Floki awoke with a yawn, the warmth of the fireplace keeping the frigid cold of his homeland from freezing him to death. The returned Veteran felt as if he had slept the best goddamn sleep in his entire life. This time, he was home with his family and a little bit richer than he left. No more staying up at long hours being bored stiff or fearing Altmer infiltration. No more listening the orders of officers or eating shite food. He was home now with what remained of his brothers, feasting on momma's famous potato soup. Famous was a bit of a stretch since their farmstead was a tad far from the main roads where travellers would pass but still, he grew up from wee boy to a hunk of a man on her potatoes mixed with milk and cheese and by Talos, he was proud of that

Talos...

Floki shook himself awake, rising up on his bed and having his feet reach for the boots by his bedside. It wasn't as if they had totally lost the war. They gave the elves a damn good beating at the Red Ring and that victory was something no one was going to forget. But...the banning of Talos? The Ninth Divine? Surely, the Empire wasn't seriously considering on forgetting the man which had forged it in the first place? His brothers felt that the Empire had betrayed them. With sweat and blood did the Nords win the Red Ring and the Emperor just gave it up?

Personally, Floki was too damned tired to care. All he wanted was to enjoy his home life, find a good girl to settle down with and start a family himself. He could afford it. All he had to do was approach the Steward and purchase a farm for himself and raise brats. Yes, that was the life he wanted for himself. Far from politics, far from whatever horseshit was happening out there. He had done his time and by the Divines, he was going to enjoy it.

"Morning Floki," an elderly woman's voice greeted him. Turning around, the Nord was approached by his mother, a bowl of that familiar potato deliciousness filling his nostrils. "Still hot. Eat up, son. You look like you are bones now," she joked. She then added before leaving. "Add it in the wash outside when you are done. I have to attend to the cows, alright?"

Floki accepted it eagerly and found a loaf of bread floating in his potage. He ate it swiftly, savouring the taste of childhood and home. Sufficiently fed, he stood up and made his way outside to deposit it in the wash. Opening the door, the chill and crisp air of Skyrim rushed towards him as if his homeland itself was rushing to hug him. Ah, Skyrim. May she never change, thought Floki, as he went to the side of the house where the wash was.

As he did so, his ears picked up noise. As a veteran, Floki had his senses heightened to always and ever be alert. And he picked it up, the clip-clopping of horses against a road. A single blond eyebrow rose as he wondered who in Oblivion would be riding out at this hour. Walking over to the front entrance of their farmstead, a small wooden gate connected to ancient stone fences constructed by an ancestor up the line, Floki's eyes spotted figures coming closely.

"Hey! Floki!" cried out from the house. It was Erik, one of his brothers. He was rushing over to him. "There you are! Come on, I need you to help me and mama with the cows. One of them is giving bi-" Erik could not finish his sentence for he too saw and heard the coming figures. As it became closer, their eyes was immediately filled with recognition as the man that lead the caravan was their very own Legate, Balgruuf Elfsbane.

Old habits kicked in, training and indoctrination coming to them. One can take a Nord out of the Legion but you can never take the Legion out of the Nord. They stood straight, chests puffed out and a single fisted hand on it. "Hail and good morning, si-my lord!" both brothers said aloud as their former Legate and current Lord halted, an amused smirk on his face. Floki bristled, his face reddening slightly. He almost called his Lord sir.

"At ease, you magnificent bastards. We're not in the Legion anymore," Balgruuf greeted them jovially. At that, the men allowed themselves to relax. In that moment, Floki spied the caravan train his now Lrod was leading. Wagons! Lots of them and with the refugees that had accompanied him towards Skyrim. As always, the Dunmer nightblade that their Legate had rescued was at his side on her own horse.

And she was looking worse for wear, as if she was hungover and pretending she wasn't. Inside his mind, Floki was pretty damn sure they were fucking...not that he would say that aloud. He shook his head and let his curiosity get the better of him. "It's uh, very very early, my lord. Are you off somewhere?" he inquired.

"Oh yes," nodded Balgruuf jovially.. "These people wanted new lives and I am giving it to them. They will be your new neighbours, if you will. I ask you to be kind to them. They've travelled a long way to build their lives here."

