Chapter 7 – Comes the Dragonborn

Elsewhere

"But dragons?"

"Crazy, isn't it? First Helgen, now Whiterun. Battus saw it in the flesh, though, and I won't call him a liar. Said it took sixty to bring it down. Apparently some elf used magic to kill it in the end."

"Hmm, wonder how the Nords felt about that. So, what else did Battus find?"

"She's in Whiterun, most likely. A woman matching her description came in on a carriage from Falkreath a month or so back, and nobody remembers her leaving, though that hardly proves anything."

"Damn it. She could have slipped out at any time. How many come and go every day? Or she could still be in the city. Who'd notice one more Redguard in a city as mixed as that? For now, Whiterun is looking promising enough. Either she stayed or she left, and with any luck somebody was paying enough attention to notice."

"Battus left a few of his to watch the gates. She sticks her head out past the walls, we'll know. Meanwhile, we keep patrols on the roads, and keep asking questions. She'll want big cities to hide in, and Whiterun is better than any place in Skyrim for one of us to go to ground. We'll comb the city, just you see."

"That's Kematu's call, but I'd agree with you. You going to report now?"

"Battus has already left. We get to enjoy Rorikstead for now."

"A Nord farming village. We can look at crops! I think I saw a sheep yesterday!"

"It isn't that bad."

"Feel free to stay."

"You miss home?"

"I miss my husband and my child. But we find this woman Iman, we go home rich."

"I like the sound of rich. I'll drink to that."

"Me too. Innkeep!"

As the guest of honor, Velandryn was obligated to remain at the feast for as long as any still wished to engage with him. As a result, it was well into the early hours of the morning by the time he bid Olfrid 'Patron of the great Clan Battle-Born!' and Nazeem farewell and watched them wander off in the direction of the main doors. Their companions had left hours ago, but both had hung around in hopes of getting the last word with him. An… interesting pair, to be sure. Olfrid was the patriarch of what seemed to be a powerful House in Whiterun, and had clearly figured that warm relations with the Dragonborn would be beneficial to his House's interests. Nazeem, as far as he could tell, was simply a lickspittle who wanted to ingratiate himself with a new power player in the city. He had spoken to the man for what had seemed an interminable amount of time but, in truth, was likely no more than ten or fifteen minutes. The Redguard farmer had managed to mention his connections to the jarl three times, his impoverished beginnings four, and the frequency with which he visited Dragonsreach an astonishing eight. Olfrid had been more restrained in his descriptions of Clan Battle-Born's ventures, but laid out in no uncertain terms his willingness to assist Velandryn in whatever the Dragonborn might require. The Dunmer had been overjoyed to see their backs.

He surveyed the hall, mostly empty now but for Lydia, him, and a single servant banking the firepit. He turned to find his housecarl's face set in a grim mask that managed to convey discontent across any racial barrier. She had left her seat as the hall emptied and been in place behind him for the entirety of Nazeem and Olfrid's ingratiation. He beckoned for her to take a seat, and she slid into the chair that Olfrid had vacated.

"Were you not enthralled by the conversation, Lydia?" Much of the food remaining on the high table had yet to be collected; he grabbed a few roasted nuts from a bowl and popped them into his mouth.

"Nazeem comes to Dragonsreach often, but I can usually leave before he starts talking." She tore a chunk of bread from a loaf left on the table, and slathered it with the thick yellow butter they used here. She took a huge bite, chewed thoughtfully, and swallowed. "He had you captive, though, and I couldn't help without being immensely rude." She speared a roasted onion, now long cold, with her dagger. "Apologies, my thane."

"For not removing Nazeem's head?" He cut a slice from the loaf with the iron dagger he had taken from that first bandit he had slain, back before even Riverwood. "I'll let it pass just this once." He had no great love for cow's milk, but this butter was not bad; he spread a thin layer on the bread and topped it with cold roast boar and some green vegetables grilled black. "We made it through the second-longest dinner of my life, and I believe that I am now both Dragonborn and not entirely despised by the people I am protecting." He regarded his creation for a moment, then ran magicka through his free hand and held it over his food. Not quite enough to combust in the air, just enough heat to…there. He pulled his hand back, and began eating, the food piping hot and steaming. Wordlessly, Lydia extended the half-eaten onion on her dagger.

