Tales of the First Era: Dragonborn

by Blackvvater

As the Nordic Empire is torn apart by civil war and an elven rebellion foments in the east, a hunter on the island of Solstheim discovers that he has the power to reshape Tamriel... or doom it entirely.

9. Chapter 9: Palace of the Kings

Chapter 9

Palace of the Kings

"Please forgive my suspicion of you, Dragonborn," Jurgen apologized as he led Vahkiir through the courtyard towards the enormous double doors of the palace, with Ilga following close behind. "You must understand that in this era of war and treachery, many make outlandish claims to advance themselves. Admittedly, few have been so bold as to claim that they are Dragonborn, but one never knows these days," he said with a slight chuckle.

"It is no trouble," Vahkiir assured him softly. He was still amazed by how much more powerful his 'Fus' Shout had become with the addition of a single word, and he had questions. "Though if you do not mind me asking, how is it that you possess such extensive knowledge of the thu'um? And how did you know that I would be able to learn a new Shout so easily?"

Jurgen chuckled softly as he folded his hands behind his back. "As I told you, I am a Tongue," he explained. "In fact, I am one of the mightiest and most learned Tongues in Skyrim. That is not an idle boast, but simple fact," he added with a confident wink. "Few possess my mastery of the thu'um, which I attained after many years of study and training. As such, I am quite familiar with the lore of the Dragonborn. You are not the first to have appeared in Skyrim, after all," he added with a sidelong glance.

"Is that so?" Vahkiir asked thoughtfully. "In that case… might I ask you a question?"

"Of course!" Jurgen replied enthusiastically, seeming eager to help.

"I have been told that as a Dragonborn, I have the innate power to wield the thu'um as the dragons do," Vahkiir said. "Yet, I still do not fully understand what the thu'um is."

Jurgen tilted his head back, then nodded and smiled slightly. "I see," he said, sounding impressed. "That is a rather wise question, actually." He looked away, turning his gaze upwards towards the sky. "The thu'um is a gift, given to mankind by Kyne – the warrior-wife of Shor, and the goddess of the sky. Ages ago, the men of Skyrim were thralls of the dragons, who dominated the land with the power of their Voice. Kyne, moved by our suffering, taught us to wield the Voice as the dragons did. Though it takes most of us many years to learn even a single word, our ancestors trained diligently to master the thu'um, and Kyne's teachings allowed us to finally cast off the shackles of our oppressors and establish a kingdom where men could ever after walk free."

Vahkiir tilted his head, frowning slightly. "Then the thu'um should solely be used against dragons?" he asked.

"It was our only true weapon against dragons," Jurgen replied emphatically. "Though, admittedly, that does not mean that we cannot – and do not – use it against others as well."

"Such as the Chimer?" Vahkiir asked.

Jurgen glanced at him, raising an eyebrow. "Among others," he replied simply. "The Manmer and Direnni Altmer of High Rock have also faced the might of our thu'um, and it is said that when our ancestors aided our Nedic cousins in Cyrod hundreds of years ago, they used the Voice as well." A slight smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. "Does that concern you?"

"I…." Vahkiir hesitated. He supposed it would be wrong of him to admonish Jurgen and the other Nords for Shouting at other men when he had done so himself. However…. "It simply seems… unfair, is all."

"Why?" Jurgen asked simply.

Vahkiir frowned. "Can other races us the Voice?" he asked. "The Chimer, for instance?"

"Hm. I suppose it is possible that they could be taught," Jurgen said thoughtfully. "But no other race does, no." Noticing the uncomfortable look on Vahkiir's face, he added, "You still have not answered my question, though. Why do you consider that dishonorable? Simply because our enemies cannot use it as well?"

"I… suppose that is what bothers me, yes," Vahkiir admitted.

Jurgen chuckled softly and shook his head. "I understand your rationale," he conceded gently. "However, in war, one does not have the luxury of showing mercy to their enemy. Suppose I carried a dagger, and you a sword. Were I to attack you, would you insist that I stop so that you can offer me a sword as well, so that we might fight evenly?" Vahkiir glanced away, and Jurgen chuckled again. "Of course not. In war, one must use any advantage they have. Many of us cannot cast spells, yet we do not begrudge our enemies for fielding mages against us. Few warriors can afford an iron cuirass, yet we do not refuse to fight until everyone has been armored. In battle, one must make use of every advantage that they possess to achieve victory. Rest assured, if our enemies could use the thu'um against us as well, they would do so gladly."

"I see," Vahkiir conceded quietly. "Have you used the thu'um in battle as well, then?"

"Of course," Jurgen said as they walked through the large double doors leading into the Palace of the Kings. "How else could I have honed my skill with it? I have fought in both the Highlands of the Direnni and the ashlands of the Chimer, and I used the thu'um in both arenas."

Vahkiir tilted his head thoughtfully. "You said that the thu'um is a gift from Kyne, correct?" When Jurgen nodded, he continued, "Is she also a goddess of conquest?"

Jurgen ran his fingers thoughtfully over his jawline. "She is Shor's warrior-wife, but is she specifically a goddess of conquest? No. If anything, she is a goddess of freedom."

"Then do you believe she would be pleased to learn that her children have used her gift – which she gave them to free themselves – to conquer and subjugate others?" Vahkiir asked.

Jurgen opened his mouth, then hesitated. To Vahkiir's surprise, he seemed at a loss for words, and he could see the conflict on the Tongue's face. "W-well… perhaps I can explain it another way," Jurgen stammered. "Kyne did indeed teach us to use the thu'um in order to gain our freedom. However, we must also maintain our freedom. To do so, we must occasionally wage war against those that would happily enslave us once more, given the opportunity. To ensure victory, we must use every weapon at our disposal, including the thu'um. As such, by using Kyne's gift to ensure that we, her chosen children, remain free, we are honoring her."

Vahkiir gave Jurgen a sidelong look as he nodded to himself. "I see," he said softly, glancing away as they continued to make their way down the hall. Privately, he wasn't sure if Jurgen's response was meant to convince Vahkiir… or himself. Either way, he decided that it was better not to press the matter any further. "My apologies," he added with a slight bow of his head. "I did not intend to offend you."

Jurgen blinked, then chuckled and held up his hand reassuringly as he shook his head. "You did not," he replied easily. "In truth, I'm pleased that you are asking these questions. They are surprisingly insightful. I had not realized that the current Dragonborn possessed such wisdom."

Vahkiir's eyes widened slightly with surprise. "I do not consider myself particularly wise," he muttered. "I am a simple hunter. Nothing more."

"Perhaps you believe so, but your questions suggest otherwise," Jurgen insisted with a warm smile. "You do not strike me as simple. And even if you were, there is wisdom to be found in simplicity as well."

Vahkiir was uncertain what else to say in, so he instead remained silent as they approached the enormous double doors of the palace, carved from thick oakwood and reinforced with bronze. They were flanked by a pair of guards dressed in polished bronze scale armor and wrapped in blue, fur-lined cloaks, and each carried a long bronze spear. As Jurgen and Vahkiir approached, they stiffened and turned towards Jurgen, awaiting his command. Jurgen paused in front of the doors and turned to face Vahkiir with his hands once again folded behind his back.