Floki and Erik turned to the refugees. They were all a disparate bunch. Imperials, Nords who grew up in Cyrodiil. Some Redguards. The most surprising of all however were the ones with pointed ears. Mer. A cart of them, Floki saw, had bosmer. Wood Elves. A part of him felt...uncomfortable. Everyone knew that the bosmer homeland of Valenwood was under the sway of the Thalmor. He and his brothers themselves had also fought many Bosmer flying the Black-and-Gold banner of the Dominion. But the bosmer before him, those sickly and scared looking wretches, they weren't the ones that lifted their arms against him.

"Well..." Floki said, rubbing the underside of his chin. "As long as...they prove themselves worthy of this land, I see no reason not to treat them like neighbours." Skyrim was pretty big, Floki had to admit. Whiterun alone was the largest and more settlement would never hurt. It was also a harsh land too, with giants and violent wolves, trolls and more. If a soft outsider could manage to live in Skyrim, respect its laws and customs, and survive surely deserved to stay in humanity's Fatherland. And besides, he needed a wife to settle down with and as he scanned the caravan line, he could see plenty of women he could court.

Oh, that Redguard in the far back looked saucy enough. He'd never slept with a Redguard before. He wondered if she would be willing to do stuff with her rear. The Redguards were known, to his knowledge, of being that nasty.

"Well said," Balgruuf nodded, not entirely aware of the thoughts flowing through Floki's mind. "Well then, Ï will be off. Good morning to you two, and your family."

"Of course, my lord. Good day," Floki replied as their lord trotted off, their caravan line continuing on. As the caravan line marched off, Floki sniffed as he watched his new neighbours trudged along. Goodness, he probably should go and prepare pies for them. Good to start their apparently starting village on positive terms.

"You're alright with them living with us? Near us?" Erik asked his brother. "You do know some of them are elves, right?"

Floki shrugged his shoulders. "I know. But they aren't Altmer at least. I do not think I can stand with those inbred golden wretches at this time. The Bosmer are alright, I suppose. They aren't Altmer. And they can make a mean steak, you know?"

"Do you always think about food?" Erik asked as his brother began to march off.

"A soldier thinks about fucking, killing, and eating! I am not yet going to fuck, nor am I killing something! Might as well eat!" cackled Floki.

The climate needed some getting used to were the thoughts of Proventus Avenicci as he wrapped the fur cloak be purchased around himself and his wife. In her hands and wrapped in a tight bundle, their daughter slept peacefully and innocently unaware of the frost her parents were forced to endure. The Imperial had taken his family and what they had left with them on this made move to Skyrim. As much as he would have loved to stay in Cyrodiil, it was simply too damaged for him to make an effective living. That was until he had heard that some Nordic legate was offering people land if they moved with him to Skyrim. Proventus figured that the cold of Skyrim was more tolerable than the unprosperous warmth of the South.

They had travelled extensively now, a menagerie of different races on aged stone roads. The environment soon changed, from the settled and populated environs of Whiterun to more wilder and farther plains. Immediately, his mind quickly grasped at what needed to be done. Their new lord had taken them to settle by one of the rivers of Whiterun just by their east. To the North, there were high hills that brimmed with trees and west, fields of untapped earth. His mind thought of the countless possibilities. Proventus was educated, a learned man fresh from the University. He had ideas and by Zenithar, he was going to use them.

These ideas, he would make known to their lord once they stopped. And stopped they did. Whole wagons halted in a semi-circle as Balgruuf halted. His horse reared. "Patrol around, see that we are uninterrupted!" He barked to his riders who nodded as they sped off, no doubt to watch their backs as they busied setting up. The former Legate turned around, his head scanning around. "Proventus! Where are you? Come!"

Proventus exchanged a look with his wife whose eyes glinted with encouragement. "Go, do you thing. Impress him." she urged him. He smiled, leaning into give her a kiss and his Adrianne, a smile. For them, he was willing to do anything. The Imperial took in a breath as he hopped off his wagon and ran over to his lord.

