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Chapter VII: Comes the Dragonborn
27th Of Last Seed – 9th of Hearthfire, the Year of Our Divine Sovereign 4E 81
Kingdom of Rivenspire, Voice of The Depths Nightblade Coven, Official Report
Written in the name of King Mannfred Gerhardt, in Service to the Hippocamp
Our Voice is that of the Sea
Grandmaster, rumors of dragons present in the province of Skyrim have been confirmed. Source of anomaly is currently unknown but further observation may confirm temporal activity detected on the 17th of Last Seed. Whether Imperial or Secessionist forces are responsible is similarly unconfirmed. Any response from either faction will be detailed in the future.
(15th of Last Seed, 4E 81) The Mages Assembly detects temporal activity believed to have originated in the Rift Hold of Skyrim.
(17th of Last Seed, 4E 81) First confirmed sighting of dragon occurs early in the morning at the village of Helgen in Falkreath Hold. Attempted execution of secessionist leader Ulfric Stormcloak interrupted as Helgen is destroyed. Both loyalist and secessionist forces escape to respective territory, but with heavy losses.
(26th of Last Seed, 4E 81) Second confirmed sighting of dragon occurs late in the evening at watchtower in Whiterun Hold. A sizeable combined force of local militia and present freemen march out to confront it. Presence of dragon remains confirms that they were able to successfully kill the attacker, albeit not without losses.
Conclusion: What, if any influence, the Empire, Seccesionists, or Dominion may hold over the Anomaly and the return of the Dragons is currently unknown. Evidence provided by brother-agents imply that each faction has suspicions of the other. Recommendation is to keep observing, but assassination of potential figures of either party is to be considered.
Addendum: Unconfirmed reports of Breton as Dragonborn, no further identity known at this time, including loyalty to any particular Kingdom. Militia presences and activity increased; widespread panic has so far been averted but mood in city remains restless. Presence of Thalmor agents in city greatly increased, Separatist sympathizer also showing high levels of activity. Recommendation is to continue to observe Breton and gauge any reactions from any present Nightblade covens.
Walk in Shadow for Crown and Kingdom
Brother Andri
As the guest of honor, Sebastien was obligated to remain at the feast for as long as any still wished to engage him. As a result, it was well into the late hours of the evening by the time he bid his fellow Thanes Olfrid 'Patron of the great Clan Battle-Born' and Nazeem farewell and watched them wander off in the direction of the main doors. Their companions had left hours ago, but both had hung around in hopes of getting the last word with him. An… interesting pair to be sure. Olfrid was the patriarch of what seemed to be a very old and very powerful House in Whiterun, and had clearly figured that warm relations with the Dragonborn would be beneficial to his House's interests. Nazeem, as far as he could tell, was simply a lickspittle who wanted to ingratiate himself with a new power player in the city. He had spoken to the main for what had seemed to be an interminable amount of time but, in truth, was likely no more than ten or fifteen minutes. The Redguard farmer had managed to mention his connection to the Jarl three times, his impoverished beginnings four, and the frequency with which he visited Dragonsreach an astonishing eight. Olfrid had been more restrained in his descriptions of Clan Battle-Born's ventures, but laid out in no uncertain terms his willingness to assist Sebastien in whatever the Dragonborn may require. The Breton had been overjoyed to see their backs.
He surveyed the hall, mostly empty now but for Lydia, him, and a single servant banking the firepit. He turned to find his housecarl's face set in a grim mask that managed to convey discontent across any racial barrier. She had left her seat as the hall emptied and been in place behind him for the entirety of Nazeem and Olfrid's ingratiation. He beckoned for her to take a seat, and she slid into the chair that Olfrid had vacated.
"Were you not enthralled by the conversation, Lydia?" Much of the food remaining on the high table had yet to be collected; he grabbed a few roasted nuts from a bowl and popped them into his mouth.
"Nazeem comes to Dragonsreach often, but I can usually leave before he starts talking." She tore a chunk of bread from a loaf left on the table, and slathered it with the thick yellow butter they used here. She took a huge bite, chewed thoughtfully, and swallowed. "He had you captive, though, and I couldn't help without being immensely rude." She speared a roasted onion now long cold. "Apologies, my thane."
"For not removing Nazeem's head?" He cut a slice from the loaf with a dagger he had taken from the Orc he had slain on the road to Riverwood. "I'll let it pass just this once." Besides, compared to the courts in High Rock and Hammerfell, Skyrim's politicking was proving to be remarkably straightforward. He spread a thin layer of butter on the bread and topped it with cold roast boar and some grilled greens. "We made it through the second-longest dinner of my life, and I believe that I am now both Dragonborn and not entirely despised by the people I am protecting." He regarded his creation for a moment, then ran magicka through his free hand and held it over his food. Not quite enough to combust in the air, just enough heat to… there. He pulled his hand back, and began eating, the food piping hot and steaming. Wordlessly, Lydia extended the half-eaten onion on her dagger.
"You handled yourself well tonight, my thane." She took a bite of the onion, now crisped and steaming, and nodded appreciatively. "Many who were doubtful at the idea of a Breton Dragonborn are now likely put at ease."
"In Whiterun at least, housecarl." He filled his mug with the dark red wine they had served; it was less distasteful than most of the alcohol here, and it seemed Nords did not like drinking water at their feasts. A thin beer was the closest they had, and Sebastien was not fool enough to try such a wretched drink twice in one evening. "I can only imagine what rumors must be stirring outside of it."
"Nothing that can't be proven wrong." Lydia took a swig from her own mug and turned to him. Sebastien was thankful that they seemed to stop having to walk around eggshells around each other. There would still be problems in the future, he didn't doubt it, but at least she didn't seem to hate him. "Out of curiosity, if this is the second longest dinner you've been to, my thane, than what was the first?"
He paused and lowered his mug, before leaning back into his chair thoughtfully. "It was… King Clarence's coronation, I believe, back in 63. Combined with the ceremony, it lasted close to nine hours from noon to near four in the morning." The Whiterun feast had only lasted for closer to four hours and the mood was much more light-hearted. The Great War and King Constantine's death had left a heavy gloom over Wayrest. Clarence had tried to lift the city's spirit with a grand celebration, but it didn't have quite the affect he was hoping to achieve. Well intentioned, but always coming just short of the mark. And if that doesn't describe the man. Hmm, described Sebastien as well come to think of it.
The thought left him silent, and Sebastien found himself taking another, deeper drink from his mug, his mood now thoroughly grimmer. Always so close… his nails dug into the Mark. And yet never quite right…
"My thane!" His eyes jolted open, and he jerked up in shock as his senses returned to him. Lydia was leaning across the table. "I'm sorry, my thane, I had not even noticed you drifting off. You must be exhausted after the feast. Come, the Jarl has given you finer quarters on the upper levels of Dragonsreach." She stood, and he got unsteadily to his feet as well.