"Past this door, you will meet some of the Jarls of Skyrim," he explained. "They are the rulers of the various holds of our land, and it would be wise to consider each of them a king or queen in their own right. You will be afforded respect as a Dragonborn once I confirm your status to them, but you must nevertheless remain respectful in their presence. You do not wish to make enemies of any of them."

"I do not wish to make enemies of anyone," Vahkiir replied simply.

Jurgen chuckled softly. "Well… I am afraid that will likely be quite impossible, but I wholeheartedly approve of your intentions," he said as he turned back around and motioned to the guards. "Shall we?"

Vahkiir nodded and fell into step behind Jurgen as the guards pushed open the heavy doors for them. As they walked through the entryway, Vahkiir let out a soft sigh of relief as they stepped out of the blustery wind, and his eyes slowly adjusted to the torchlit room.

They were standing just inside a vast throne room, larger than even the chieftain's longhouse back in Vahkiir's village. However, whereas that room had been warm and inviting, this chamber seemed as cold and heavy as the dark grey stone it was carved from. The torches lining the walls cast the room in a dark and eerie light, with shadows flickering off the distant ceiling. The hard stone floor was covered with thick fur rugs, made from the pelts of various animals – mostly bears, but a few wolves and other beasts as well. The walls were likewise decorated with the heads of slain creatures, such as snarling white wolves, shaggy brown bears, proud stags, and even a few hideous monsters. Vahkiir's eyes lingered on the bust of a grotesque three-eyed beast for a long moment before he tore his gaze away and turned his attention towards the middle of the room.

The center of the hall was dominated by a large wooden table, around which sat nearly a dozen men and women dressed in rich, brightly-colored wool and fur clothing. A feast was laid out on the table before them, consisting of roasted game and fowl, scaled fish lying on beds of ice, bowls of fresh winter vegetables and tubers, enormous wheels of cheese, thick loaves of hot, white bread, and pitchers of strong-smelling alcohol. The men and women sitting at the table were greedily grabbing at the dishes on the table, all while furiously shouting at one another as they ate.

Beyond the table, on a heavy stone throne, sat a grim man clad in dark grey armor. From where he was standing, Vahkiir could only barely make him out through the gloom, but he could see that the man had a thick beard of dark brown curls and a tall, powerful frame. His bare, muscular arms were crossed atop the pommel of an enormous axe, its bronze head rested on the floor. He said nothing, but his cold gaze was fixed on the men and women shouting at the table before him.

"…cannot believe I traveled from Morthal just to weather your insults!" a woman was shouting through a mouthful of bread. "You know full well that we were suffering a famine, and we had precious few warriors left-!"

"You broke our alliance the moment the battle turned against us, and while my men died on the field, you fled into your swamps! Claim whatever you wish, but it will not wash away the dishonor of your broken oath, nor your cowardice!" a man roared back from across the table as he slammed down a heavy silver goblet.

"Yes, well, we would not have been forced to break our oath if Markarth had sent us the food that they had promised!" the woman bellowed. "And you will notice that they have not come to answer these charges, forcing me to bear the brunt of the blame!"

"For that matter, where is the Jarl of Markarth?" another man asked.

"She sent word that she must remain in the west for now," replied yet another man, who had been gnawing on a pheasant's leg. "The Manmer of the Highlands are rising up again, and she has said that she must put that rebellion down, lest we risk losing the western territories."

"Do we know who leads the rebellion?" asked the first man.

The woman from Morthal scoffed. "According to her? The Direnni. Who else? And they claim that the king of Bisnensel has joined them as well."

A groan rose from a man with loose, long blond hair and a thick mustache sitting near the end of the table. "Bisnensel?!" he repeated, turning to glare furiously at someone across the table from him. "And his Manmer subjects are fighting alongside him, right? Emissary!" he said, turning to glower at the man sitting across from him. "Can you not tell your kin to stop taking up arms against their fellow men?!"

The man that was being addressed – a rather pudgy man with a mop of dark brown curls – blithely sipped from his goblet for a few long moments before lowering it and letting out a soft sigh. "My friend, I can no more order my cousins in the Highlands to lay down their arms than you can command a Bosmer in Valenwood to chop down a tree," he replied drily. "Besides, are you truly surprised?" he added with a wry smile. "Rebellion is in our blood, after all. Always has been."

The blond man sitting across from him snarled and slammed his own goblet down on the table. "Do not mock me, priest!" he snapped. "Your role is to broker peace, is it not?! Then why can you not even keep peace within your own house?!"

Before the argument could continue, Jurgen cleared his throat. The sound made the hall rumble slightly, and every eye turned towards him as he bowed his head in greeting. "Good evening, my lords. Forgive the interruption, but I wish to announce a late arrival." He reached over and put his hand on Vahkiir's back. "This is Vahkiir, a Skaal who has come to us from the distant island of Solstheim… and a Dragonborn."

A heavy silence filled the throne room at Jurgen's pronouncement, and Vahkiir felt sweat drip down the back of his neck as every eye fixed on him. Before anyone else could speak, the massive figure sitting on the throne at the back of the hall stood and motioned to them with one enormous finger.

"Approach, both of you," he commanded in a deep, booming voice that echoed off the stone walls. Jurgen nodded and quickly made his way towards the man, with Vahkiir following close behind. When they were both in front of him, Jurgen bowed his head again, then shot Vahkiir a sidelong look, silently telling him to do the same. Vahkiir immediately complied.

"A Dragonborn, is he?" the Jarl rumbled, his grip tightening on the pommel of his axe. "Are you certain, Windcaller?"

"I confirmed it myself, my Jarl," Jurgen replied firmly. "He is no fraud."

"I see…." The man tapped the pommel of his axe for a few moments, then suddenly reached out. Vahkiir flinched slightly, but then he relaxed when the Jarl simply rested his rough, heavy hand on his shoulder. "This is quite an interesting development… but now is not the time for us to discuss it. I imagine you have traveled a great distance, Dragonborn, and you must be hungry and weary. Therefore, allow me to welcome you to my hall. Have a seat and eat your fill. When you are sated, we will speak."

Vahkiir looked up, blinking in surprise as the Jarl pulled his hand off his shoulder and motioned to the large table in the center of the hall. His heart still pounding, he climbed to his feet and replied in a low voice, "Thank you for your hospitality, my Jarl."

A low chuckle rumbled through the Jarl's chest. "I am pleased that they teach cordiality in your homeland. Sit wherever you please."

Vahkiir nodded, then turned around and slowly approached the table. His legs felt like lead as nearly every eye lingered on him. Some of the jarls were gazing at him with open awe, others with curiosity… and a few with barely-disguised distrust and hatred. One man, however, leaned back from the table and waved to him.

"Well met, Dragonborn!" the heavyset man at the end of the table addressed him cheerfully. "Come! There is a seat open beside me."

