward. Descending some stairs to the left before finding a large hall to traverse, but as he was in the midst of doing so they heard a commotion, sounding as though that dragon was continuing its rampage of razing everything it could outside, and Ralof suddenly seized Daemon by the arm and pulled him backwards, and they landed on their backs. Narrowly saving him from the falling debris which rained down from the ceiling.
"Thanks." Daemon told him whilst pulling himself back up.
"Don't mention it." Ralof replied, before looking toward the rubble as he said whilst he was trying to suppress how impressed he was with the beast's tenacity "That dragon doesn't give up that easy, does he?"
"Seems so." Daemon said as he offered his outstretched hand to help the Nord back to his feet. Ralof accepted it.
Thankfully, a door on the left of the all was spared enough from the rubble for them to use, entering what seemed to be a storeroom, or a hybrid of storeroom and a scullery or cookhouse, with a couple of shelves, a table, hearth, rabbits and pheasants hanging downward, and two more legionnaires.
Drawing Daemon's iron sword and Ralof's ax, the pair dispatched the two, sending them off to join the insufferable captain.
"Well, at least the situations improved, just a smidge." Daemon said, leaving his foes to rot on the floor as he stepped over to the table near the hearth to grab a piece of bread. It had been some time since his meal at the inn he was staying at before that skirmish caused him to be arrested—a scant number of hours, at the very least. "Now my stomach can finally shut up."
Ralof shrugged while collecting some potions from the shelves. "At least you know your priorities, lad."
They seized anything they could carry which would be of use to them, which was essentially a few small red vials of healing potions, and continued onward. Descending downward again, encroaching into a new dungeon room, Daemon and Ralof came upon a fight between a hooded imperial casting lighting against one Stormcloak whilst his comrade was crossing blades with another.
It did not require much to know what the room was. There were three squared cages which were large enough to store a person or three, a gibbet, racks with red stains, pokers and other utensils that were bloody,and generally all things that made it obvious where they were.
"Toll's blood…" Ralof muttered with wide eyes. "It's the torture room."
The hooded one had his foe killed, but he continued to launch lighting into the body for little more than the mere sadistic pleasure. Daemon rushed that parasite whilst Ralof helped him comrade, plunging his iron blade into the elder man, pinning him to a gray pillar which was infested with moss within the chamber. Though the man still had ample life in him.
"You mongrel." the man muttered in insult as he began to try and raise his hands.
Before the sadist could shoot lightning at him, Daemon placed his own free hand before his foe's face and unleashed a strong gust of fire at him, consuming the head in flames. As mentioned previously, Daemon was versed in the art of magic just as he was the art of war (training himself to be a skilled spellsword); it was only not any healing methods; he did just have enough knowledge to know how he could manage with something other than a blade.
As was the previous case with the past two encounters, they were victorious.
Pulling blade out of the torturer, Daemon glanced around the dungeon some more whilst Ralof conversed with his comrades. Feeling disgust rising up within himself.
Torture chambers were not a place the imperial ever wished to see the inside of (be it to witness or experience the torture first hand). Daemon never fancied the idea of them being implemented by his people or the provinces which they commanded; however strongly it was insisted by others on the necessity of such places of vile conduct. Not out of some chivalrous motivation, but personal disagreement.
He didn't care if the victim was cut with a blade, starved, or put on a rack by the kindest of Inquisitors. Torture was still torture.
He could recognize its benefits on seldom occasions, but it did not disgust him any less. The sights before him in the chamber did little to sway him from disliking such tasks.
As he was glancing around the room, Daemon felt a nudge on the shoulder, and looked to see it was Ralof pointing to one of the cages. "Look at this." Daemon stepped closer to have a better gander at what he was speaking of, seeing in the middle cage a corpse in novice mage robes with some septims near his feet. "We may need those once we get out of this place."
Daemon could not have agreed more. Remembering there was a small table beside the pillar (next to the one he had pinned the torturer to with his sword) which he had seen some utensils which may have been useful. Assuming his eyes were not deceiving him in all the excitement of the moment. So he stepped over to that table to see his eyes were in fact not deceiving him. There were indeed a few lockpicks (a trio of them) along with a knapsack, and a book.
Grabbing the picks he stepped over to the cage as Ralof observed, telling him "Hopefully you're better at this than I."
"Debatably." Daemon told him modestly. "I don't have to do this often, so I may be a tad out of practice."
It was true. Daemon had not been in dire need of picking a lock, not since his time in High Rock. Not helped by the fact his father, Lord Actorius, had much contempt for such skill sets; perceiving them as unbecoming of a noble.
Swirling the pick one way, then turning it another, attempting his strongest to not break it, and then with one last hand movement the lock was undone. "Ah-hah." Swinging the door open and stepping in to grab the gold coins before turning his attention to the hooded body.
The garments would be of some use to him.
He did not enjoy taking the clothes from Gunjar, and he didn't relish the idea of doing so again with this one, but he knew the blue and silver attire he was wearing presently would likely attract the breed of attention which Daemon would not appreciate while the hooded mage robes would do that less so. The worst thing he would need to worry about with wearing it was that maybe some Nords would be giving him a stink eye because of the disdain they hold for mage and their craft, but that would be the extent of the problems he would have to contend with.
He would essentially be regarded as if he was a Bosmer caught cannibalistically feasting on the flesh of a non-animal kill.
Once he was redressed, Daemon and Ralof would continue again. With the Stormcloak soldier they had come across fighting with the torturer's assistant in tow. Slaying a small squad of five Legionnaires in a wider room, parting ways with the rebel just as swiftly as they had joined up with her, who decided she wanted to stay behind in case Ulfric found his way through.
They crossed a bridge into some caverns (having it destroyed by rubble from above once across, trapping Ralof's comrade on the other side), finding the occasional skeleton and underground streams, were attacked by a small family of frostbite spiders, and then came close to the conclusion of this annoying episode in Daemon's life. Crossing a bridge of rock when Ralof stopped him with a "Hold." before pointing his finger to a corner of the new cavern room where a bear was resting. "Bear."
"Where's the problem? We can take her."
"I'd rather not." Ralof explained. "Let's see if we can sneak around."
Pinching the bridge of his nose, Daemon sighed "Very well." Before crouching, and then scurrying around the slumbering beast's nest, and then, at long last, they found a large source of light from an outlet which provided the two men a proper escape from the ordeal of their day.
Neither dallied in bolting for the opening, giving great egress emerging out into the light of the sun just in time to see the winged, black beast departing.
"Looks like he's gone." Ralof said, with much relief in his voice. "We'd better make ourselves scarce. This place will be crawling with imperials, it's only a matter of time."
We?
"Where are we supposed to go?" Daemon asked. "I agree, but I'd like to have a plan."
Ralof was quick to tell him "My sister runs a Lumber Mill in Riverwood. I'm thinkin we'd go and see if she could offer us some help, maybe shelter or food or both."
Better than nothing, I suppose.