"You handled yourself well tonight, my thane." She took a bite of her onion, now crisped and steaming, and nodded appreciatively. "Many who were doubtful at the idea of an elf Dragonborn are now likely put at ease."

"I prefer the term mer, actually. Elf is a human construction." He filled his mug with the dark red wine they had served; it was less distasteful than most of the alcohol here, and it seemed Nords did not like drinking water at their feasts. A thin beige beer was the closest they had, and Velandryn was not fool enough to try such a wretched drink twice in one evening. "And you humans manage to make it sound like a curse so often, I have grown tired of hearing it."

"I see." Her tone was slightly stiff, and Velandryn realized he might have upset her. "My apologies, thane." She took another onion and began to eat it cold.

"Oh, give that here." He held out his hand but she continued eating. "Lydia, come, give me the onion, no sense in eating it cold." Still she ate. He felt anger rising within him, and the dragon's mind rose with it. Before the feast, he had spent hours in mediation, and while it had worked for a time, he could feel his restraint slipping. She is brave, to ignore me! "Housecarl, if you have something to say, do so now!" It came out harsher than he had intended, and he almost regretted saying it in such a way. Then that remorse vanished beneath a tide of righteous indignation as she made no response. He could feel the Dov within him bristle in anger at her dismissal. She serves me, and she acts like this? "Lydia!" The moment her name left his lips and he heard the tone that flavored the word he knew he had gone too far.

As she turned towards him, she seemed all at once amused and angry. "Are you serious, my thane? You want to know why I'm upset?" She spoke in a manner that was quietly intense; even if the feast had been in full swing, few would have been able to make out her words. As it was, the few servants straggling around the periphery of the hall certainly could not overhear her, but he felt her words' full force. "You don't know how you sound?"

He blinked a few times, his momentary rage at her impertinence disintegrating in the face of her response. The Dov within him took umbrage at her tone, but he silenced that feeling as soon as he recognized it. I do not need a dragon's pride right now. "How do you mean?"

"You are Dragonborn, as well as an honorable and brave thane, and I am proud to serve you, make no mistake, but right now you sound like a whining child." She was facing him fully now, hands clasped on the table and the remainder of her onion forlorn and abandoned on its plate. "I didn't use elf instead of your name, or call you grayskin or ashface. I was making a point, and used the right word to stress my meaning. Elf is a human word, and I used it. I am human, in case you had missed it, and I see no reason why I shouldn't use my race's word! It isn't an insult, but you still took it as one!" Her voice had risen at the end there, and she checked the hall furtively; their conversation still went on unheeded.

He opened his mouth to retort, but she continued, clearly intent on making her point regardless of her thane's response. "You act so damned superior to us, telling us that you 'grow tired' of being called elf! Of course you do, if you're taking it as an insult every time someone refers to your race! It's a word, and I meant it kindly, and you have to have known that! You want us to say mer? It would sound like something out of an old book on the Snow Elves! 'Ysgramor, descending upon the unsuspecting mer with his Companions…' You'll be hard pressed to find many among the people of Skyrim who talk like that!

"You'll find damn fools everywhere, and some of them will say damn fool things to you. Some will insult you for being a mer, some will hate you for being Dragonborn or for looking at them the wrong way. And when they do? I'll grab them by the throat and demand they apologize to my thane, or I'll put them through a wall. But not for this. You don't get to scorn my people just for being Nords." She fell silent then, and for the first time this evening, he was truly at a loss for words.

It was an odd sensation, Velandryn mused, being shown up by a human. She wasn't wrong, though. He did feel that way, and it was not truly warranted. He knew, of course, that by and large humans used 'elf' simply because it was the word they knew. Most meant no harm, and he could acknowledge that on an intellectual level. However, they were human, and that made a difference. He had known since his earliest years that the Dunmer were a race apart, and that others would tear them down at every opportunity. Since journeying to Cyrodiil and from there into Skyrim, he had broadened his experience with humans, but it seemed that he could not stop his deepest prejudices. He had known Lydia meant no harm, but he had wanted to establish…what? Did I want to prove my superiority, or just put her on the defensive? He had no cause to do so, so why had he done it?

"I think…I think you're right." He spoke slowly, reluctant to concede but knowing that these words had to be said. "I should not have said that, and I did you a disservice." It had never been particularly easy for him to apologize, and doubly so to a Nord. "I am sorry."