Every eye suddenly turned towards the man, and most of the jarls snarled indignantly at him. "Who are you, priest, to ask him to join you, rather than one of his kin?!" the Jarl of Morthal demanded in an acid tone.

The priest, however, calmly chuckled and raised his goblet to his lips again. "Our host has stated that he does not wish for his guest to be bothered by politics while he eats, yes? The moment he seats himself next to any one of you, you shall immediately try to pull him into your schemes." His eyes flickered cunningly over the rim of his goblet. "I, on other hand, am a neutral emissary from a foreign land, and have no such designs on him. Let him sit beside me and allow him to eat in peace. He shall still be here when our meal is finished, and you may sink your claws into him then."

A few of the jarls began to shout indignantly, but they were cut off by the Jarl on the throne slamming his heavy axe on the ground. A metallic peal echoed through the hall, silencing the argument before it could begin. "I concur with the emissary," the Jarl of Windhelm boomed. "However, it is not your choice to make, Tarius. Dragonborn, the decision is yours."

Vahkiir hesitated, his skin prickling as the jarls stared at him pointedly, all but demanding that he join them or suffer their wrath. However, he could also tell that the emissary had a point, and in truth, he would rather have a bit of time to get his bearings. "I believe I shall accept," he said softly.

The jarls' faces fell, their disappointment and irritation evident, but none voiced a protest as the Jarl of Windhelm nodded and motioned for him to take his seat. Vahkiir struggled not to hunch his shoulders under the withering gazes of the jarls as he made his way to the end of the bench, where the emissary shifted to make room for him.

As soon as he sat down, a pair of servants approached and set a silver plate and goblet in front of him. Vahkiir hesitated, uncertain of what the etiquette was, until the emissary beside him leaned in and spoke in a low voice in his ear.

"Do not fret about decorum," he said softly. "You have been invited into this hall as a guest of honor, so feel free to take anything you desire from what has been set before you."

Vahkiir glanced at him, then tentatively reached out and took a few slivers of venison and a leg of goose before furtively glancing around. When he realized the jarls were ignoring him, he quickly added a loaf of bread, some vegetables, and some cheese to his plate, and then he glanced at the emissary and gave him a grateful nod. "Thank you," he murmured.

The emissary chuckled as he gazed at Vahkiir over the rim of his glass. "Not at all," he said easily, placing his free hand hand on the bench and leaning against it. "I know all too well how difficult it is as an outsider in these halls." He took a sip of his drink, then added, "I must beg your pardon. I have not properly introduced myself. My name is Tarius Telepius, and I am an emissary from the Empire of Cyrod."

"Is that so?" Vahkiir asked with a polite nod. "Well met."

Tarius watched Vahkiir as he reached across the table and take ahold of a pitcher of a thick, sweet-smelling, golden liquid and peered into it. A slight smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "You are not familiar with my lineage, are you?" he asked, seeming amused.

Vahkiir winced as he poured the liquid into his goblet, wondering if he had offended the emissary. "I… am not," he admitted sheepishly. "My apologies."

Tarius laughed merrily, his round stomach bouncing slightly as he did. "There's no need to apologize!" he assured Vahkiir, his grey-green eyes dancing with mirth. "In truth, it is rather refreshing. I am used to others regarding me with looks of awe and wonder when they hear my surname. It is a pleasant change, meeting someone who does not regard me as a hero for deeds I did not accomplish. Be mindful of the mead, by the by," he added, motioning to the goblet in Vahkiir's hand. "It is rather strong."

Vahkiir blinked, then nodded gratefully as he took a sip of the heady drink. He tilted his head slightly as the sweet, thick liquid spread across his tongue, and then he grimaced. "Oh, rest assured, there is no danger of me drinking too much of this," he muttered. As Tarius' grin broadened, he looked up again and added, "Is your family truly so famous?"

Tarius' smile softened as he sat back a bit on the bench. "My ancestors are, yes, especially in my homeland, though also in a few other realms – including this one." He took another sip of his drink, then suggested, "I could tell you the tale, if you like. Unless you would rather listen to the jarls' discussion while you eat."

Vahkiir glanced past Tarius at the jarls, who were in the middle of arguing about how the warriors of Whiterun had supposedly tried to steal a herd of cattle from the city of Riften a month ago. "I would rather hear your story," he replied drily.

Tarius laughed and set down his goblet, then laced his thick fingers together atop the velvet, crimson-colored tunic that was stretched over his large stomach. "Then let me start by saying that I, and all of my line, are descended from two great heroes – Saint Telepe the Fair, and Saint Tari the Seer. Nearly two hundred years ago, they fought alongside Saint Al-Esh, first Empress of Cyrod, in her war to free the Nedes from the cruel Ayleids. It was she who personally wed them, and sanctified their union. Thus, my line is thrice-blessed, and considered among the most holy in the Empire.

"Telepe, however, was not a native of Cyrod. He was a Nede who was born in the northwestern Highlands of Tamriel – or High Rock, as some call it. As a young man, he escaped from the decadent courts of the Altmer and, having heard of the plight of his kin in Cyrod, traveled to the heartland of Tamriel to aid them in their struggle against the Ayleids."

Before Tarius could continue, the blond Nord across the table scoffed. Tarius paused and turned to him to raise an eyebrow, whereupon the jarl shook his head. "That is not the tale I heard," he countered gruffly. "I heard that Telepe was the half-elven bastard son of an Altmer king and a Nede concubine, and he was sent to Cyrod as an emissary to the Ayleids."

Tarius rolled his eyes and flicked his hand dismissively. "Propaganda, spread by my house's rivals on the Elder Council to defame us," he replied tartly. "And obviously untrue. After all, why would an elf fight against other elves?"

"Is simple compassion not reason enough?" the young man shrugged. "Besides, there were Ayleids who turned against their kin as well."

Though Tarius continued to smile pleasantly, he narrowed his eyes. "You would suggest that you know my own family's history better than I, my lord?" he asked in a superficially polite tone that was laced with venom. "Would you care to tell the tale yourself, then?"

The Nord shrugged indifferently as he reached across the table and took ahold of a leg of mutton. "Pardon my interruption," he apologized nonchalantly.

Tarius eyed him for a second longer, then turned back to Vahkiir. "In any case, after he arrived in Cyrod, Telepe lost his way in the great jungles of Cyrod. There, deep within the trees, he met Tari, a slave owned by a cruel mistress in Ceya-Tar. Telepe freed Tari, and together they journeyed south through Cyrod, where they eventually joined Al-Esh's rebellion."

As Vahkiir ate, Tarius told him of some of the great battles and events that Telepe and Tari had taken part in. He spoke of the Battle of the Blackwood, the Siege of Morahame, the Duels of Sancre Tor and Ceya-Tar, Telepe's meeting with the great dragon Nahfahlaar – which Vahkiir privately considered exaggeration at best, and fantasy at worst, as he knew from experience that conversing with a dragon and living to tell the tale was simply impossible – and finally the storming of the White-Gold Tower and the final defeat of the Ayleid tyrant, Umaril the Unfeathered.