They did not make it very far before they were stopped by an older Nord with stark white hair clad in a set of impressively forged plate armor decorated with wolf heraldry. Sebastien recognized him from the feast – Kodlak Whitemane, the 'Harbinger' of the warrior lodge called the Companions. They had spoken briefly during the feast, before Olfrid and Nazeem had done everything in their power to monopolize his time.
"Thane Sebastien, I had hoped to speak with you." The Whitemane's genial tone contrasted with the way he carried himself, powerful, but with precision, like that of an old wolf. Though the Companions held no official role in Whiterun's politics, their ties with the prestigious Gray-Mane Clan and storied history with the city afforded them a wealth of influence as Sebastien had been informed.
His answer was given with the appropriate respect Kodlak was owed as Harbinger. "To what do I owe the pleasure, Harbinger?" He was genuinely curious, Kodlak's face was well schooled, but his eyes betrayed some sort of disquiet. Sebastien glanced at Lydia for any input, but she seemed as taken aback as him.
"I wish to invite you to join the Companions." Sebastien… didn't know how to respond to that. He glanced at Lydia for any input, but she seemed just as taken aback as him. After a moment, he managed to recover enough of his facilities to respond.
"I-thank you, Harbinger." Not an eloquent response, by any means, but the best that he could come up with at such a late hour and at such a spur of the moment offer. Sebastien supposed he should be flattered, but really, he was more confused than anything. "If you don't mind my asking though, why me?" It was a fair question. Other than being Dragonborn, Sebastien had not performed any notable feats of martial prowess since arriving in Whiterun. There had been a plethora of warriors to fight Mirmulnir, and Sebastien's talent in magic had made him an asset that Whiterun had in short supply. He almost wondered if Kodlak's offer was purely political in nature, but that would go against the Companion's usual aversion to courtly scheming.
"Why not you?" Was Kodlak's answer and it did little to offer Sebastien any clarity. The harbinger seemed to pick up on this and added. "I like to believe that I have a good sense for people. I think you'd make a welcome addition as a shield-brother."
"…Can I have time to think it over?" It wasn't a no and Kodlak appeared to appreciate that.
"Take all the time you need, Thane Sebastien." With that, they parted ways with the Whitemane and Sebastien was left to discuss Kodlak's offer with his housecarl. To his mild surprise, Lydia seemed all for it.
"I think you should go for it, my thane." Lydia's insight was offered just in front of the door to his quarters. The halls of Dragonsreach were largely quiet and empty, with the only life aside from thane and housecarl being the dimly flickering torch light. "Seeing the Dragonborn join the storied halls of Jorrvaskr will certainly help quale any naysayers, even in the eastern holds."
"And yet I wonder if its only the Dragonborn that Kodlak sees in value in." Sebastien hadn't been lying when he said he was disenchanted with the man he was before Skyrim. He had made many mistakes and had been trying to make amends for them for fifteen years. He wasn't so scornful to want to forsake his past entirely however, but more and more, it seemed that that might just be the case. Skyrim wanted Sebastien Ciero the Dragonborn, not Sebastien Ciero the Knight in Exile.
Who should I choose to be?
"I'm sure that's not the case, my thane." Lydia's optimistic reassurance managed to break through his latest crisis of identity. She seemed to have a talent for dragging him out of his own head, he was finding. "Harbinger Kodlak wasn't wrong when he said he had a good sense for people. It's said that he can look into your eyes and see your worth."
If that was true, housecarl, he would have seen very little in me. "Lydia." His housecarl turned to face him. "Thank you."
"Of course, my thane." She looked a little confused as she responded, and he knew that it would take longer than he cared for to explain why he thanked her. They moved on and Sebastien was left wondering if perhaps Kodlak and Lydia alike saw more in him than he was able to anymore.
Agent Crexus of Whiterun, Report 322, 30th Last Seed
My initial assessment of the dragon assessment (Report 321) has been confirmed. Dragon bones at watchtower along Reach Road fresh, signs of battle apparent. Rumors in city of Dragonborn unconfirmed but likely given state of dragon corpse and numerous eyewitness accounts. Unsubstantiated reports of Breton as Dragonborn, no further identity known at this time. Guard presences and activity increased; widespread panic averted but mood in city remains restive. Number of Thalmor agents in city greatly increased, Stormcloak sympathizer also showing high levels of activity. Courier services running day and night, message traffic at all-time high. Recommend further investigation immediately.
Written in the Service of the Council and the Emperor.
Agent Crexus of Whiterun, Report 323, 2Hearthfire
Follow up to Report 322. Dragonborn confirmed. Named Sebastien Ciero, is a Breton of indeterminate but not advanced age. Likely to be High Rock-born. Associated with winged hourglass symbol, possible association with the Order of the Hour. (See sketch below). Raised to rank of Thane in Whiterun, assigned Housecarl (name Lydia), remaining in Whiterun for time being. Likely next destination is High Hrothgar to consult with Greybeards. Will send more information as becomes available.
Written in the Service of the Council and the Emperor.
"You may enter, Dragonborn." Irileth motioned Sebastien through the heavy wooden door, and shut it behind him. She and Lydia both remained out in the hall, an unusual occurrence from what Sebastien had been able to make out of the housecarls. He had detected a hint of approval in the Dunmer's eyes, though for what he could not say. Once through the door, however, he was taken aback by what lay before him.
Sebastien was not one to praise the aesthetic sensibilities of the Nords, but he had to admit that Jarl Balgruuf's private study was a masterwork. The chamber was richly adorned without being opulent and conveyed the character of its occupant well. Trophies adorned the walls and held places of honor on sideboards and tables around the periphery. Some seemed ancient, while others looked brand new; Sebastien noticed a long tooth that he somehow know had been pried from the mouth of Mirmulnir. The floor was smooth pale wood; the pillars that supported the ceiling made of the same but carved with flowing vines and water. Three braziers lit the room, and by the pleasant smoky scent, were burning rich wood rather than the common scrap that usually filled braziers like these. While many Nord buildings with such heating had a tendency to fill with smoke, some enchantment had been laid upon these that rendered the air about them perfectly clear. The Jarl himself was reclining on a great chair lined in furs, its twin sat across from him and a gilded carafe with two cups and an assortment of food was laid out on a table.
"You honor me, Jarl Balgruuf." Considering how carefully everything involving the Jarl had been designed up until now, it was clearly a strong component of Nord culture that the leader was seated at the center or the head of any gathering, preferably physically above his underlings if possible. To meet like this was clearly a gesture of esteem and trust.