Lydia nodded. "I'm sorry as well. I should have responded better. You are my thane, and I don't want to fight with you. It's just…you're the Dragonborn. You're the hero of Skyrim. Literally! Remember the song?" He did. Our hero, our hero, the Dragonborn comes! Or, something to that effect, at least. They had played the song at least twenty times during the feast, but he had only ever heard snippets over whatever conversation he had having at the moment. "The Dragonborn shouldn't be telling people off for using the word elf."

Velandryn knew that she was right. The Dragonborn needs to be above such petty things. He wasn't certain he could do that, though. "Lydia, how is this? I will extend you and yours the benefit of every doubt with regards to what you choose to call me." He paused for a moment, carefully considering his next words. "But, when the people of Skyrim do wrong me on account of my race—which will happen, make no mistake—I want you to acknowledge it for what it is. If we can both do this, we might just have a chance of making it through this without hating each other."

She nodded. "Done." She speared the remaining half of the onion on her dagger and handed it over. "I am your sword and shield, my thane, and I will do my best to help you however I can."

After heating the onion and passing it back, he watched her eat as he considered her words. The Dragonborn must be more than I can be. He could pretend it did not bother him, but he was still a Dunmer, and the thought of losing that in this foreign land agitated him like a thorn beneath his skin. I cannot both be Dragonborn and reject the Nords, but I will not let myself forget who I am! Add to that these new passions that he had started thinking of as the Dov within him, and he worried he was at a very real risk of waking one morning to find himself completely lost. The thoughts of home had grown more remote these past few days; though the Sermon of Seven still echoed through his mind, thoughts of warmth sparked memories of dragon's fire rather than the holy flames within the Temple. He was Dragonborn, but what did that mean? How did this end for Velandryn Savani? Unbidden, the thought rose within him. It doesn't matter what they want. Take their power, take what you want. You are Dov, and they will kneel or they will—

"My thane!" His eyes jolted open and he jerked up in shock as his senses returned to him. Lydia was leaning across the table. "I'm sorry, my thane, I had not even noticed you drifting off. You must be exhausted after the feast. Come, the Jarl has given you fine quarters on the upper levels of Dragonsreach." She stood, and he got unsteadily to his feet as well.

Who am I?

It ate at him as he followed Lydia up the stairs. He still felt like Velandryn Savani, but the idea of being the Dragonborn sat uneasily upon his shoulders. He had meditated on it, before the feast, but reached no conclusions; even the ever-present specter of Alduin could not pull his mind away from this disconnect. He liked Lydia, and thought that he could work well with her, but for the rest of them? He needed…

He needed to be the Dragonborn. It was as simple as that. Skyrim had need of him, these Nords had need of him, and his conscience would not let him walk away. He clearly had some power, and whether it had come to him from a god, from the dragon, or by random chance, he had a responsibility to help these people. So, he would do it. He remembered his first sermon, and the words of the old Canon who was mentoring him. They do not know your fears, they can only see your actions. They expect the voice of the Three. Give them that.

"Lydia." His housecarl turned to face him. "Thank you."

"Of course my thane." She looked a little confused as she responded, and he knew that it would take longer than he cared for to explain why he had thanked her. They moved on, and Velandryn let the thought roll about in his head, liking the taste of it more and more.

They expect the Dragonborn. Give them that.

"Not like that, my thane."

"Then how? Your explanations make no sense."

"Like this. Less on the lips. You spread them too wide, show too many teeth. If you want people to respect the Dragonborn, you need to be able to do at least this."

"This is absurd. If I can kill a dragon, why is this eluding me?"

"I will note that the dragon died shortly after you smiled. The two could be related."

"You are hilarious, Lydia. I am laughing on the inside, I assure you."

"Well, it looks a lot like a bad smile."

Velandryn brought the blade up just in time. The blow that would have taken him in the neck instead slammed into his sword, slid upwards along his guard and locked against his hilt. The rapid impacts sent shivers down his spine and he pushed with the blade, the awkward angle forcing his opponent's weapon out and away from their bodies. His opponent was open, and his blade was within her guard. He needed only to bring it in to be able to—

He saw the shield half a second before it slammed into his side, sending him staggering to his knees. Head whirling, he took a moment to let his vision right itself, and looked up. Lydia stood above him, casually brought her blunted sword down, and tapped his head gently. With a sigh, he drove the tip of his practice weapon into the ground and hauled himself back to his feet. His side ached, and he found himself glad that Lydia was going gently enough on him that he had no cracked ribs with which to contend. He was equally glad that the secluded courtyard had neither windows nor an audience; watching the Dragonborn get thrown around like a kwama grub would doubtless damage the mystique of the title.