"Throughout the war, Telepe and Tari proved themselves courageous and loyal, and as such, they were given great honors when Al-Esh finally assumed the throne," Tarius explained, sitting back on the bench as Vahkiir sipped his drink. "Tari, who was considered the greatest human mage in Cyrod, founded the Imperial Library, and throughout her life she and her acolytes journeyed across Tamriel to collect the Elder Scrolls, which she safely stored in the library. She also preserved the Ayleids' methods of how to read the Elder Scrolls, which to this day are still taught to seers, including every member of my family." He smiled faintly as he swirled his mead around in his goblet. "She also attempted to teach others the magic of the Ayleids, but even in those days their spells were considered profane, and few were willing to accept her offer. Nevertheless, she is widely remembered as a wise and powerful mage and seeress – hence her epithet."

"I see," Vahkiir said softly. "And as for Telepe? It sounds as though he was a great warrior in his own right."

Tarius tilted his head and peered into his goblet. "Well… not exactly. While he was said to be skilled with both spell and sword, he was never counted amongst the great warriors of the era – certainly not when compared to Umaril, Pelinal, or Morihaus. No… Telepe's greatest weapons were neither blades nor magic, but rather his wits and charm. He was always, first and foremost, Al-Esh's emissary. After the war ended, Al-Esh appointed him as the first High Chancellor of the Empire, to serve as her most trusted advisor and the head of the Elder Council." Tarius grinned as he looked up from his goblet. "Simply put, he was the second most powerful person in the Empire, and the only one he bowed to was Al-Esh."

Vahkiir tilted his head back, his eyes lighting up with understanding. "Ah… and that is why your line is so famous," he concluded.

"Indeed," Tarius said. "To this day, we remain a very powerful family in Cyrod. My elder brother sits on the Elder Council, and I am not only the emissary to Skyrim – one of our most important allies – but also the Primate of Kynareth." He smiled faintly. "None of our accomplishments, however, have ever equaled Telepe's. It is difficult to overstate his importance to the early Empire. The best way I can describe it is… if Al-Esh gave birth to the Empire, then Telepe was the one who taught it to walk. He served as High Chancellor for about five decades, and during that time, he passed hundreds of laws, some of which are still part of our legal code – though many were replaced by Marukh's reforms. Telepe also occasionally served as regent, especially when Al-Esh left the White-Gold City to tour the Empire. When Al-Esh perished, he sat on the Ruby Throne and ruled the Empire for a few weeks while the Elder Council confirmed Belharza – her son – as the next Emperor of Cyrod. He also served as Belharza's High Chancellor, and for many years after. He only stepped down from his position when Tari's health began to fail, and even after she perished, he continued to advise the Elder Council whenever they asked for his opinion. Though… in those latter days, they sought his advice less and less."

"How come?" Vahkiir asked, frowning slightly. "Had he fallen out of favor?"

"Somewhat. For one, many felt that he had served as Chancellor for far too long, and they were eager for change," Tarius explained. "More importantly though, Telepe had always pushed for policies of compromise and coexistence with the Ayleids living in Cyrod. At first, his approach was widely accepted, even lauded. After all, the Empire had been forged from a patchwork of disparate Ayleid kingdoms that were now subservient to human rulers who had only just won their freedom, and who had no experience governing a single kingdom, much less an empire. Moreover, both the human and Ayleid armies were exhausted from the war, and all parties simply desired a measure of peace. To that end, Telepe and Al-Esh's conciliatory attitude towards the Ayleids was welcomed, and their mercy helped lend legitimacy to the throne. Al-Esh was ever seen as a benevolent, merciful ruler. However, as the years passed and the Empire stabilized, the Ayleids began to chafe under human rule. Rebellions were not uncommon, especially after Al-Esh passed away, and occasionally, the former Ayleid kings would attempt to regain their independence. Now, to his credit, whenever Emperor Belharza and Telepe could not negotiate a peaceful resolution, the rebellions were put down quite ruthlessly. Yet, despite their continued attempts to integrate the Ayleids into the Empire, the elves constantly refused, and discontent began to blossom amongst the human subjects as well. They grew increasingly frustrated with the Ayleid uprisings, and calls for the exile or extermination of the rebellious elves grew ever louder."

"Yet Telepe did not heed them?" Vahkiir frowned.

"As he always did, he tried to balance the interests of men and mer," Tarius smiled faintly. "It is one of the reasons he earned the epithet of 'the Fair' – he always tried to remain just and impartial. Well… that and his charm, as well as the fact that he was said to be quite handsome, and had very pale hair," he chuckled, before turning serious once more. "But men and mer alike were losing patience with one another, and Telepe could not maintain the fragile peace forever. And then Tari fell ill." Tarius smiled sadly. "My grandfather claimed that once her health began to fail, Telepe simply did not have the will to continue leading the Elder Council. He resigned from his post as Chancellor in order to spend Tari's final days with her. Even after her passing, he did not seek to return to the Chancellorship, stating that his time had passed, and that a new generation should guide the Empire." Tarius' smile turned grim. "Then, only a scant few years after he stepped aside, the prophet Marukh experienced a vision of Al-Esh. The Prophet-Most-Simian claimed that she had informed him about what direction she wished her Empire to take… and the first step in reforming the Empire involved the exile and extermination of all Ayleids in Cyrod."

Vahkiir frowned deeply. "But… you made it sound as though Telepe would be deeply opposed to those measures. As was this Al-Esh, from what you told me. Are you certain that this Marukh truly experienced a vision of her? How could what she said to this Marukh run so counter to how she behaved in life?"

Tarius sighed deeply. "You are not the first to ask that question, and I should warn you that it would be quite unwise to voice it openly in Cyrod. Marukh's teachings are not to be questioned, only obeyed." He then shook his head. "As for Telepe, while he said that he was deeply disturbed by how zealous and merciless the Empire had become after adopting Marukh's teachings, he had decided that he would not attempt to influence it any longer. He was quite old at this point, nearly one hundred years of age, and he was weary from all the battles he had fought, both on the field and in the Elder Council Chambers. He simply wished to live out his final days in peace."

"I see," Vahkiir murmured, swirling his drink around. "You mentioned that Tari perished before him, yes? Whatever became of Telepe?"

"Telepe lived for about another two decades after Tari's passing," Tarius replied with a sad smile. "As I said, while he did occasionally offer his advice to the Elder Council when asked, he spent most of his time on our family's estate, writing poetry and epics, and enjoying his time with his children and grandchildren. How he died, however, remains a mystery, even to us." Vahkiir tilted his head curiously, and Tarius explained, "One day, he simply left the estate, stating that he had one final task to complete. He did not tell anyone where he was going, and he asked that no one attempt to follow him. However, it is said that on his journey, he met with an old friend of his one final time – King Laloriaran Dynar, then the Ayleid King of Nenalata, now King of Bisnensel. Laloriaran would not share what was said between them in their final conversation, nor would he tell us how Telepe perished… if he did. Some of us even wonder if Telepe somehow yet lives, still carrying out his mysterious final task… but who can say for certain?" Tarius concluded with a soft chuckle. "Regardless, after his disappearance, he and Tari were sainted for their roles in the rebellion, and to this day, they are revered as two of the Empire's greatest heroes."