"Here my lord!" he called out. Balgruuf's eyes quickly went over to him.

"I am going to need you to get on a horse. We are going riding. Best for you to see what can be done with the land here," Balgruuf said. At his word, a rider came close, a free horse at his side. Balgruuf blinked. "You know how to ride, right?"

"Uh, yes. Though I am not very good at it," Proventus admitted. He had taken his lessons but he wasn't exactly a dashing cavalryman.

"As long as you can ride him, that's fine. We aren't going into battle anyway," snorted Balgruuf. At that, Proventus climbed atop the horse given out for him. He tried to whisper words of encouragement to his new equine friend but the horse merely snorted in his attempts. It was as if he detected the novice skills of Proventus and decided to take pity on him. Defeated, Proventus's shoulders sagged as Balgruuf trotted off, Felarof majestically prodding along the cold earth.

"So, we have a river to our east, forest north and plains west of us," Balgruuf noted. "What ideas do you have in mind?"

Proventus glanced around. Out of the people, he was picked as a leader for their merry group, on virtue of being educated. And he wasn't going to disappoint. He glanced around and took a moment to scan their new land. It was of course, picturesque. In the far distance, he could spy two towers overlooking what seemed to be a waterfall and a hilly road. Eastmarch was in the distance, he remembered. Far north to them, the land rose high and with multiple types of trees that added green to the white. And west of them, just endless plains to till.

"With the river, fishing comes to mind immediately," Proventus began, a gloved hand rubbing the underside of his chin, "And if we can get the species for it, we could also have the production of clams, shrimp, and crabs. Are there any such species here?"

"Aye, mudcrabs. Big bastards but tasty claw meat," Balgruuf said as he considered Proventus's words. "Clams, you could also get pearls too. I'll be sure to send people out to get you your farms." He trudged his horse along to the riverside, his eyes noting the strong currents. "There's also another thing I want done, Proventus. You are familiar with the Imperial foundries that produce arms and armor for the legion?"

Proventus nodded. He had though their practices escaped him. "I have, my lord. But where is the relation between the foundries and fishing?"

Balgruuf grinned, looking down at the river. "Strong currents, Proventus. We can use this to turn machinery and make better weapons and armor for troops. Not only that, we could use those foundries for a more civilian approach as well. I will talk with you later about what exactly I want done."

Proventus nodded hesitantly at that. He had no idea what the Nordic Jarling wanted but he was willing to go ahead in his schemes. It was their money and time used, all Proventus did was see it done. "If a foundry is what you want, my lord, then we will need constant fuel for it. And men to work them."

"Lucky then that there is a forest nearby," Balgruuf said, looking towards the hills. "As for men...well...there shall be plenty of returning legionaries and refugees that will come. And those people will need work." He then paused as he glanced towards his Dunmer housecarl still looking hungover despite the waterskin she was gulping down. An idea flashed in his eyes as he turned east, towards Eastmarch. "...Windhelm has much people too," Balgruuf said to himself.

"I shall see it done, my lord," Proventus offered. Fishing, foundries, what more did the man want?

"Ah, farming!" Balgruuf said, clicking his fingers. "Come, come. To the plains!"

And there, Proventus found himself riding off into the distance. He appreciated speed, it made things quick. But by the Divines, Balgruuf was like a flash of lightning, zipping here and there. But Proventus knew what he was getting himself into with the man's boundless energy. He had heard that a great party was thrown in their honor and much food and drink was imbibed. Balgruuf did not look like he was suffering from the effects of a hangover unlike his guard.

Then there they was, in a massive and ever flowing field of green glowing grass. "Tell me, Proventus...how do Cyrodiilic farmers feed the Empire?" Balgruuf asked, turning over to him. Proventus's brains racked up to answer.

"Uh...we use a system of rotation, my lord. We sequence different types of crops to ensure variety as well as make sure the soil remains productive," He answered automatically. "This was pioneered quite a while ago, after the Oblivion Crisis, in fact. The loss of population made farmers think on how best to maximize crop production while having little workers."