"Good work on the parry, but do not ignore my shield. It is every bit as much weapon as defense. Are you sure you don't want to try with one?" Lydia had been trying to get him to take up her style of fighting, with sword and shield, since they had started this morning.

Velandryn shook his head. "No, I want the other hand free. If things ever get so bad that I'm the one doing the swordfighting, I'll want to at least shove a fireball down their throats while I'm at it." He took up his stance, and something drifted up from his memory, a week he had spent at the Temple of Mercy in Mournhold, and the training he had observed there.

His housecarl pursed her lips. "Your guard is wrong. Do it like I showed you."

"This is a Dunmer stance, used by the Ordinators-Repentant. Shouldn't I be using a guard better suited for my size and race? Especially since I do not have a shield."

"The stance I showed you is designed for a single blade with the offhand free. I modified it to emphasize your smaller stature and shorter reach." Before he had a chance to adjust, Lydia brought her blade up and saluted. "Begin!"

This time, he tried keeping one eye on her shield, noting whenever she moved it from its resting block. However, noticing it did little good when she drove it forward, sending him scrambling desperately back to avoid being knocked to the ground. Her sword's blow followed swiftly, easily knocking the blade from his grip and sending it skidding across the courtyard.

"My thane, are these Ordinators-Repentant skilled warriors?" Her question came seemingly from nowhere. Velandryn stopped halfway to retrieving his fallen weapon and turned to regard her. A dozen answers bubbled up, each indignant and rich with the culture and history of their order, but they all boiled down to one salient fact.

"Yes. Exceptionally." His pride must have shown, because Lydia snorted and brought sword and shield to ready position before her.

"Well, you aren't. So, you'll use the stances I teach you, and maybe you'll live long enough to learn something! Now, attack me!"

Velandryn picked up his sword, hefting it in both hands; while it was possible for him to swing it with one, if he wanted any hope of breaking her guard he would need the power of a two-handed grip. He was completely untrained with using two-handed weapons, of course, but he didn't seem to be doing much better with just one hand, so he decided to risk it. As he closed, and saw her eyebrows raise at his choice of stance, he had a wicked idea, and knew his eyes must be grinning.

"That was an…interesting way you addressed me back there, housecarl. Tell me, is it typical to insult one's thane and tell them they will die, or do you reserve that honor for your Dragonborn?"

It was interesting to see the panic spread across Lydia's face. They had become comfortable with each other over few days since the feast, and truth be told Velandryn had no problem at all deferring to her on matters of combat, but he was still her thane, and could use that. By the look of it, she had committed a serious breach of protocol. And I am Dragonborn besides. I will wager that is enough…

His first blow was overhead, a huge arcing sweep that, in her distress, Lydia came close to letting through. Her shield, did rise, however, and the blow glanced harmlessly off. Velandryn had anticipated this, however, and was able to angle his strike such that it slid along the shield and fell off to her left in a single motion. Using both hands, he was able to bring it up under the shield and slam the blunted sword into her arm. She gave a sharp curse, and Velandryn drove the pommel into her side. As she staggered back, he saw her blade closing fast on him. By now she had recovered her presence of mind, and this looked to be one of her swift and merciless strikes that could crack bones if it hit full on. He could heal, of course, but both the wound and the cure hurt like Oblivion, and he had no desire to go through that again. In desperation, he dropped to his knees and thrust the blade at her sword arm. He felt the impact, heard the curse, and looked up to see his housecarl standing before him, both arms held awkwardly at her sides. He stood unsteadily, and reached out to tap her on her leather jerkin with the tip of his sword. "I think that round is mine."

She gave him a look that he would have called measuring had it come from an elf, so he supposed he could consider it the same from a human. "You used your prestige and my words against me." She did not sound entirely displeased.

"I had no chance of beating you by skill at arms, so I used what I had." He pulled his lips back to show his teeth. "There is a saying among my people that the only unfair battle is the one you lose."

His housecarl reached out and patted him gently on the shoulder. "My thane, every warrior culture has a saying like that." Her lips twitched. "I would advise you not to think yourself too profound on your first day of training."