"Please, take a seat, make yourself comfortable." Sebastien did so. "Have a drink if you would like, it's a Cyrodiilic brandy from the Surilie Brothers in Skingrad. 75, a banner year." Sebastien poured a modest dram into one of the carved stone cups. He noticed the other cup, and the Jarl's empty hands. Does the guest pour in Skyrim if there is no servant?
"Would you care for some as well, Jarl Balgruuf?" At the Nord's nod of assent, Sebastien filled the other cup and handed it over. For a moment, there was silence as they drank. The brandy was familiar with a sweet, fruity taste tinged with oak from wooden casks. It was a fine vintage and would not be out of place amidst the stocks of dukes and bannermen of High Rock. I thought Nords drank mead, though?
When he asked the Jarl about his choice of beverage, the Nord cheerfully admitted to favoring mead and beer like most of his people Sebastien had met. "I've no quarrel with bloods of the grape, but I won't seek them out. However, I heard that you favor such drinks, and we had this in the cellar."
I wonder what he wants from me. Or is it a perk of being the Dragonborn that your hosts break open their reserves on your behalf? "You heard? From whom?"
"The servants at Dragonsreach did not earn their position merely by virtue of luck. They notice the favorite food and drink of everybody of import and, when I need to know, the understaff has that information." He shrugged and reached out to take a morsel from the table. "Would you care for a mudcrab leg? They are steamed and shelled then dipped in butter, and go wonderfully with the spiced goat's cheese."
Sebastien half-suspected that this was the set-up to either an exorbitant request or an attempt to kill him, but he had to admit the food and brandy was superb. Surilie products were praised even in High Rock, and their finer vintages commanded high prices and higher praise. If I am to be Dragonborn, there are worse ways to assist Skyrim. "Jarl Balgruuf, as thankful as I am for this," his wave indicated the refreshments and setting together. "I suspect that there is something you would like from me. I am happy to help in whatever way I can." That was even true. The Jarl had seen fit to provide fine chambers, new clothing and armor for his horse, and an open offer of whatever aid he could render the Dragonborn. He had even gone through the trouble of having a set of cloaks made up with the Ciero Family Crest on them; while he doubted the Jarl knew of its significance, he appreciated the gesture immensely.
The Jarl sat forward, and his countenance grew more serious. "Indeed. First though, I would ask, how have you found Whiterun thus far?"
Another pointless pleasantry? "It is a good city. You and yours are to be commended for keeping it so." He was sincere as well, though perhaps a bit on edge. He missed many things about High Rock, but political theatre wasn't one of them and he was a bit vexed to find it had followed him to Skyrim. He was trying to keep the annoyance out of his voice, and was fairly certain he had succeeded, which gave him a bit of a shock when the Jarl gave a mirthless laugh.
"The question has a point, I assure you. You see a prosperous city, but my palace sits atop a mountain of snow, ready to collapse at the merest touch. Whiterun is a city divided and afraid, and I want your help to keep it peaceful." Sebastien was taken aback by the admission, but indicated that the Jarl continue.
"The Stormcloaks have stepped up activity in the east since Ulfric's escape, and the Empire would like to use Whiterun's plains as a staging ground for thrusts into Stormcloak territory. General Tullius, the military governor," his mouth twisted "has sent me a number of letters, each less polite then the last, reminding me of my duty to the Empire, and 'encouraging' me to choke off trade to the Stormcloak holds. He has been kind enough to offer additional Imperial protection for Whiterun should we agree. Hah! Meanwhile, Ulfric send couriers telling me that every true Nord must fight for freedom and Talos, even against the Empire he founded. I am playing the shy maid for now, courting them both but offering nothing in return, and soon one or the other will demand I make a choice. They will do so with swords and spears, and whatever I choose, my hold and my people shall bleed. And now, there are dragons in my hold. Have you heard? Another dragon was sighted near Rorikstead two days ago; I got the missive this morning. A merchant from Riften saw one of the beasts near the ruins of Valtheim; he says it was only by the grace of the Divines that the beast did not attack. So tell me, Dragonborn, what do I do? Akatosh sent you to us in our hour of need. So now I am asking you, where do we go from here?"
Sebastien was at a loss as he felt a chasm open up beneath his feet. Asking me about this is… it was exactly right. I am Dragonborn. Who else should be consulted about the dragons? No doubt this sort of thing would be all too common in the days and weeks to come. I may not know anything, but neither do they. And I can think like them, to an extent at least. Thinking like the Dov conjured up troubling and familiar desires, but he had been meditating on the Virtues and the Homilies of Service every night, and was growing more skilled at locking away those parts of himself. Of late the question had come slithering into his mind whether it was wise to tamp down the Dov to protect that bit of him that was mortal, that was Joor. He had decide that, wise or not, for now it was necessary, and he would suppress the draconic desires for the present. They have a time and place. But not here, not today. But he could think like a dragon, and use that against the others. "Your first goal should be to fortify key locations." Dragons would accept a challenge, but they were not suicidal. "Forts, watchtowers, any town of size. Use ballistae and stone-throwers, or scorpions if you have them." The engineering colleges of High Rock produced and maintained a number of these war machines and many of their members were trained in their operation. He could see these weapons tearing through a dragon's great membranous wings, and suspected that any so torn would stay away in the future. "And mages, as many as you have." The Dov laughed at the thought of a single solider on the field, but a mage was an enigma, and even a single master wizard could turn the tide if left to their own devices. They complicated matters, and a dragon wanted battle to be straightforward, a chance to show its strength. "Strengthen patrols around the hold. Ensure that any sighting of a dragon is reported and tracked." Mirmulnir had attacked the western watchtower because he had hidden for so long, and wanted to display his strength. Would other dragons do the same? "These patrols may come under attack, but they should draw attention away from civilians."
The Jarl sighed. "These are good ideas, many of which my other advisors have proposed, and I wish I could do them all. There are few enough mages in Skyrim. Ever since the Great Collapse of Winterhold, most of my people view magic as dangerous. Those who have chosen the path, such as Farengar, are a minority. Siege weapons we have, though most are in dire need of repair and trained soldiers to man them. There are some in Whiterun who served in the Legion as artillerymen, but most are old. Those we have are training others, at least. The Empire is unlikely to send any of theirs unless I roll over for Tullius. Farengar has encouraged me to send to the College for more wizards, and I may do just that. As for patrols…" he gave Sebastien a long look. "How many men do you think I have who would be willing to ride out and draw a dragon's wrath? To flee from it, knowing they would likely die?" He shook his head sadly. "Thank you for your input, Dragonborn, but it is as I feared. Unless something changes, I cannot fully protect my hold." The Jarl rose, and moved to stand before a bookshelf that stood taller than he did. His words came as he faced away from the Breton. "But now, we return to my true purpose in asking you here. What of you, Dragonborn? How will you assist in defense of my hold?"