Balgruuf nodded at the historical tidbit, letting the Imperial drone about his knowledge. "I have to wonder why the practice did not spread," he muttered.

"In honesty, my lord, Cyrodiil has always been the breadbasket of the Empire," Proventus answered. "I suppose there hasn't been any reason for it to spread?"

"Until now, then," Balgruuf hummed. "Until Cyrodiil rebuilds its fields, people will find their markets with much less to offer. An opportunity for us, here." His fingers tapped on his knee as he looked across. "Organize me a list of things that you and your people will need. Seeds, animals, whatever it is, say it. I will have it sent for."

"Uh, thank you, my lord," Proventus said, already noting what they would need. Divines, he would have to check again for what they need. It was then, they heard the rushing off hooves. The party turned to see a rider frantically coming forward. He held his ground as he drew closer, panting.

"What is it, son?" Balgruuf asked, noting his dishevelled appearance. The rider saluted, fist to the chest, before speaking.

"Undead, my lord. One of our patrols were scouting around the hills when gaggle of them appeared." the rider reported quickly. Proventus's eyes were blinded briefly as metal glinted. Balgruuf had drawn his sword and so did the others.
His face was grave. "Where?"

"As I said, my lord, to the north. By the hills."

"Then let us ride! Let's send them back to the cairns where they belong!"

Poor Proventus yelped as the horsemen rode off, leaving him in a cloud of dust.

Harald had reared his horse up by a fallen tree when he heard a twig snap. His sword was drawn immediately as his ears registered it, reflexes of war still fresh in his body. Then, that battle-cry of the ages, a timeless shout that once filled the land in days gone past. "UNSLAAD KROSIS!" someone snarled, its voice weathered by time but with a hate and malevolence as fresh as the day it was felt. Something whistled in the air and soon, the death throes of horses echoed through the air.

The Nord yelped as his horse was shot down from under him, trapping Harald under its weight. As the air left his body and the situation settled into his mind, Harald became aware of the shouts of his comrades as well as the rushing of feet against leaves. "To arms!" came the cries of their squadleader, Freyr. Whoever their attackers were, they had the good sense to shoot out the one advantage they had, their horses. Those who could stood up quickly, their hands reaching for their weapons and just in time as well. For in the darkness, crystal blue eyes as bright as stars rushed forth.

"Draugr!" someone else cried, warning their group. And sure enough, scores of the wretches were upon them. They were as ugly as sin and smelling of the worse that undeath could have. The mummification techniques done to them made their skin look weathered and gray. What armor they wore was rusted or just even a few pieces of mail here and there. They were armed unequally, with swords and axes and battleaxes. Like the draugr themselves, they were old but still quite deadly.

Battle was quickly joined, six of them against an equal number of draugr. The Whiterun men had one advantage, the fact they were alive. Undead as the draugr might be, their movements were stiff and uncoordinated. Plus, the riders wore armor. What was ancient blades going to do against them?

"Back to the grave with you, wretch!" Harald roared as he gripped his longsword and met with his undead counterpart. The creature snarled at him in annoyance, looking at him as if he was nothing but meat. Their blades met in a clash and to Harald's surprise, the damn thing was strong. As strong as it was in life, and now even in death. He reared back, spotting an opening for him to exploit. Longsword glinting, he quickly thrust his blade into the damn thing's stomach.

"Lop their heads off! No stab wounds!" Freyr cried out, swiping a draugr's head off with his sword. Harald glanced back to his foe and saw stars are the draugr slammed its fist against Harald's face. Shaking and seeing blood, Harald stumbled back. A yelp quickly escaped him as he was suddenly lifted off his feet and tossed against a tree, as if he was nothing. Pain coursed through him as he glanced up, seeing the draugr pull out the sword jammed in its stomach. It grinned toothily, revealing rows of long rotten teeth as it hobbled to the downed Harald. It loomed over him and began hacking away at his chest.

Harald thought then and there he would die there. His chestplate protected him from the actual blade, yes. But he was still a meaty Nord and the impact from the blade landing on him was violent and primal. Adrenaline coursed through his body as he tried to pull a hidden dirk on his body and jam it into the draugr's leg but the undead thing laughed it off. It stopped its bruising of Harald and now aimed his next strike against Harald's exposed face instead.