"Ah…yes, of course." He could feel heat rising in his face, and realized how much of a fool he must have just seemed. "Ah, Lydia…"

His housecarl, however, seemed unconcerned. "It's a good feeling, isn't it? Winning?" She smiled. "Hold onto that. It's the last one I'll give you for some time yet." She readied her weapons again; with Lydia the shield might be even deadlier than the sword. "Again, my thane? Try not to go down to easily, I would like to break a sweat."

"Ready when you are, housecarl."

"On your guard!"

Agent Darien of Whiterun, Report 421, 22 Hearthfire

My initial assessment of the dragon assessment (Report 420) has been confirmed. Dragon bones at watchtower along Reach Road fresh, signs of battle apparent. Rumors in city of Dragonborn unconfirmed but likely given state of dragon corpse and numerous eyewitness accounts. Unsubstantiated reports of Dark Elf as Dragonborn, no further identity known at this time. Guard presence and activity increased, widespread panic averted but mood in city remains restive. Number of Thalmor agents in city greatly increased, Stormcloak sympathizers also showing high levels of activity. Courier services running day and night, message traffic at all-time high. Recommend further investigation immediately.

Written in the Service of the Council and the Emperor.

Agent Darien of Whiterun, Report 422, 27 Hearthfire

Follow-up to Report 421. Dragonborn confirmed. Named Velandryn Savani, is a Dunmer of indeterminate but not advanced age. Likely to be Morrowind-born. Associated with red hand sigil, meaning unknown (See sketch below). Raised to rank of Thane in Whiterun, assigned Housecarl (name Lydia), remaining in Whiterun for time being. Likely next destination is High Hrothgar to consult with Greybeards. Will send more information as becomes available.

Written in the Service of the Council and the Emperor.

"You may enter, Dragonborn." Irileth motioned Velandryn through the heavy wooden door, and shut it behind him. She and Lydia both remained out in the hall, an unusual occurrence from what Velandryn had been able to make out of housecarls. He had detected a hint of approval in the other Dunmer's eyes, though for what he could not say. Once through the door, however, he was taken aback what he what lay before him.

As much as Velandryn hated to praise the aesthetic sensibilities of the Nords, he had to admit that Jarl Balgruuf's private study was a masterwork. The chamber was richly adorned without being opulent and conveyed the character of its occupant well. Trophies adorned the walls and held places of honor on sideboards and tables around the periphery. Some seemed ancient, while others looked brand new; Velandryn noticed a long tooth that he somehow knew had been pried from the mouth of Mirmulnir. The floor was smooth pale wood; the pillars that supported the arched ceiling made of the same but carved with flowing vines and water. Three braziers lit the room, and by the pleasant smoky scent, were burning some rich wood rather than the common scrap wood that usually filled braziers like these. While many Nord buildings with such heating had a tendency to fill with smoke, some enchantment had been laid upon these that rendered the air about them perfectly clear. The jarl himself was reclining on a great chair lined in furs, its twin sat across from him, and a gilded carafe with two cups and an assortment of food was laid out on a table.

"You honor me, Jarl Balgruuf." Considering how carefully everything involving the jarl had been designed up until now, it was clearly a strong component of Nord culture that the leader was seated at the center or the head of any gathering, preferably physically above his underlings if possible. To meet like this was clearly a gesture of esteem and trust. Or, it is an insult of some kind. As soon as he had that thought, he stamped it down. The Dragonborn is worthy of esteem, and will act graciously. Even if insult is meant, to take it as honor robs it of its power. It felt strange at times, this air of confident superiority, but the majority of the Nords here seemed to take it in stride. In the past few days, he had watched the reaction of the guards change when he simply acted as he felt the Dragonborn should. Even Lydia had remarked on it, though she found it amusing rather than inspiring. She had given her blessing to his attempt, however, as well as some hints on how best to proceed.

"Please, take a seat, make yourself comfortable." Velandryn did so, feeling slightly ridiculous as he sank into the soft furs of the chairs opposite the jarl. "Have a drink if you would like, it's a Cyrodilic brandy from the Surilie Brothers in Skingrad. 162, a banner year." Velandryn poured a modest dram into one of the carved stone cups. He noticed the other cup, and the jarl's empty hands. Does the guest pour in Skyrim if there is no servant?