Sebastien had given this idea some thought, and several of the Jarl's comments had given him the clarity he needed to make a decisive answer. "I will leave Whiterun soon enough, and make for High Hrothgar, to learn from the Greybeards. If even half of the tales I have heard about the Dragonborn are true, I can be of far more used once trained than I ever could here in Dragonsreach without their knowledge." He fell silent then, and awaited the Jarl's response. He would be free to leave the city, he had no doubt, but Jarl Balgruuf had done much and more for him, and if he insisted on Sebastien remaining in the city to aid the defense in some way it would be difficult to refuse.
To his relief, however, the Jarl had turned to look at him and nodded. "Good. I agree with you, the Greybeards will give you the knowledge and training you need." He looked away then, at a hooded grey cloak hanging on a mannequin in one corner. "Truth be told, I would like to go back up there myself, but I am Jarl now, and needed here." He turned back to face Sebastien. "It's a long road to High Hrothgar, both the northern and southern roads cross territory contested between the Empire and the Stormcloaks. I will instruct Skulvar down at the stables to wait only on your word to make your horses; ready."
The Jarl sat again, and took up another mudcrab leg. "All is not as dour as I made it out, perhaps. My brother Hrongar had announced his intention to raise a unit of dedicated dragon-fighting cavalry; hopefully his experience with keeping our roads safe from bandits will help him against this new enemy. The town watch had added twenty new recruits in addition to replacing those that fell against the dragon, and the Hold Guard has added thirty as well. I have received reports from Rorikstead that mercenaries and adventurers are pouring in in hopes of finding another dragon to fight. We have the men to fight another dragon, if not exactly the mages and siege works you desire."
A wave of unease overtook him at the thought of these adventurers trying their hand at dragonslaying. "Let them fight if you wish, but you will only be offering the dragons more prey. I suggested siege weapons because they can cause massive trauma with a single blow, and mages because they can skew advantages on the battlefield. The soldiers were only meant to draw the dragons away, not fight them! If you throw bodies at the dragons, you will only get back charred corpses." He could still see the dead from the battle with Mirmulnir, the broken bodies smoking and the dying souls screaming.
Such arrogance…To fight a Dov.
Sebastien shook his head. Enough of that, damn you. The Jarl was speaking once more. "And what would you have me do, Dragonborn? Tell them off from patrolling the plains, or arrest anybody looking for a fight? I have no good solutions here, so I will make do with bad ones! If the Empire sends me some siege engines out of charity or fifty mages arrive tomorrow and swear their service, I will use them, have no fear! But for today I must do what I can protect my people, and this is it. They come to my hold and my city, spend coin and buy goods from my merchants in these troubled times, and I am thankful for that. I will not dishonor these brave visitors by keeping them from the fight. You had best learn quickly, Dragonborn, that we are not always given the chance to make the perfect choice. Men like us, those burdened with power and responsibility, must work with what we have."
Sebastien was quiet for some time as he considered the Jarl's words. He could pretend it did not bother him, but Sebastien was very aware that he wasn't suited for power, the Mark burned into his hand was a testament to that. And yet, the Divine Court seems intent on giving it to him. The Dragonborn must be more than I can be. Add to that these new passions that he had started thinking of as the Dov within him, and he was worried he was at a very real risk of waking up one morning to find himself completely lost. I cannot both be Dragonborn and reject the powers granted to me, but I will not let myself forget who I am! He was Dragonborn, but what did that mean? How did this end for Sebastien Ciero? Unbidden, the thought rose within him. It doesn't matter what they want. Take their power, take what you want. You are Dov, and they will kneel or they will-
I said BE QUIET!
Outwardly, to the Jarl oblivious to the bouts of madness that afflicted his thane, Sebastien spoke. "I understand, though I still don't like it. Work on getting those siege engines, and fortifying your watchtowers and forts. I will go to High Hrothgar, and see about becoming the Dragonborn of which the bards sing." They expect the Dragonborn, so give them that.
It was time to see Kodlak.
Jarl Ulfric,
I was relieved to hear of your escape, and assure you that your friends in Whiterun continue to work towards the liberation of the city for the true sons and daughters of Skyrim. This letter travels by trusted courier and there is no risk of interception, so I will speak frankly. The Dragonborn is a churl; an ungrateful Breton who cannot even understand the honor bestowed upon him. We all know that such honor belongs to you, and there are those who whisper that all of this is a Thalmor ploy to discredit you. His name is Sebastien Ciero, and I would encourage you to move quickly to liberate Whiterun before whatever foul plan the Thalmor have concocted in brought into play. I cannot say if he truly can slay dragons, but surely he can do nothing that cannot be better down with the stout hearts of men.
I remain your obedient servant.
Avulstein Gray-Mane
"They think it was us."
"Was it?"
"Not that I've heard."
"What is a Dragonborn, by the way?"
"Some Nord thing, I'd wager. Though I don't know what a Mongrel could do to exploit it."
"I'll make a copy and put the letter back, he'll wake up in a few minutes and think he just dozed off on horseback."
"Nice work on that spell, kinsmer. To charm both man and beast to an insensate so quickly, not an easy task. I'll make a note in our report."
"My thanks. You should go do something impressive now so I can return the favor."
Jorrvaskr made for a striking image when contrasted against the rest of Whiterun's skyline. A mead hall built from a long-beached warship, one that supposedly bore the first 500 Companions of Ysgramor from the far north of Atmora to Skyrim. Standing under the foreboding shadow of the Sky-Forge, the hall certainly seemed to live up to the legends. It was this mindset that drew Sebastien to Jorrvaskr with the intent of accepting Kodlak's offer and joining the storied band of warriors. Sebastien needed to live up to the legend that was the Dragonborn, both for the Nords and for his own peace of mind. Those passions and ideas that Mirmulnir had left him - that part of him that he had dubbed Dov – was restless and struggled against the mental yoke he had affixed upon it. Courting it was dangerous, but so was denying it outright. I can only hope that this will pacify both, at least until I make it to High Hrothgar.
The time for their departure was drawing closer and the knowledge of that left Sebastien filled with a buzzing, uncertain energy. He had no idea of what to expect of these Greybeards or what training under them might entail. Jarl Balgruuf was frustratingly both helpful and unhelpful in that regard. He, like many other jarls, including Ulfric Stormcloak, had studied under the monastic order in his youth. His experience, however, had been relatively mundane, studying the traditions of old Atmora and the ways to venerate Kynaree. All spiritual stuff, but nothing that could help him master the Thu'um. Until then, all Sebastien found he could do was act as how he thought a Dragonborn should. It was strange at times, this air of confident superiority, but the majority of the Nords here seemed to take it in stride. In the past few days, he had watched the reaction of the guards change and even Lydia had remarked on it, though she found it amusing rather than inspiring. She had given her blessing to his attempt, however, as well as some hints on how best to proceed.