Then suddenly and from the North came the exulting cry of a war-horn, and the thundering of hooves against the earth. The bones of Skyrim shook and quaked as reinforcements arrived. Balgruuf and Irileth and his riders swept in, battle-cries and exultations rising to the sky. "For Whiterun!" came his lord's voice, louder than the deepest drumming of thunder. The draugr before Harald was quickly swept off in the sudden cavalry charge, its head lopped off by Irileth with he sabre. They were a on rushing force, a unrelating tidal wave that swept away even in the stalwart undead. Yes, they could shrug off wounds that would immobilize a man but a horse and rider coming at high speeds was a different thing entirely and the draugr were still men, dead as they were.

The other draugr were swept off their feet, like trees uprooted by the fiercest wind. Bones and flesh snapped underneath horse hooves. Some were merely gored by long thik lances, others tossed aside. "Drive them down into the ground! Make them regret coming here!" again roared Balgruuf. The Nords roared their affirmatives, hacking into the draugr as the charge slowed down. If they had fought ordinary men or mer, the charge would have been broken. But these were not the living, these were the dead. Powered by a hatred of those alive, the draugr merely stepped up to deal with them, weapons and teeth glinting.

One draugr saw Balgruuf who had his back turned, busy with dealing with another one of its wretched brethren. It took its chance and charged, its mighty battle-axe long enough to bring the Nordic rider down but before it could, it found itself frozen in place. Irileth had spotted the thing running and with a wave of her hand threw ice that crystalized the draugr's feet. "Balgruuf!" she called out and the Nordic lord turned immediately. He realized quickly that he was about to get stabbed from the back and repaid Irileth's watchfulness by lopping the Draugr's head off. Their eyes met briefly as he nodded.

"Watch your back, my lord," the Dark Elf muttered.

"That's why I have you just in case I can't," grinned Balgruuf. "Now come! Let's finish our bloody work!"

Much later, the Draugr were defeated. Looking up, Freyr gave his thanks. "Thank you, my lord. You saved our lives," the squad-leader's voice was grateful, rightfully so. Around them, men were busy tending to the wounded or gathering the draugr's bodies together for a pyre. Balgruuf shook his head.

"Thank one of your riders. They ran off to find us as soon as battle began," Balgruuf said. He then glanced down towards the growing mound that was being formed. His lips quivered as the putrid stench of undeath filtered in his nose. He continued to speak. "Draugr, Where in Oblivion did they come from?"

"There must be a private barrow somewhere around here, my lord," suggested Freyr. "Perhaps they wandered off from it?"

"That's possible," nodded Balgruuf. It wasn't particularly uncommon for restless undead to go march off and fight...whatever they came across. A part of him snorted in amusement at that thought. "Well, finish in gathering up the remains and burn them. Better they turn to ash and fertilize the earth than let them stay as they are."

At that, Irileth turned to Balgruuf, a question in her mind. "Private barrows...are they not the resting places of wealthy families? Why not return them to where they came from and earn favour from whichever family had these as relatives?"

Balgruuf's eyes twinkled. That was certainly something. Freyr the Squadleader cleared his throat however. "That would take time, Housecarl. Most of our horses have been slain by the wretches. We'd have to get a wagon and take them back to where they came from."

Irileth shrugged her shoulders. It was worth a try. "Nevermind then." she said dismissively.

"Set them alight, kinsman. I shall take my riders and scout around some more and make sure," Balgruuf harumphed. "These are probably just some wandering draugr and nothing else."

It didn't really take too long to find out where the Draugr came from. The undead were not subtle in their movements and Irileth spotted their trail as easily as she could breath. Crushed roots and branches, deep boot spoors on the earth. It led higher into the hill and towards dark looming ruins of what used to be a castle. In its heydey, it would have been a mighty bulwark overlooking the White River and Eastmarch beyond. Now, the walls had fallen here and there with only the keep standing still.