"Would you care for some as well, Jarl Balgruuf?" At the Nord's nod of assent, Velandryn filled the other cup and handed it over. For a moment there was silence as they drank. Velandryn was unused to such fine fare, accustomed as he was to the rough comberry brandies of Morrowind. However, while a jug of greef or sujamma might suffice for passing around at a cornerclub, it seemed the jarls of Skyrim supped on finer fare. I thought Nords drank mead, though?

When he asked the jarl about his choice of beverage, the Nord cheerfully admitted to favoring mead and beer like most of his people Velandryn had met. "I've no quarrel with bloods of the grape, but I won't seek them out. However, I heard that you favor such drinks, and we had this in the cellar."

I wonder what he wants from me. Or is it a perk of being Dragonborn that your hosts break open their reserves on your behalf? "You heard? From whom?"

"The servants at Dragonsreach did not earn their position merely by virtue of luck. They notice the favorite food and drink of everybody of import and, when I need to know, the understaff has that information." He shrugged and reached out to take a morsel from the table. "Would you care for a mudcrab leg? They are steamed and shelled then dipped in butter, and go wonderfully with the spiced goat's cheese." Velandryn considered accepting for a moment, but felt uncomfortable enough trying to drink while drowning in this chair. He did not want to risk eating as well, or getting butter everywhere.

Velandryn half-suspected that this was the set-up to either an exorbitant request or an attempt to kill him, but he had to admit that the brandy was superb. Surilie products were prized even in Morrowind, and their finer vintages commanded high prices and higher praise. If I am to be Dragonborn, there are worse ways to assist Skyrim. "Jarl Balgruuf, as thankful as I am for this," his wave indicated the refreshments and setting together "I suspect that there is something you would like from me. I am happy to help in whatever way I can." That was even true, most likely. The jarl had seen fit to provide fine chambers, new clothing and armor, and an open offer of whatever aid he could render the Dragonborn. He had even gone through the trouble of having a set of cloaks and tunics made up with the red hand of Ghartok on them; while he doubted that the jarl knew of its significance, he appreciated the gesture immensely.

The jarl sat forward and his countenance grew more serious. "Indeed. First though, I would ask, how have you found Whiterun thus far?"

Another pointless pleasantry? "It is a good city. You and yours are to be commended for keeping it so." He was trying to keep the annoyance out of his voice, and was fairly certain he had succeeded, which gave him a bit of a shock when the jarl gave a mirthless laugh.

"The question has a point, I assure you. You see a prosperous city, but my palace sits atop a mountain of snow, ready to collapse at the merest touch. Whiterun is a city divided and afraid, and I want your help to keep it peaceful." Velandryn was taken aback by the admission, but indicated that the jarl continue.

"The Stormcloaks have stepped up activity in the east since Ulfric's escape, and the Empire would like to use Whiterun's plains as a staging ground for thrusts into Stormcloak territory. General Tullius, the military governor," his mouth twisted "has sent me a number of letters, each less polite than the last, reminding me of my duty to the Empire, and 'encouraging' me to choke off trade to the Stormcloak holds. He has been kind enough to offer additional Imperial protection for Whiterun should we agree. Hah! Meanwhile, Ulfric send couriers telling me that every true Nord must fight for freedom and Talos, even against the Empire he founded. I am playing the shy maid for now, courting them both but offering nothing in return, and soon one or the other will demand I make a choice. They will do so with swords and spears, and whatever I choose, my hold and my people shall bleed. And now, there are dragons in my hold. Have you heard? Another dragon was sighted near Rorikstead two days ago; I got the missive this morning. A merchant from Riften saw one of the beasts near the ruins of Valtheim; he says it was only by the grace of the Divines that the beast did not attack. So tell me, Dragonborn, what do I do? Akatosh sent you to us in our hour of need. So now I am asking you, where do we go from here?"