His housecarl was absent at the moment. He had sent her off the to markets of the Plains District and expected her back sometime in the afternoon. Lydia had taken this temporary absence well enough, perhaps understanding that it wouldn't do for the Dragonborn to be seen with a bodyguard hovering nearby in front of the Companions. While his housecarl made the final preparations for their journey to the Rift, Sebastien entered the storied mead hall of Jorrvaskr and for the first time in many generations, a Dragonborn stood within the ancient and legendary mead hall. Yes, this is pretty much exactly what I was expecting. Perhaps that thought was somewhat unfair, but in Sebastien's defense, everything one might expect from a hall dedicated to the drinking and storytelling of epic deeds by legendary warriors was all true as far as he could tell. The mead hall was a large, single roomed building dominated by a heavy firepit in its center where a whole cow was being spit roasted over an open fire by a pair of thralls. Lining this firepit were long tables laden with plates, cutlery, and large mugs where he imagined the Companions must have regaled each other with tales of bravery and valor over droughts of mead and ale. The walls were lined with trophies that ranged from the mounted heads and furs of mighty beasts to the worn and rusted weapons of past members.
Overall, the atmosphere was far more casual than that of Jarl Balgruuf's hall, though that too was perhaps to be expected. No one yet had seemed to notice Sebastien; all their attention was centered around a sectioned off part of the hall where two men – a Nord and a Dunmer – were brawling in a sand-layered ring. Mounted on the wall above this ring was what at one time had been a truly massive battle axe, now shattered into pieces. As Sebastien had learned, this was Wuuthrad, the legendary axe of Ysgramor himself. Sitting in the shattered axe's shadow was an older Nord with long grey hair, but it wasn't Kodlak. Sebastien recognized this Nord to be Vignar Gray-Mane, a fellow thane and former Companion.
"Hmph, figured you'd show up eventually." The Gray-Mane barely glanced at Sebastien as the Breton approached. Vignar gestured to the fighting pit with his mug. "Tell me, what do you think of the newest whelps?"
Turning to the ring, Sebastien privately admitted that he was somewhat impressed to see the Dunmer holding his own. Mer as a rule, were not as physically strong as men, especially when compared to Nords in particular. The 'whelp' as Vignar said, instead used his smaller frame and speed to his advantage, ducking and weaving under the Nords blows. "They're quite the spectacle." Sebastien's answer was careful and neutral. "To be honest, I wouldn't have thought the Companions would accept a Mer, let alone one of Morrowind."
Vignar snorted. "Heh, if we were still in Ysgramor's day, you'd probably be right." The Nord sighed. "Old Ysgrim's probably rolling in his grave, if he wasn't already with Wuuthrad shattered." Turning toward the Breton, Vignar added. "Word to the wise, boy. Unless you're talking to one face to face, it'd probably be best to call 'em 'Elves' in Skyrim. That flowery 'Mer' talk won't go over well with most Nords, especially not in Stormcloak territory."
"I'll keep that in mind."
"Kodlak's downstairs, if you're wondering. Talking with Vilkas, though only Talos knows what about." The Gray-Mane snorted again and took a deep drought of mede from his cup. "If you want my advice, though, I think it'd be best if you just kept away."
The remark caught Sebastien off guard. "Why do you say that? I thought it was every Nords dream to join the Companions?"
The older Nord bitterly sighed. "Aye, I thought the same too when me and Eorlund were still whelps. Back then, the Companions still used to be something." Vignar shook his head, peering into his mug pensively. "Nowadays, they just squabble among themselves, just like the rest of Skyrim. Trust me boy, you look too smart to get caught up with this bunch." Sebastien didn't answer and instead quietly walked away from the old Nord. "Hmph, I was done talking anyway."
The lower levels of Jorrvaskr was mostly a long hallway made of stone, its walls lined with bedrooms for the Companions and the Circle. Sebastien found Kodlak at the end of the hall sitting at a small table. Beside him was a younger Nord with dark hair and darker circles around his eyes, as if he hadn't had a restful sleep in some time. He was wearing the same wolf-embellished armor associated with the Circle. This is likely Vilkas, then. As Sebastien approached, he caught only the tail end of their conversation and what he heard confused him.
"You have my brother and I, obviously, but I don't know if the rest will go along so easily." Vilkas sounded as tired as he looked. The Harbinger of the Companions laid a comforting hand on the younger warrior's shoulder.
"Leave that to me."
Sebastien frowned. Was there some internal strife occurring within the Circle? Perhaps what Vignar said was true. Still, even if there was come conflict going on that Sebastien wasn't privy to, he still wanted to see if the Companions could offer some insight that could help him be a better Thane to Whiterun. Stepping forward, Sebastien nodded to both Kodlak and Vilkas. The Harbinger's eyes lit up at the sight of the Breton.
"Thane Sebastien." Kodlak welcomed him with a firm handshake, a smile tugging at his whiskered face. "I'm glad to see you've decided to join us here at Jorrvaskr." The Harbinger's fellow Companion was not quite as welcoming.
"Master, are you sure we should be accepting a member of the Court. Even if he is Dragonborn, the politics of Dragonsreach have no place in Jorrvaskr."
"I am no one's master, Vilkas." Kodlak insisted, his voice firm and brokering no argument. "And last I checked it is not rank or title that decides who joins us. What matters is their heart."
"And their arm." Vilkas dryly added. "I didn't see him using that sword of his at the Watchtower."
The White-Mane reluctantly acknowledged his younger's point with a nod. "Aye, that's true enough." Turning to Sebastien, he gestured at the bastard sword hilted at the Breton's hip. "How are you with that needle, boy?"
It was a fairer question than either Nord realized, and Sebastien's answer implied as much. "I can handle myself, but there is always more to be learned." It had been a gift from Jarl Balgruuf's personal armory, a pseudo-badge of office to mark his ascension to Thane. In truth, the sword did not feel quite right in his hands. It was certainly well made, 'Sky-Forge steel' as the Jarl had called it. But it wasn't his, not truly. With his own sword presumably lost alongside Helgen, however, it would have to serve Sebastien for now.
His humility was met with approval from Kodlak. "That's the spirit." He gestured toward the younger Nord. "Vilkas here will be the one who'll test your mettle out in the yard."
Vilkas stepped forward, his face severe and gestured for Sebastien to follow. "Come on then, new blood. Let's see what you're made of."
Dearest Dee,
It was so good to hear from you! Of course, you must have heard the news by now! A Dragonborn! And a Breton, no less! It's all anybody at the Mare can talk about. I even saw him when he came back after the battle. A whole crowd of guard, and him in the middle looking so odd himself, with a winged hourglass on his armor and that sharp Breton face. It's strange days coming, Dee, but haven a Dragonborn makes me feel safe, you know? You need to come visit Whiterun! It must get so boring down there, I don't know how you do it.