Vahkiir stared at Tarius, a heavy silence lingering between them for several long moments. After they both took a few sips of mead, he asked, "Bisnensel… that is the kingdom that is troubling the Empire of Skyrim now, is it not?"

Tarius blinked, clearly surprised. "It is. I am amazed you remembered that," he chuckled. "You are a sharp one. Yes, Bisnensel is technically a subject of the Nordic Empire, but it is rebelling fiercely against the occupation. They are backed by House Direnni, the most powerful Altmer house in the Highlands. And yes, my kin are aiding them… though they are merely my cousins, rather than my immediate family."

"And these Nords do not resent that your family is taking up arms against them?" Vahkiir asked skeptically. "Even though you are an emissary to their lands?"

"Oh, they are quite furious about it," Tarius grinned. "But as I continually remind them, that branch of the family is estranged from mine."

"How so?" Vahkiir asked curiously.

Tarius set his goblet down and folded his arms on the table. "Telepe and Tari had two sons. The elder, Junalus, traveled to Telepe's ancestral home in the Highlands to study magic under the Altmer. There, he married a Manmer woman and chose to remain in Telepe's home kingdom. The younger son, Kynus, was my branch's progenitor, and he remained in Cyrod, succeeding Telepe on the Elder Council and marrying a Nedic woman. Our cousins in the Highlands, as the direct descendants of the eldest son, retain the surname of 'Telepe,' as is their right. Our family, meanwhile, chose to Cyrodicize our name to 'Telepius,' forming a separate, distinct branch." He chuckled bitterly as he nudged the goblet in front of him with his fingers. "Still, it is a pity that those fools are the ones who are allowed to retain our family's true name," he muttered.

Vahkiir raised an eyebrow at how bitter the hitherto jovial man sounded. "I take it you are not fond of them?" he asked.

"They are my family, so I care for them, of course," Tarius sighed. "However, I cannot fathom why, after our ancestors fought so hard for our freedom, they would willingly choose to once again submit to elven rule. In the Highlands, the Altmer reign supreme, while every human and half-human in their kingdoms is a second-class citizen at best. It vexes me." He took a slow drink from his goblet, then added, "But I have spoken of myself long enough. I beg your pardon."

"Not at all," Vahkiir replied simply. "Your stories were quite interesting."

"You are kind to say so. Even so, it was rude of me to ramble on for so long," Tarius said. "Please! Tell me of yourself, and how you came to join us tonight. I am certain your story is far more fascinating than my dusty old tales."

Vahkiir was initially hesitant to share his own story, but he began by telling Tarius about his home village in Solstheim. Tarius listened intently, and Vahkiir soon found that having such an attentive audience loosened his tongue. He told the Nede about how he had met Brevyn, how they had defeated Iizlaarah together, how he had discovered that he was Dragonborn, and how he and Brevyn had made their way to Veloth. He also recounted their recent battle against the second dragon, as well as the liberation of Blacklight, before finally coming to Windhelm. When he finished, Tarius tapped his fingers on the table, an amused smile tugging at his lips.

"And now we find ourselves in the midst of another war of liberation. Strange how history seems to repeat, mm?" he asked wryly. He paused to reach over and take a slice of apple, which he dipped in a bowl of honey. Before he bit into the sweet fruit, he added, "And ironic that it is elves who now seek to free themselves from men… the very same men who helped free my own homeland, no less."

Vahkiir let out a soft grunt of agreement as he set down his own goblet. "Yes… but I still feel as though that has little to do with me," he murmured.

"Does it not?" Tarius asked, raising an eyebrow. When Vahkiir scowled at him, he held up a placating hand. "You are, of course, free to do as you wish. However, some tales claim that a Dragonborn is only revealed when Akatosh himself has a purpose for them. Perhaps you are meant to help liberate the Chimer. Perhaps not. But I find it difficult to believe that Akatosh shared his blood with you without cause."

Vahkiir frowned deeply. "I suppose," he muttered.

Tarius licked his thumb to clean it of honey, then reached over and picked up his goblet again. "My apologies," he said, noticing Vahkiir's crestfallen expression. "I am a poor seer, so I cannot tell you what the future holds, or what role you shall play in it. What I can do is offer advice, should you ask for it. So, to that end… do you have any questions?"

Vahkiir glanced up, then slowly scanned the hall. "Only one truly comes to mind right now," he said in a low voice. "Throughout our meal, I have noticed some of the Jarls glaring at me from time to time. Have I… done something to anger them, perhaps?"

Tarius glanced over his shoulder, and Vahkiir saw him frown when he noticed that two of the jarls were indeed glowering in their direction. "No. At least, you have done nothing to anger them," Tarius replied with a shrug. "Rather, I imagine that they are threatened by you."

"What? Why?" Vahkiir frowned. "All I have accomplished is slaying a pair of dragons. They command cities and armies, and they must be skilled warriors in their own right, yes? How could I possibly threaten them?"

Tarius tilted his head back slightly and chuckled. "That is not what I mean," he explained. "You are a threat to their ambitions for the throne of Skyrim."

Vahkiir stared at him blankly as his blood turned cold. "I'm sorry?" he asked numbly. "They believe that I covet the throne of Skyrim?"

"Admittedly, no, you have not indicated that you do. Yet," Tarius replied. "However, if you were to make a bid for the throne, the other jarls would have to take your claim seriously."

"What?!" Vahkiir cried. He ducked his head as the other Jarls turned to stare at him, and he hissed to Tarius in a lower voice. "But… that is madness! I could never become king of Skyrim! I hold no lands, command no men… and I was told that these jarls rule their holds like kingdoms already! All of them are far more experienced at kingship than I! How could they possibly believe that I could ever claim the throne of Skyrim?!"

Tarius smiled slightly, seeming rather amused, much to Vahkiir's irritation. "Allow me to tell you a story," he said softly as he picked up his goblet again. "As I told you, shortly after Al-Esh perished, Telepe assumed the mantle of regent of Cyrod, governing the Empire until a new emperor could be confirmed. All knew that the next emperor would be Belharza, the only son of Al-Esh and Morihaus. Crowning him was merely a formality. However, as days stretched into weeks, Telepe continued to occupy the throne, and Belharza grew increasingly impatient. Finally, one day, he burst into the throne room, where he saw Telepe lounging on the Ruby Throne, blithely reading a scroll. Enraged, Belharza stormed up to him and demanded that Telepe remove himself from the seat that was Belharza's by right.

"Telepe, however, remained where he was, calmly reminding Belharza that he was still regent until Belharza was coronated, and as such, it was still his right to sit upon the throne. In response, Belharza angrily accused Telepe of intentionally withholding the crown from him so that he could name himself Emperor. Upon hearing this, Telepe looked up and smiled at the furious young minotaur. It was true, Telepe said, that he had far more experience governing the Empire. He had been Al-Esh's Chancellor for over twenty years, and had often ruled in her stead whenever she was away from the White-Gold City. Belharza, by contrast, was an untested youth, brash and impetuous, who knew nothing of ruling the Empire. To that end, perhaps it was best if Telepe did claim the throne for himself.