"This used to be called...Fellglow Keep, I think," Balgruuf muttered as he spied the ruins. He, Irileth, and the riders had all dismounted, creeping under the leaves. The cold bit at them and their faces, spots of white snow stuck to Irileth's lashes and made her shiver. Balgruuf and the Nords however acted like they weren't even feeling it.

"Not a barrow," Irileth said, her eyes trailing the parapets.

Balgruuf hummed. "Not a barrow," he nodded. "What possible reason could old ruins spawn draugr?"

"Necromancers?" one of the riders suggested.

"Possible," hummed Balgruuf. "Only one way to find out." he said knowingly, turning to Irileth. Despite the pounding of her head, Irileth knew what was expected of her.

"As my lord commands," Irileth sighed. One second, Irileth was there in front of Balgruuf. Then, she was gone in a blink of an eye. She was not erased from existence however, merely cloaked with magic that rendered her invisible. With that, she crept as quietly as she could towards the castle. It was practically simple for her to infiltrate the place. As she saw, the walls had long fallen and the main gate itself was no longer there. She did however assail a climbable section of the wall. She thought of going through the main gate but it felt too easy to do. Hells, an entire section of wall didn't even exist.

Immediately, her ears picked up on conversation. There were two of them clad in black robes, chatting away in a tower. Necromancers or dark mages, Irileth surmised.

"How long do you think Birkir is going to last?" the first dark mage asked his friend.

"Knowing the Master, he probably won't last long. Break like glass, you know? He'll be begging for mercy, I am sure of it." his friend replied, totally unsympathetic to this Birkir. Irileth however was much more interested in who this Master was. It sounded self-important, smug and utterly sure of themselves.

"But will the Master grant it though?" asked the first mage, a little bit more concerned. The response of his friend was instant. "He had a simple job and he fucked it up. Do you think he's going to get spared?"

Irileth listened and listened, taking in the important bits of information. She stood hidden and waited some more to gain more information but then the two mages started drifting their conversation to something else, to something inane. Information gathering was over now, Irileth mused, as she moved towards other things, examining methods of attack for one.

As she already saw, a whole section of wall did not even exist and the mages didn't even bother to put up defenses. Perhaps they really were that confident in their isolation that they felt they didn't have to put up wards and such? Irileth's glowed briefly to check and sure enough, she couldn't even detect any hint of such around. She turned her attention back to the chatting mages and quirked her lips as she unsheathed her sabre.

"...Wait...did you just hear a sword getting pulled?"

There was a dismissive snort. "You're hearing things. It must be the wind."

Idiots.

Later, Balgruuf watched as Irileth appeared again out of existence, the scent of death fresh on her. She returned her sabre, dusting herself off. "The mages in there are supremely confident fools who believe they are hidden. They feel they are safe enough that they haven't even bothered erecting palisades to wall off an exposed section of the castle."

"Numbers?" Balgruuf asked, his mind already considering how to attack it.

"There were only two mages I saw posted on the walls, my lord. The rest of them are inside the keep. The mages mentioned that one of their number was being punished. Perhaps they are watching the judgement happening?" Irileth theorized.

Balgruuf hummed. He turned from his housecarl and towards the castle. His eyes flashed with calculation. For what seemed like a few minutes, he turned to his men. "So, this morning was supposed to be a simple escort mission and now, we have a possible cult of necromancers in our hands. What do you think lads? Want to take them?"

His riders glanced at each other. Nothing else was said other than them taking out their weapons in a flash.

"We are going to be facing mages, you know. There aren't squishy bandits," Balgruuf reminded them again but still, the weapons remained unsheathed.

"They won't be Altmer battle-mages, my lord. These are downgrades," a rider quipped.

Balgruuf hummed. "Late breakfast it is, then." He stood up and hefted his weapon against his shoulder. "Let's make this clean. Irileth, care to muffle us?"

And just as he promised, it was quick. Irileth cast a spell that kept them quiet as they swarmed into the keep. Balgruuf had to admit seeing the mages's faces when they opened the front door and saw a squad of heavily armoured Nords before them was utterly hilarious. Before he could give a cry of alarm, an arrow found his throat. He collapsed on the floor, dying with a throaty gurgle. Like driver ants, they rushed and dispatched anyone they came across wearing black robes.