All my best to Orgnar, and you take care too!
The best informant in the world was a chatty friend. Send a letter every few weeks, and any news in Whiterun was on its way to her the morning after it had occurred. Delphine had told Orgnar she needed a few days, saddled Shae, and set off northward, towards the ancient barrow-hall of Ustengrav. She had heard the Greybeards call Dovahkiin, and that meant the Dragonborn would be on his way to them soon enough. Eventually, they'd send him for their precious horn, and she would make sure that led them to her. A Dragonborn. For Hulda, it mean safety, but not for her. For Delphine, it meant cold nights and risking her neck on foolhardy missions like this. It meant new dangers and more like than not an early death. It meant having a purpose again, and riding off to save the world. It meant hope.
Sebastien brought up the blade just in time. The blow that would have taken him in the neck instead slammed into his sword, slid upwards along his guard and locked against his hilt. The rapid impacts sent shivers down his spine, and he pushed with the blade, the awkward angle forcing his opponent's weapon out and away from their bodies. His opponent was open, and his blade was within his guard. He needed only to bring it in to be able to-
He saw the shield half a second before it nearly slammed into his side, and Sebastien dashed back, letting its edge glide by harmlessly. Switching to a two-handed grip, then parried the Nord's next strike, sparks flying from where steel bit into each other. His first blow was overhead, a huge arcing sweep that Vilkas came close to letting through. His shield did rise, however, and the blow glanced harmlessly off. Sebastien anticipated this, however, and was able to angle his strike such that it slid along the shield and fell off to the Nord's left in a single motion. Using both hands, he was able to bring it up under the shield and slam the blunted edge of the sword into Vilkas's arm. The Nord gave a sharp curse, and Sebastien drove the pommel into his side. Don't fight the armor. Fight what's inside. Good advice when fighting Dreugh or Orcs. Without magic available to him (a restriction that he found rather tedious, but one Vilkas was insistent on) or a warhammer, that approach was rather limited. As Vilkas staggered back, Sebastien could see his sword closing fast on him, and this looked to be one of the swift and merciless strikes that could crack bones if it hit full on, armor or no. He could heal, of course, but both the wound and the cure would hurt like Oblivion, and he had no desire to go through that again. Instead, he dropped to his knees and thrust the blade at his sword arm. He felt the impact, heard the curse, and looked to see the Companion standing before him, both arms held awkwardly at his sides. He stood, and reached out to tap Vilkas on his wolf armor with the tip of his sword. "I think the round is mine."
The Nord gave him a look that could generously be called measuring. His mouth twitched. "Heh. Mightier than you look, new blood." He did not sound entirely displeased. "Who taught you how to fight?"
"My father." Sir Marcel had been a good knight and a better man. Everything Sebastien knew in swordsmanship he had learned from the years spent squiring under his father. Everything he knew of magic, on the other hand, had been the work of his mother.
"You might just make a Companion yet." Vilkas smirked. "But you're still a whelp to us, new blood." The Nord shoved his sword into Sebastien's hands. "Here, take this up to Eorland for sharpening. Next time won't be so easy."
What, if any, social faux pas the Nord might have made ordering around a Thane, Sebastien decided to let slide. Dov might have rankled at being given chores by a Joor, but he was able to keep its grumbling within. With borrowed sword in hand, he walked up the steps to the Sky-Forge and found Eorland Gray-Mane hard at work under the stone eagle's shadow. Though he was his brother's elder, and technically had a greater claim on the title of Thane, Eorland left most of his courtly responsibilities to Vignar, preferring to work as a blacksmith to both the Companions and Jarl Balgruuf.
"What brings you here, Dragonborn?" The Nord caught sight of Sebastien climbing up the hill and stepped away from the forge.
Sebastien handed the sword over to the blacksmith. "Vilkas sent me with his sword. He said he would like it sharpened."
"You're the newcomer then, eh?" The Nord took the sword and looked it over. Eorland grunted. "Hmph, yeah, the edge is getting dull. Any later and it wouldn't even be good as a training sword."
"Does Vilkas always send newcomers on errands?" Though not as incensed as Dov, Sebastien could admit in private that his pride stung a little at being treated like a squire again.
Eorland waved the question off. "Eh, don't worry too much about it. They were all whelps once; they just don't like admitting it." Putting the sword on a table next to a grindstone, the Nord turned back to Sebastien. "Just be sure not to always do as you're told. Nobody rules anybody in the Companions."
Sebastien arched an eyebrow. "I was under the impression that Kodlak was the leader. Isn't he Harbinger?"
"Aye, but that's not the same as being in charge. Harbinger means that people go to him for counsel. There hasn't been any leaders since Ysgramor's days. Every man and woman is their own."
To be honest, it sounded a lot like anarchy. Still, it must have been working for them, to have lasted this long. As Sebastien descended down the hill, he was surprised to see Lydia waiting at the bottom. His housecarl wasn't looking at him, however. Instead, her attention was solely focused on the training area. Just what are you looking at, housecarl? Sebastien followed Lydia's line of sight and blinked in surprise. At the archery range was Aela the Huntress, a red-haired archer dressed in leathers and the sole female of the Companion's inner circle. The archer was practicing with her bow, and it did not take Sebastien long to piece together just why his housecarl was so captivated or why her face was so red. Smirking, Sebastian approached his housecarl as quietly as he could, though with how intent Lydia's gaze was, he may need not have bothered.
"Careful, housecarl. If you stare any harder, you might set her on fire."
Lydia jumped at his voice and spun to face him, ears burning. "M-my thane! I was just looking for you." Her voice was quick and far more mousier than Sebastien remembered, though embarrassment had that affect on people, even Nord housecarls it would seem.
Sebastien smiled at his flustered housecarl. "Last I checked, Lydia, I am neither Nord nor female. So, I'm rather confused on how you might have mistaken Aela for me."
Lydia was poignantly not looking at Sebastien, her gaze suddenly finding the ground a much more interesting sight. "A-Aela is a renowned archer, my thane. I was just admiring her form."
Yes, and I'm the Emperor. He did not say such words aloud. Instead, Sebastien gave his housecarl a good-natured pat on the back. "Come along, Lydia. Let's head back to Dragonsreach."
Grateful for any other topic of conversation and still very red-faced, Lydia quickly fell behind her thane as they made their way up the path to the Jarl's palace. "Did you find anything of interest among the Companions, my thane?"