"Before Belharza could stop him, Telepe reached into his belt pouch and withdrew a massive ruby-red soul gem affixed to a golden chain – the Amulet of Kings, which Akatosh had gifted to Al-Esh as she lay on her deathbed. Telepe informed Belharza that the Amulet belonged to the rightful ruler of Cyrod, and so if Telepe was indeed the most fit to rule the Empire, it was only right that he should wear it. With that, he slipped the Amulet around his neck, as Belharza roared at him to stop. A moment later, however, the chain the golden chain unfastened itself, and the Amulet slipped from Telepe's neck and fell into his waiting hands. Belharza stared at him, stunned, as Telepe stood from the throne and approached the young prince. Without a word, he fastened the Amulet around Belharza's neck, and this time the chain held fast. Telepe then told the astonished Belharza that the only reason he was maintaining his regency was to ensure that he could command the vassal kingdoms of the empire to provide the tribute needed to arrange a coronation befitting the new emperor – and so that he could command the legions if the reluctant kings refused. However, Telepe added, Belharza should not concern himself with the Ruby Throne. It was nothing more than a chair. The true mark of his legitimacy was the Amulet of Kings, which he alone could wear. Belharza was blessed by the Dragon-God; Telepe was not. Thus, Belharza had no reason to fear that he would be usurped, as none could usurp what was his by blood and birthright. With that, Belharza was both humbled and assured of Telepe's unwavering loyalty. His first act as Emperor was to reaffirm Telepe's position as his High Chancellor."

Vahkiir scowled, annoyed. "A fascinating story," he said drily.

Tarius sighed softly. "You missed my point," he said simply. "Those that have been blessed by Akatosh inherently have a greater right to rule – and that includes the Dragonborn," he emphasized. "I suspect that you could even wear the Amulet of Kings… though you would be hard-pressed to claim the throne of Cyrod. We have our own Dragonblood Emperors, after all," he added with a soft chuckle. "However, the throne of Skyrim is vacant, and no matter how powerful these Jarls are, they do not have Akatosh's favor, much less his blood. You do, and they recognize that. Thus, they fear you, and the threat you pose to their ambitions to claim the throne for themselves. Of course, they would challenge you if you made a bid for the Jagged Crown, but you might be surprised how much support you could garner, and how many would flock to your banner if you chose to become a warlord in your own right."

Vahkiir's eyes widened, and he felt his skin starting to burn. A soft throbbing filled his ears as his gaze raked over the other Jarls, one or two of whom were still eyeing him warily. To his shock, excitement began to bubble inside his chest. The thought that he might be able to claim Skyrim for himself – however unlikely it might be – made him feel lightheaded, almost giddy. If he could claim Skyrim, then he could turn her armies on Solstheim. It would be a simple matter to march into Muldok's longhouse, order warriors to toss him outside into the snow, and make him watch as he took the seat in the longhouse, then declared himself the rightful ruler of Sol-

Vahkiir inhaled sharply, then shook his head furiously to dispel those thoughts. That was exactly what the elders had feared, he reminded himself sternly. His stomach turned as he realized just how easily his thoughts had turned to greed and ambition once he had learned of a path to immense power. Vahkiir took another deep, shuddering breath as he forced himself to calm down, even as his heart continued to pound rapidly in his chest.

Tarius gave him a sidelong look, clearly startled by Vahkiir's strange actions. He offered another goblet of mead, which Vahkiir accepted with a grateful nod. "Well… with that said, legitimacy alone is usually not enough to claim a crown," he remarked. "Especially now, when might matters far more than right. After all, if the Nords had chosen the 'rightful' king of Skyrim decades ago, this civil war would never have begun."

Vahkiir tilted his head, but before he could ask Tarius what he meant, the Jarl of Windhelm once again struck the butt of his axe on the cold flagstones, and a loud cracking sound echoed through the hall. The conversations fell silent as the men and women at the table turned towards the massive jarl. He drained his goblet, then pushed himself up and hefted his axe over his shoulder. As he descended from his throne, his booming voice echoed through the hall.

"Fellow jarls, we have gathered together this day to see if we can reach an accord about who should next wear the Jagged Crown," he announced. He began to slowly walk around the table, his dark eyes smoldering under his shaggy brown hair as he stared at each one in turn. "With that said… am I correct in assuming that no one is yet ready to support any other candidate's claim to the throne?"

The other jarls glanced at one another, and even from where he was sitting, Vahkiir could see wariness and distrust in each of their eyes. No one spoke up, either to defend themselves or to offer their support to another candidate. After several long moments, the Jarl of Windhelm let out a slow, heavy sigh.

"So be it," he muttered. "Therefore, although our people starve and our lands burn, it seems this endless war must continue. A pity."

"Why don't you endorse someone else?" asked someone halfway down the table. Vahkiir glanced at the man, who was sitting back in his chair with a goblet in his hand. He noticed that under his dark brown bangs, the jarl's left eye was milky white. "Why should one of us be the first to suggest another candidate?"

"To that I ask the same – why do you not endorse someone else, Olaf?" the Jarl of Windhelm replied coldly "We each think ourselves worthiest of the crown, as we ever have. We have all heard the reasons why each of us should be named High King, and none of us have ever been swayed by our peers' arguments."

"Then why bother calling this Moot at all?" Olaf scoffed, raising his goblet as he shrugged. "Why waste our time if we have not met to end to this war?"

"Because I did not expect that we would resolve the matter of the crown today. And you know the true purpose of this meeting, Olaf," the Jarl of Windhelm growled in reply. "Do not ask foolish questions. I only broached the topic as a formality – I did not expect a resolution." The enormous man sighed heavily, then continued, "Now, on to the true matter at hand. Those of you who rule the eastern holds are well aware of this, but for those of you who do not, allow me to inform you of recent developments. Our territories in the east are on the verge of revolt. The elves who occupy the ashlands have been gathering their forces under the leadership of their Houses, and some of our warbands have suffered startling defeats. Not a fortnight past, we even lost control of the city of Blacklight to elven rebels. Now, to be sure, one cannot expect our armies to triumph in ever battle, but I fear that our hold on the region is slipping. This is hardly surprising. From Winterhold to Markarth, we have been recalling the bulk of our armies from the outlying territories in order to fight against one another in this ongoing civil war. As such, we have been unable to reinforce and resupply our territorial armies, and our elven subjects have taken notice. Even so, while our weakness is understandable, it is not acceptable. Were we to lose our eastern and western holdings, trade throughout our empire would be devastated, and we would be weakened even further. This, we can ill afford, especially as the Direnni in the west and the Empire of Cyrod in the south are growing ever stronger."

Behind him, Vahkiir heard Tarius let out a single, soft chortle, so quiet that Vahkiir suspected that only he could hear it.