Velandryn was at a loss as he felt a chasm open up beneath his feet. Asking me about this is…it was exactly right. I am Dragonborn. Who else should be consulted about the dragons? No doubt this sort of thing would be all too common in the days and weeks ahead. I may not know anything, but neither do they. And I can think like them, to an extent at least. Thinking like the Dov conjured up troubling desires, but he had been meditating on the Virtues and the Homilies of Service every night, and was growing more skilled at locking away those parts of himself. Of late the question had come slithering into his mind of whether it was wise to tamp down the Dov to protect that bit of him that was mortal, that was Joor. He had decide that, wise or not, for now it was necessary, and he would suppress the draconic desires for the present. They have a time and place. But not here, not today. But he could think like a dragon, and use that against the others. "Your first goal should be to fortify key locations." Dragons would accept a challenge, but they were not suicidal. "Forts, watchtowers, any town of size. Use ballistae and stone-throwers, or scorpions if you have them." He only had the tales and histories he had read from which to draw his knowledge of these weapons, but he could see them tearing through a dragon's great membranous wings, and suspected that any so torn would stay away in the future. "And mages, as many as you have." The Dov laughed at the thought of a single soldier on the field, but a mage was an enigma, and even a single master wizard could turn the tide if left to its own devices. They complicated matters, and a dragonwanted battle to be straightforward, a chance to show its strength. "Strengthen patrols around the hold. Ensure that any sighting of a dragon is reported and tracked." Mirmulnir had attacked the western watchtower because he had hidden for so long, and wanted to display his strength. Would other dragons do the same? "These patrols may come under attack, but they should draw attention away from civilians."

The jarl sighed. "These are good ideas, many of which my other advisors have proposed, and I wish I could do them all. There are few enough mages in Skyrim. Ever since the Great Collapse of Winterhold, most of my people view magic as dangerous. Those who have chosen that path, such as Farengar, are a minority. Siege weapons we have, though most are in dire need of repair and trained soldiers to man them. There are some in Whiterun who served in the Legion as artillerymen, but most are old. Those we have are training others, at least. The Empire is unlikely to send any of theirs unless I roll over for Tullius. Farengar has encouraged me to send to the College for more wizards, and I may do just that. As for patrols..." He gave Velandryn a long look. "How many men do you think I have who would be willing to ride out and draw a dragon's wrath? To flee from it, knowing they would likely die?" He shook his head sadly. "I thank you for your input, Dragonborn, but it is as I feared. Unless something changes, I cannot fully protect my hold." The jarl rose, and moved to stand before a bookshelf that stood taller than he did. His words came as he faced away from the Dunmer. "But now, we return to my true purpose in asking you here. What of you, Dragonborn? How will you assist in defense of my hold?"

Velandryn had given this idea some thought, and several of the Jarl's comments had given him the clarity he needed to make a decisive answer. "I will leave Whiterun soon enough, and make for High Hrothgar, to learn from the Greybeards. If even half of the tales I have heard about the Dragonborn are true, I can be of far more use once trained than I ever could here in Dragonsreach without their knowledge." He fell silent then, and awaited the jarl's response. He would be free to leave the city, he had no doubt, but Jarl Balgruuf had done much and more for him, and if he insisted on Velandryn remaining in the city to aid the defense in some way it would be difficult to refuse.

To his relief, however, the jarl had turned to look at him and nodded. "Good. I agree with you, the Greybeards will give you the knowledge and training you need." He looked away then, at a hooded grey cloak hanging on a mannequin in one corner. "Truth be told, I would like to go back up there myself, but I am jarl now, and needed here." He turned back to face Velandryn. "It is a long road to High Hrothgar, and both the northern and southern roads cross territory contested between the Empire and the Stormcloaks. I will instruct Skulvar down at the stables to wait only on your word to make your horses ready; Whiterun breeds the finest horseflesh in the province and it should cut your time on the road by half or more." Velandryn vaguely remembered a mustachioed man from the feast, boasting about how he would give the Dragonborn and his housecarl the swiftest steeds in Skyrim.

The jarl sat again, and took up another mudcrab leg. "All is not as dour as I made it out, perhaps. Thane Eitarr has announced his intention to raise a unit of dedicated dragon-fighting cavalry; hopefully his experience with keeping our roads safe from bandits will help him against this new enemy. The town watch has added twenty new recruits in addition to replacing those that fell against the dragon, and the Hold Guard has added thirty as well. I have received reports from Rorikstead that mercenaries and adventurers are pouring in in hopes of finding another dragon to fight. We have the men to fight another dragon, if not exactly the mages and siege works you desire."

A wave of unease overtook him at the thought of these adventurers trying their hand at dragonslaying. "Let them fight if you wish, but you will only be offering the dragons more prey. I suggested siege weapons because they can cause massive trauma with a single blow, and mages because they can skew advantages on the battlefield. The soldiers were only meant to draw the dragons away, not to fight them! If you throw bodies at the dragons, you will only get back charred corpses." He could still see the dead from the battle with Mirmulnir, the broken bodies smoking and the dying souls screaming.