"I believe it's too early to say anything conclusive, housecarl." The Companions were a rough bunch, certainly, and their sense of honor was certainly warped when compared to the orders of High Rock. "But I think I this might be an educational experience if nothing else." Sebastien smirked at his housecarl. "Besides, me being a Companion gives you plenty of excuse to admire Aela's 'form'." Lydia erupted into a series of unintelligible noises and Sebastien laughed.
++Prism-spore active++
++Sub-aetherial contact established++
+Status report
+Talos reduction proceeds as projected rebel escalation within predicted parameters no evidence of extramundane interference
+Report known information dragons
+Massive power exceptionally dangerous
+Priority 1 obtain further information on dragons contain control destroy
+Understood request permission utilize Thalmor resources
+Denied
+Current resources insufficient for comprehensive analysis
+Utilize extant resources Priority 1 do not alert Empire to existence
+Understood Aldmeris Survives
+ Aldmeris Survives
++Sub-aetherial contact terminated++
++Prism-spore dormant++
As they descended from the steps to Dragonsreach and down toward the Wind District, Lydia realized that this was the farthest her thane had been from the palace in the almost two weeks since their return from killing the dragon he called Mirmulnir. In between training, meeting with Farengar to discuss Divines only knew what, meeting local notables and complaining about the to her once they had left, going to private discussions with the Jarl, and going grunt-work for the Companions, Sebastien Ciero had been very busy. By extension, that meant Lydia had been cooped up in the palace for just as long. She was fond of the mighty hall, but it was nice to breathe crisp air and walk under the shade of the Gildergreen again, even if the once mighty tree was now clearly on its last legs. And it is worth the annoyance of being the center of attention, or at least next to him. Clearly, word of the Dragonborn had reached every last citizen, give the number of looks both surreptitious and over that they were receiving. Sebastien, to his credit, seemed not to notice, moving with measured grace that befitted the image of the Dragonborn he was trying to project.
As the pair came under the shadow of Whiterun's Temple of Arkay, Lydia's good mood became subdued. Her father's request returned to the forefront of her mind, no longer buried under busy work and training as it had been these past days. She turned toward her thane, not meeting his gaze. "My thane, may I leave your company for a moment. I have… business at the temple." The words did not come easily, caught as she was between a reluctance to leave her charge's side and duty to her father.
Sebastien, to her gratitude, made the decision for her. "Take as long as you need, housecarl." His voice was soft, understanding even. Lydia chose not to ponder this, not now.
Instead, with her thane's permission, she parted from him and approached the door to the Temple of Arkay. Swallowing, Lydia steeled her nerves and entered the Hall of the Dead. The upper level of the temple was empty, save for Andurs, Whiterun's resident Priest of Arkay. The old Imperial looked up from where was sweeping the stone floors of the temple. When he caught sight of her, he didn't say a word. He just looked at her with those understanding eyes and quietly passed her the keys to the catacombs. The housecarl took them without a word, just a quiet nod of thanks. With heavy iron keys in hand, Lydia unlocked the doors to the Whiterun catacombs and descended down into the lower crypts.
Whereas the building above was well lit, warm and inviting, the lower catacombs were the polar opposite. The air was chill and stale, musty with the scent of old linen and embalming fluids, much like the air of Bleak Falls Barrow had been. There were no draugr here, nor any other kind of undead to be found. This place was a sacred tomb dedicated to Arkay, a place where the beloved dead could rest as their souls ascended to Sovngarde. Lydia Hagomdottir, housecarl to the Dragonborn Sebastien Ciero, walked alone in this hallowed hall, walking through dimly lit passages lined with alcoves that bore the resting dead of Whiterun.
At last, Lydia stopped at one alcove in particular. Carved into the cold stone in Nordic runes was a single name and inscription: Katela, 4E 36 – 4E 70. Beloved wife and mother. May her name not be forgotten as it is carried in the hearts of those who knew her.
It had been eleven years since her mother had passed away. A fever that caught her in the middle of winter, one that never broke and left her wasting away. And she could do was watch. Danica tried, Kyne bless her, but somethings just couldn't be helped. Lydia swallowed and breathed, her eyes stinging, but not wet. "Hello, mother." Her voice, thankfully, was not shaking, but still sounded low and disheartened. "I…I know I haven't visited in some time. Everything…well, everything has just gotten so out of hand. Skyrim is in the middle of a civil war, Whiterun's caught in the middle… and now the dragons are returning," Lydia almost laughed, she didn't know why. It was just…saying it out loud made it all sound so insane. "B-but, there's hope too! We killed one, mother. A dragon, I was there and so was father. It was…the scariest thing I've ever seen, but we won and Whiterun is safe. We even…we even have the Dragonborn." Lydia smiled, a small, fragile thing, but a genuine one. The same kind she had when her mother patched her scrapes when she was a child. "His name is Sebastien. He's a Breton of all things. Heh, who would've thought? B-but he's nice! He cares; about Whiterun, maybe even about Skyrim. And even if he doesn't always get it right, he still tries to make an effort to understand us. You would have liked him, I think."
Lydia's voice trailed off and she glanced about the silent hall, at the alcoves both occupied and emptied. When, she wondered, would it be her turn? When would it be her laid to rest in these catacombs? Would it be sooner, or would it be later? Who would remember her? What would her inscription say? The housecarl took a deep breath and centered herself. "I…I think that's all I have to say today. I won't be back again, maybe for a long time." And maybe I won't even be alive. "B-but, I'll be back! I promise." Lydia smiled again and this time, she could not stop her voice from quivering. "I love you. And…I miss you, mama."
For a moment, Lydia just knelt before the alcove in total silence. Perhaps it was only for a minute, perhaps a hour, or even several. She didn't know. At last, the housecarl moved. Reaching her arms up, she pulled over the tunic from over her armor, baring the gold and black colors of Whiterun. In contemplative silence, Lydia folded the fabric, until it was a neat square with the black horse of Whiterun facing up. She gently laid the folded garment at the foot of the alcove, having no other offering to give. After that, Lydia Hagomdottir, housecarl to the Dragonborn, left the Temple of Arkay and the dead to their rest.
Her thane was waiting for her by the time Lydia exited the doors to the temple. The Breton didn't say anything to her, he simply gestured for her to follow him, and she did. They walked in silence together, Thane and Housecarl, through the streets of the Wind District and then through the crowded market stalls of the Plains. It was only when they were past the heavy doors exiting out from the city, after her thane was met with a cheerful farewell from Hroldr, that Lydia at last broke the silence between them.
"My thane?" The Nord's voice was quiet and subdued, missing the typical snark or fire behind her words. "What do Bretons believe happen when they die?"
Her thane did not answer immediately. Perhaps the question surprised him, or perhaps he was taking his time to think of an answer. After a moment, he gave his response. "I would say it depends on who you ask." His voice was quiet as well, respectful and – again – seemingly understanding. "The Wyresses, the Druids, the Reachmen, they all have their own answers to that. But for most, I would have to say, that when we die, we wake up and find ourselves lost in a dark forest, heavy with fog and shadow."