"To that end, I propose a truce," the Jarl of Windhelm continued. "Let us cease fighting amongst ourselves for, say, a period of six months, and instead gather our armies into a united coalition. Together, we shall march upon the Chimer and suppress this revolt before it begins. It will serve as a staunch reminder that Skyrim remains strong, and that rebellion will be dealt with swiftly and harshly."

"Why not march upon the west?" the Jarl of Morthal asked, frowning.

The Jarl of Windhelm shook his head. "Much as I hate to admit it, the Direnni of the Highlands have already forged a powerful alliance of their own. They have managed to unite the various petty kings of the region under their banner, and the army they have assembled is a force to be reckoned with. More importantly, though, is the fact that their human subjects are loyally fighting alongside them. Manmer and Nede alike have aligned themselves with their elven overlords, rather than answering our entreaties that they should fight alongside us, their fellow men. They have instead cast us as tyrants and chosen to stand with the Altmer."

"Traitorous fools," spat the jarl sitting across from Vahkiir.

The Jarl of Windhelm sighed heavily. "Fools though they are, we must also accept that if we would call them kin, then we cannot rightfully turn our blades against them. By contrast, the elves in the east have very few men living within their borders. Furthermore, unlike the Direnni, the Chimer are a fractured, disunited people, who hold more allegiance to their Houses than to their homeland as a whole. Thus, it will be far easier to triumph against them than against the Direnni." He walked to the head of the table and slammed his hands down onto it, to make sure every eye was turned towards him. "We need this victory. We must demonstrate to the rest of Tamriel that we can still stand united, and that any within our empire who dare rebel against us will be swiftly crushed. If we can vanquish these Chimer, then I have no doubt that the Direnni will also be brought to heel… or at the very least, reconsider their own rebellion."

The other jarls glanced at one another, and then Olaf spoke up. "I am not opposed to this idea," he commented. "It will also give our homeland a chance to rest and recover, while still providing our warriors with opportunities for glory in the east."

Across the table, however, the blond jarl shook his head. "I cannot agree to this idea," he said firmly, folding his arms over his broad chest. "If we intend to show our strength, we should test it against the more powerful of our two enemies."

"And should that enemy succeed in defeating us, our empire shall be more fractured than ever," the Jarl of Morthal countered. "I concur – for now, we should unite to put down the rebellion in the east. Once we have achieved victory there, we can turn our attention to the Direnni." She smiled faintly and added, "I also concur that it will be a welcome change to be fighting alongside you all, rather than against you."

Up and down the table, most of the jarls nodded and murmured in agreement, though one or two did seem more reluctant. The Jarl of Windhelm listened quietly for several long moments, then tapped the haft of his axe on the ground again. "Very good. With that, we should also gather the heroes of Skyrim and offer them positions in this united army of ours. Master Jurgen, I trust you shall join us?" he asked, turning to the Tongue, who was sitting near the head of the table, far from Vahkiir.

Jurgen smiled warmly as he laced his fingers together and rested his elbows on the table. "I have waited months for you all to finally stop shedding each other's blood," he said softly. "I would be honored to fight on behalf of Skyrim."

The Jarl of Windhelm chuckled, then turned to Vahkiir. "And what of you, Dragonborn?" he asked. Vahkiir felt himself stiffen as every eye turned towards him. "Perhaps you were not born in Skyrim itself, but you are our cousin. Pray… will you join us as well?"

Vahkiir felt his heart pounding in his throat as the Jarls stared at him. It was clear that they expected him to agree, and that they were not used to being denied. However, he reminded himself, he had come to Skyrim for one purpose. He inhaled slowly to steady his nerves, and then he turned to meet the Jarl of Windhelm's expectant gaze.

"I am honored that you consider me your kin," he said softly. "However… I fear that I cannot fight alongside you all." As the Jarls began to let out indignant shouts, he added quickly, "At least not yet."

"And what, pray tell, is more important than fighting for your ancestral homeland?!" the Jarl of Morthal demanded furiously.

Vahkiir turned to her and narrowed his eyes, his anger at her arrogant demand abruptly overriding his nervousness. "For one, Skyrim is not my homeland," he replied coldly. "I am a Skaal, not a Nord. Your ways, and your wars, are not mine." He took a slow breath, then looked up at the Jarl of Windhelm. "But to answer the question, I ventured to Skyrim not to fight in your war, but to answer the summons of whomever it was that called for me some weeks ago. I trust you all heard the shout of 'Dovahkiin,' several days past?"

The jarls hesitated, glancing at one another. Then, Olaf said, "Yes, actually. The one who called for you does not live far from my city of Whiterun, in fact. They reside atop the Throat of the World, the tallest mountain in Skyrim. In truth, you are not the first that has been summoned to climb the peak, though to my knowledge, a Dragonborn has never been called. I may be wrong, though."

Vahkiir blinked, surprised by the revelation, then slowly gazed around the table. "If whomever called for me has the power to call to shout across the sea, then I feel I should not keep them waiting." He inclined his head slightly in apology. "To that end, I feel that I should not yet involve myself in this war. Not until I have had an audience with them."

Murmurs ran up and down the table, and Vahkiir felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up as the jarls whispered to one another while staring at him. Finally, the Jarl of Windhelm cleared his throat.

"Very well, Dragonborn," he announced. "While we would certainly welcome you if you were to join us, we shall not keep you from your task. You are also not wrong – the one residing at the peak of the Throat of the World is not to be kept waiting." His expression softened slightly, and he looked past the table towards the door. "With that said, when your task is done, I pray that you consider joining us. In the meantime, as a token of my goodwill, allow me to offer you any supplies you feel that you might need… and, if you would accept it, a guardian to watch over you. Ilga!" he suddenly barked, his voice echoing throughout the hall.

A shadow passed over Vahkiir, and as he glanced over his shoulder, he saw Ilga walking past him to bow her head to the jarl. "My lord?" she asked.

"You have been a guard here in Windhelm for eight years, and you have always served me well," the jarl said. "However, I know that you have been restless and eager to see more of the world. I am now granting your desire. It is my wish that you serve Vahkiir the Dragonborn as his housecarl. Will you swear yourself to him? Will you act as his shield? Will you lay down your life for him if you must?"

Ilga's eyes widened with surprise – as did Vahkiir's – but she quickly recovered from her shock and fell to one knee. "I swear," she replied firmly. "My life is his, and I shall guard him from all threats great and small, so long as he shall have me."

The jarl nodded, a slight smile visible under his thick beard, and then he turned to Vahkiir. "And you, Dragonborn – I offer you Ilga's service. She is a fine warrior, and there is no one more loyal amongst my men. Will you accept her as your housecarl?"

Vahkiir hesitated, glancing over at Ilga, who was watching him out of the corner of his eye. Swallowing, he asked hesitantly, "First… what is a housecarl, exactly?"

The Jarl of Windhelm let out a low hum. "A housecarl is a warrior who is sworn to protect you from anyone and anything that might threaten you. She will bear your burdens, and if necessary, lay down her life for yours. There is no finer gift that I can offer you to help ensure the success of your quest."