Absolute stealth couldn't be kept forever, however. The death throes of dying mages was loud and in the halls of Fellglow, it echoed.

"We are under attack! Defend yourselves!" a particular mage cried out when he walked in on Irileth running a man through with her sabre. He lifted his hands and tossed a shard of sharp ice towards Irileth. The Dunmer seized her victim and pushed his body forwards, catching the spike. He was about to go again when Balgruuf suddenly charged from nowhere and delivered a punch that sent him knocked onto the floor. A second later, bones snapped as Balgruuf brought a heavy boot on his neck.

"That makes us square," Balgruuf declared as Irileth took a nearby rag and wiped away the blood on her blade. The Dunmer rolled her eyes as her lord marched off, looking for more mages to slaughter. Irileth followed him, finding themselves in the main hallway. It stunk of damp air, musk, and blood.

"Are these really mages? They haven't been chucking spells at us as I thought they would be," Balgruuf muttered as he marched and kicked a dead body over. Glancing down, the dark mage was young, barely without hairs on his chin.

"Novices, then?" Irileth offered.

"Again, possible. Their first instinct was to run or scream," Balgruuf said with a click of his tongue. "We're slaughtering metaphorical newborns."

"And does that thought bother you?" Irileth asked, turning towards her lord. Balgruuf paused to consider the question.

"They're not exactly surrendering," Balgruuf pointed out as the sound of running feet echoed through the hallways. Ahead, three figures rushed up. Compared to the ones earlier, they looked older and more experienced.

"You stand before Lord Balgruuf! Raise your hands and surrender!" Irileth barked at them. Instead of actually doing that however, there was a hum as magicka was being powered up and the figures glowed. Balgruuf hefted his weapon in his hand.

"At least you tried," Balgruuf offered one last word before the hallway erupted into a sea of magicka. The first mage sent a flash of blue lightning towards Balgruuf who lifted up his weapon to catch it. The second and third mage, a jet of fire poured forth from their hands that would be enough to incinerate the hallway. Irileth quickly stood before her lord, a ward appearing before her hands. She grit her teeth as the mages poured everything they had into breaking her shield.

"I can't keep this up!" Irileth snarled, feeling her magicka reserves slowly being drained by the flames. But, she didn't have to for long either as Balgruuf's other riders rushed into view, shields held aloft as they rushed into the hallway. Cries of pain echoed as the mages were pushed back with a swift bash to the forehead. Not a second later, they were dispatched swiftly. Irileth's shoulders slagged as the drain inside of her exhausted her. Balgruuf turned to her, his eyes flashing with concern.

"You alright?"

She nodded slowly. "Y-yes...I...I am fine." She gulped in some air. "They had some punch in their flames. I had to concentrate some more otherwise, we would have been burnt."

"You reckon they got a boost from whatever cursed ritual they're doing?" Balgruuf asked, glancing at the corpses.

"Only one way to find out," Irileth spat. "Let's ask their precious Master."

And so, they descended into the bowels of the Keep, the muffle spell Irileth cast having long since been gone. The clinking of mail and iron plates echoed, a foreboding sense of doom for whoever was going to be on the receiving end. And they arrived to it, a large chamber that looked to be a training hall now turned into a ritual hall. Irileth quickly spotted coffins of the Nordic variety either haphazardly opened or stacked on each other. At the very center of the hall stood a robed figure, a woman, by the shape. And underneath her was a puddle of squished meat.

Probably the poor bastard that the mages from before were talking about.

"Welcome to my cas-" the Master tried to speak but a stirring cry from Balgruuf cut her off. "Attack!" he ordered. And immediately, his riders moved to obey. Arrows were loosed upon the lone mage, men and women rushing with the intent to lop her head off. Snarling, the Master blinked back into the corner, what arrows loosed upon her held aloft by a unseen ward.

"Let me talk, damn you!" the Master cried out.