"A forest, my thane?"
"Oui, er- I mean, yes. The forest is Oblivion; the border-realm between Mundus and the Aetherius, between Nirn and Avalon. Our souls are met by Archei, the Ritualist, with a scythe in one hand and a lantern in the other. The scythe to reap the souls of the departed, and the lantern to light the path towards Avalon, the place of rest and the eternal kingdom of Oriel Akatosh."
"Why does he need the lamp?"
"Because the path to Avalon is very dark, housecarl." Sebastien was quiet, and there was a look in his eyes. They did not seem so bright anymore, as though robbed of their life. "And the path is full of perils. The grasping hands of necromancers, daedra, even High Rock itself. The birth pangs of creation has left High Rock...warped, in some ways. She does not let her children go easily."
Lydia nodded, seemingly understanding. "And Avalon…is it like Sovngarde?"
Her thane frowned. "Yes…and no, I would have to say. I've heard of Sovngarde, a place of drinking and storytelling, of merriment and glory. Avalon, at least as the Church understands it, is not like that. It is a place of rest, a place of peace. Where the hardships of the mortal world have no hold and where the dead can slumber in the Dream until the Dawn comes again and the Kalpic Cycle begins again."
"The Kalpic…what?"
"Not important." Was the immediate response, before her thane paused and added. "At least, not right now, anyway." Her thane turned to her and hesitated. Lydia knew what he was about to ask and, to her surprise, found she didn't mind. "What brought this up, Lydia?"
Lydia, not housecarl. They were not speaking as lord and servant, but as equals and possibly friends. It was still too early to say for certain, but Lydia liked to think so. Perhaps that was why she didn't mind explaining herself. "My mother. She…she passed away some time ago. I was just- I just wanted to pay my respects before we left."
Sebastien faced her and though his face was blank, his eyes were alive again, bright with sympathy and a shared heartache. "I understand how you feel." He broke his gaze and faced forward, and they walked as they talked once more. "I…I lost my parents as well. Some 14 years ago now or so."
"…I'm sorry."
Her thane turned towards her and gave her a small, sad smile. "Don't be. I'm…I've long accepted it."
Lydia was quiet and then, "I'm sure they'd be proud of you."
Her thane froze. His face was blank, but a flash of… something ran across his bright green eyes. He straightened his back and when he spoke, his voice was strangely flat. "Perhaps." Then, whatever strange spell came over him was broken. Gone, as if it had never been there. The Breton turned to her and smiled. "Come along, Lydia. We've still got a long way to go before High Hrothgar."
Lydia returned her thane's smile with one of her own, though even she was aware that it didn't quite reach her eyes. She took the lead, cutting through the crowds of the outer market, as her thane moved by her side. The stables were not far past the main gate, and her thane was right. There was much to do.
Elsewhere
"Truly? A dragon?"
"Yes, my lord. He says that it destroyed some town in the south."
"Well done. There are few of those proud beasts left. Let us hope that it decides to come this way. I would relish the chance to have a dragon under my control."
"Ah, my lord, there is one more thing. Hansi was investigating reports of our lesser kin in Eastmarch when he was caught by the sun. Fortunately, he remembered an old crypt near there, and took refuge. Dimhallow, it is called."
"I presume you are telling me this for a good reason? If Hansi wished merely to report that he is unable to tell when dawn is breaking, I will gladly remove the eyes he seems to not have any use for."
"Ah, yes, my lord. Begging your pardon my lord, but if what he claims, if true-"
"Speak, fool! Whatever it is, it cannot be worse than having to listen to your prattle!"
"My lord, he found sealing magic within the crypt. Ancient and powerful magic that he dared not break. It was hidden subtly, and only a collapsed wall revealed a portion of the array, otherwise it would have simply have hidden its door away and been unknowable. He claims it exceeds any of its type he had ever seen."
"What magic is this, that one of my court fears it so? Is Hansi growing fearful?"
"My lord, it was vampire magic, sealed with the blood of a Daughter of Coldharbour!"
…
"My lord? What shall we-"
"Assemble the court, ready yourself to travel, and send for Hansi at once. It is customary to reward those who find things you have misplaced, is it not?"
"Yes, my lord."
Avalon, also known as Heaven, Etheria, or the Dreaming, is the Bretic afterlife as preached by the Church of the Court of Heaven. It is described as an immaculate city of gold and light, where the pains and follies of mortal life have no hold. It is a place where the dead may rest unburdened. The path to Avalon is hidden amidst the oppressive forest of Oblivion, where Daedra and Necromancers are like wild beasts, hunting the souls of the dead. It is only through the guidance of Archei and the worthiness of a mortal's soul, does the path to the Dreaming reveal itself. Those who have lived a life forsaking order and virtue, such as bandits and other criminals, are left to wander blind and cold, at the mercy of the Wild Kings of Oblivion and risk being dragged off to the Seven Hells, each Hell corrosponding with one of the Seven Sins.
AN: Late update, apologies, life got in the way and a few parts of this chapter were a slog. With this and the last chapter establishing some Lydia's characterization, the next chapter will finally explore Sebastien's backstory in detail, as well as the fallout from it. The Companions won't have a huge part of this, but they do play an important role later in the story that involves some of the Obscure texts part I mentioned in the description, as well as fleshing out their canon questline. Also, I've decided to rename this story to Broken Dragon. The old title seemed a bit to generic to me, and this new will play more into the bigger themes and story lines, as you'll see when we continue.
I'm going to start responding to individual reviews and comments in an effort to clear up any confusion or answer any questions that might come up throughout the story. So, if you have any questions, concerns or suggestions, feel free to speak up.
Reviews:
Blacvvater: Thank you for saying so and I'm glad to know that Sebastien is coming across the way I intended. I wanted to write a Skyrim story that wasn't another Nord and a Breton gave me both a chance to explore my favorite race and flesh out both the lore of High Rock and Skyrim alike.
kellbriar1: Its alright, you didn't offend me and don't worry, Sebastien will have his moments soon. This was only the first dragon fight and I wanted to establish just how dangerous they were, especially a veteran like Mirmulnir.
hellfire45: Thank you and I'm aware how Sebastien sometimes acts, but there are reasons for that as will be explained soon. For right now, however, just keep in mind that Sebastien has been in a bad headspace for a long while now and is still struggling with what he witnessed as Helgen on top of that. Seeing what was essentially a preview to the apocalypse would certainly have an effect on someone. As Sebastien puts it; he could tell you how to fight brigands and monsters, but Dragons are the Elder Scrolls equivalent of angels. Fighting one is essentially trying to fight a hurricane.
Until next time, take care folks. - Bones