Vahkiir swallowed, looking down at the table. He knew that his Chimer companions would not be pleased if he accepted, but he also realized that if he refused, he would be insulting not only the Jarl of Windhelm, but everyone in the room, for spitting on their traditions. He could not afford to make enemies of the jarls. Looking up again, he replied firmly, "I would be honored to accept. I hope that I prove myself worthy of her loyalty."

A pleased smirk spread across the Jarl of Windhelm's face. "Very good," he said, motioning for Ilga to rise. "As I said, we shall also offer you any supplies you might need. Will you set out for Whiterun immediately?"

"Actually, I had hoped to first travel to Winterhold. I may have relatives there, and I wished to meet with them," Vahkiir said.

At this, the blond-haired man sitting across from him perked up. "Indeed? Do you know their clan name?" he asked.

Vahkiir turned to him, his brows lowered slightly. "Farwalker, I believe," he replied.

The blond man's Nord's lit up with recognition. "Ah! The merchants. Yes, they do reside within our city," he said. Vahkiir's eyes widened, and he let out a slight chuckle. "If you are bound for Winterhold, then I shall send word ahead to my father to prepare for your arrival. You shall receive a hero's welcome."

"Very good," the Jarl of Windhelm said, turning back to the other jarls with a nod. "In the meantime, who else should we summon to join us on this campaign?"

"Wulfharth will no doubt wish to partake in the fighting," the Jarl of Morthal commented. "And he will be interested to hear of another Dragonborn."

"'Another?'" Jurgen echoed with a slight chuckle. "Powerful though he is, there is no proof that Wulfharth is a Dragonborn himself."

"Even so, he would be a welcome addition to our army," the Jarl of Windhelm interjected. "An excellent suggestion. Anyone else?"

"I would recommend Hoag and Bhag," the Jarl of Morthal suggested.

"And what about Vokrijun?" asked the Jarl of Dawnstar. "One who can command dragons would be invaluable."

Vahkiir's ears perked at the name, and he leaned across the table, listening intently. The Jarl of Windhelm frowned as he replied, "We have not been able to contact this Vokrijun, as we do not know who they are – only that when they issue a command, dragons obey. They have thus far acted independently, bowing to no ruler, and though their actions have benefitted Skyrim, we still do not know what their intentions and ambitions are. I am hesitant to invite someone I know nothing of, even if we could find them to extend the offer."

"I disagree. Yes, they are a mysterious figure, but we cannot deny how valuable they would be as an ally," Olaf stated. "I, at least, shall send couriers throughout Skyrim to seek them out, and to gather other warriors and adventurers who may wish to join us. No doubt there are many others who would eagerly seek glory in the east."

"Agreed," the Jarl of Windhelm stated firmly. "Very good. Then from this moment forward, we have an accord. Allow me to summon a scribe to put it in ink, and we shall all sign this truce. Then let us return to our jarldoms and gather our forces for this upcoming campaign." A smirk was just barely visible spreading under his thick beard. "I must admit, despite our enmity, I am rather looking forward to fighting alongside you all."

"Send for more mead as well!" Olaf added merrily. "We should celebrate properly!" He paused and glanced at Vahkiir, grinning as he added, "Dragonborn, will you join us?"

"I… thank you for the offer, Jarl, but I believe I am sated," he said firmly. "I do not wish to overindulge-"

"Nonsense!" Olaf exclaimed with a bellowing laugh. "Celebrations are meant for overindulgence!"

Vahkiir shook his head, his expression turning slightly colder. "My entire life, I have been told to never take more than I need. I feel that it is more important than ever that I follow those teachings," he said firmly. Especially since it was becoming increasingly difficult to restrain himself, whether it was hunting, feasting, or seeking power, he added silently. Frankly, his growing greed was beginning to worry him. "Besides," he added aloud. "I would like to see to my companions and make certain that they have found lodging for the night."

The Jarl of Windhelm, who had been walking around the table, paused behind him, then turned to peer out the window. "It is already dark out," he remarked. "If you would like, there are several open rooms here in my palace. You may spend the night here and seek your companions in the morning."

Vahkiir looked up at him over his shoulder. "Thank you for the invitation. Would you also allow my elven companions to spend the night here?" he asked.

The Jarl's eyes clouded with anger as he folded his broad arms over his chest. "While I am willing to accommodate you, Dragonborn, do not try my patience. I will not suffer their presence in my hall."

"I understand," Vahkiir nodded. "Nevertheless, if that is your answer, then I feel I should take my leave. After all, I have journeyed with them since Blacklight, and I do not wish to seem ungrateful for their aid. If they are sleeping in a lodge, then I shall join them."

The Jarl stared down at him coldly, and Vahkiir briefly wondered if he would refuse… or perhaps even strike him for his insolence. After a few moments, however, he sighed and shrugged. "You are free to do as you wish," he said in a low voice. "I must say, your loyalty is commendable… though I wonder if it is misplaced. A warning, Dragonborn: elves are notorious tricksters. You would be wise not to place too much of your trust in them. They will inevitably use you for their own ends."

"As though these jarls would not," Vahkiir heard Tarius whisper sarcastically to himself. The jarl, however, seemed not to have heard.

"Very well. Ilga, please escort Vahkiir to the lodge where his companions are staying," the Jarl of Windhelm added, motioning for his new housecarl. "And Dragonborn, you – and you alone – are welcome in my hall whenever you wish. Should you wish to speak with me, simply inform my guards, and I shall gladly arrange an audience for you."

"You honor me, my lord," Vahkiir replied, bowing his head graciously. "Thank you for your hospitality."

The Jarl of Windhelm nodded, then resumed wandering around the table as Vahkiir pushed himself up. Beside him, Tarius poured himself another glass of mead and raised it in farewell.

"It was wonderful to meet you, Vahkiir," Tarius said with a warm grin. "Should you ever have need of me, please feel free to seek me out. After all, you could use an ally who does not favor either side in this war."

"I shall certainly bear that in mind," Vahkiir replied with a grateful nod. "And thank you for sharing your stories with me. It certainly made my evening much more pleasant."

"I am pleased to hear that," Tarius chuckled as he brought the goblet to his thick lips. "May the Eight watch over you."

Vahkiir nodded as Ilga came up behind him and touched his shoulder. "Are you ready to depart?" she asked softly.

Vahkiir cast a last look around the hall, where the jarls were once again bickering with one another over the matter of one of their armies blockading a crossroads. He was quite eager to leave, he realized. Though the hall was lively, and the food was delicious, he could scarcely recall a time he had felt more tense and ill at ease at a table. "Most certainly," he muttered, before turning and leading the way out of the hall.

---

A/N: For those of you wondering, yes, Tarius' account of Telepe's story is incorrect. A powerful family in a xenophobic empire has good reason to want to hide their elven roots, even if their ancestor was a renowned hero.

For those of you who have no idea what I'm talking about, I'd encourage you to read my previous work, Tales of the First Era: Alessia.