"No!" Balgruuf retorted. "And fuck you!" He added for good measure. The riders were swift, quickly crossing the distance between them and the mage. There was going to be no negotiation, no chance for the necromancer to monologue. This, the mage recognized. If she wanted an audience, she would have to create a situation where she could talk. And thus, she slammed into the ground and conjured a bright and searing wall of flames. The Nords had to halt lest they get burnt.

With heavy breaths, the mage glanced up at Balgruuf. "Now, listen, you damned fool!"

Balgruuf clicked his tongue in annoyance. "We can still shoot you with arrows, you know. Make it quick, mage."

Growling, the mage crossed her arms. "Fine!" She took a moment to take a breath. Calmer now, she began to speak. "I am the Master, not my real name, of course. I am here to establish a new College of Mages. Winterhold is stagnant, it hates people like me. Headmaster Aren is talented but he refuses to change. I will change that."

Balgruuf hummed. "So if I understand this, you are trying to establish a college...in a isolated corner of Whiterun, in a ruined fort, and ignoring the authority of the local Jarl regarding it?"

"I was going to go legitimate, fool!" The Master bit back. "I was going to turn this place upside down and make it presentable! Then you had to come in, kill my students and assistants, and destroy my research!"

"I will be frank with you. I did not even know you existed until draugr attacked my men. Draugr which came from here. And I see that you have in your possession coffins that are Nordic in design," Balgruuf said, glancing at the coffins in the corner. "Which barrow did you break into to get these?"

The Master clicked her tongue in annoyance. "What choice did I have? I do not have riches and those draugr could be used better than just having them stand around in their graves." She crossed her arms. "I did not send any of them to attack you, my lord. I swear it. My damned fool of a student let them out, accidentally."

"And where is this student of yours?" Baglruuf asked.

"He's that puddle of meat you and your Dunmer are standing by," the Master pointed out. Balgruuf and Irileth glanced down. "I was originally going to torture him till he understood the price of failure. But I got carried away."

"Clearly," Balgruuf deadpanned. "So, what do you want, mage? You've already wasted my time long enough. Cut to the chase."

"Impatient cur," she growled. "Fine. Let me walk out and I will take my business elsewhere. I have no problems with you, my lord. You are not my enemy, the college is. I will pay for my passage even. What treasures I have, I will leave behind for your trouble."

Balgruuf paused to consider. He glanced at his men and Irileth. "...I have to admit that I admire your brass balls for trying to negotiate with me. It's almost admirable."

The Master shrugged. "I rather like living, my lord. I will sacrifice much leaving behind my things but I can always gain new followers. And I understand Nords respect boldness, no?"

"We do. And you are very bold," Balgruuf said. He hummed once more, his mind working. "You swear to never return to Whiterun ever again?"

"I cannot promise such a thing considering I will be travelling but, I swear not to raise an arm in hostility to you or your Hold." the Master vowed.

"I would be willing to let you part here and now but there's something you forgot. You used necromancy," Balgruuf said happily. "And you know how we Nords also feel when necromancy is used and when it is also used on our dead."

"Necromancy is not illegal!" blurted the Master. "And I wasn't using them to harm people! I was going to use them for labour!"

"Is that supposed to make us feel better?" Balgruuf asked with a raised eyebrow.

"No? Yes?" the Master blinked. As she saw the unfeeling and unsympathetic looks on the faces of the Nords, the Master realized that she wasn't going to make it out alive. And the more she spoke, the worst it became for her as the her flames were slowly dying out. With time slowly running out, the Master pulled out one more card out of her sleeve.

She raised her arms in surrender. Balgruuf clicked his tongue at that.

"...I really, really do not want to die," the Master admitted. "And if you have made the deals which I have, then you would understand my position."

"You're gutless," a Nord spat.

"My shame in surrender is better than getting chewed by Hermaeus Mora," the Master sneered. She turned towards Balgruuf. "I surrender myself to you, my lord. I ask and beg for your mercy," she said succinctly. Despite her tone, her eyes all but showed her fear.

"Fine," shrugged Balgruuf. "You're lucky that not a single one of my riders actually died otherwise, I would have just killed you here and now."

The Master sighed with relief.

A/N: Taken from my QQ account

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