"And what would you have me do, Dragonborn? Tell them off from patrolling the plains, or arrest anybody looking for a fight? I have no good solutions here, so I will make do with bad ones! If the Empire sends me some siege engineers out of charity or fifty mages arrive tomorrow and swear their service, I will use them, have no fear! But for today I must do what I can to protect my people, and this is it. They come to my hold and my city, spend coin and buy goods from my merchants in these troubled times, and I am thankful for that. I will not dishonor these brave visitors by keeping them from the fight. You had best learn quickly, Dragonborn, that we are not always given the chance to make the perfect choice. Men like us, those burdened with power and responsibility, must work with what we have."

Velandryn decided, in this instance, to overlook being called a man. "I understand, though I still don't like it. Work on getting those siege engines, and fortifying your watchtowers and forts. I will go to High Hrothgar, and see about becoming the Dragonborn of which the bards sing."

"And I will wish you all the luck of the Divines, my friend. Now, how about some more of this brandy?"

Jarl Ulfric,

I was relieved to hear of your escape, and assure you that your friends in Whiterun continue to work towards the liberation of the city for the true sons and daughters of Skyrim. This letter travels by trusted courier and there is no risk of intercept, so I will speak frankly. The Dragonborn is a churl, an ungrateful Dark Elf who cannot even understand the honor bestowed upon him. We all know that such honor should belong to you, and there are those who whisper that all of this is a Thalmor ploy to discredit you. His name is Velandryn Savani, and I would encourage you to move quickly to liberate Whiterun before whatever foul plan the Thalmor have concocted is brought into play. I cannot say if he truly can slay dragons, but surely he can do nothing that cannot be better done with the stout hearts of men.

I remain your obedient servant,

Avulstein Gray-Mane

"They think it was us."

"Was it?"

"Not that I've heard."

"What is a Dragonborn, by the way?"

"Some Nord thing, I'd wager. Anyways, make a copy and put the letter back."

"Done and done. He'll wake in a few minutes and think he just dozed off on horseback."

"Nice work on that spell, kinsmer. To charm both man and beast to an insensate state so quickly, not an easy task. I'll make a note in our report"

"My thanks. You should go do something impressive now so I can return the favor. "

Velandryn sat cross-legged on the floor at the foot of the bed in his chambers, looking at nothing and focusing on the in-between. He had taken the extreme step of casting an Illusion on himself and locking the Dov away for the time being. Any longer than an hour or so and the spell would decay, but he could afford no distractions or divided focus while performing a ritual of this delicacy. It was taxing and potentially dangerous, but exhilarating as well, to feel one's mind thread the intangible barrier between Mundus and Oblivion. If all goes well, I add a weapon as potent as any to my arsenal.

He had found three books in Farengar's library on exactly this topic, two penned by some enchanter from the College of Winterhold and one compiled from various writings of the Imperial Synod. All had dismissed the very idea as appalling in its heretical recklessness and urged any aspiring conjurers to under no circumstances even consider it. While one Synod researcher had been kind enough to note that 'certain Dunmeri religious traditions condone covenant with a select few Daedric Princes to enhance one's connection to Oblivion' the book went on to warn that this was a dangerous and backwards tradition. Because some idiot humans try to pull one over on Clavicus Vile or Boethiah and are shocked that their scheme doesn't play out like they want, suddenly all Daedric rituals are evil. The Dunmer had been invoking the favor of the Triune in one form or another for three thousand years; an attenuation ritual such as this was somewhat unusual but hardly extraordinary. And so, he found himself sitting naked on the floor of a Nord palace, with a potion that boosted his magicka by astronomical amounts coursing through his body and a soul gem humming with power suspended in the air before him. He did not look directly at the soul gem, but rather through it, letting the bleed-off of raw life force permeate reality and draw Oblivion 'closer.' He grimaced at the thought; it was useful to think in terms of distance, but ultimately misleading, since physical space was the first of the rules that went away when dealing with trans-liminal distortions. As he manipulated the soul gem's output, he felt the barrier that warded Mundus resist his violation, and intensified his efforts, a bead of sweat working its way down his nose.

Two hundred years ago, Martin Septim, last of the line of the Dragon Emperors, has sacrificed his life and the powerful artifact called the Amulet of Kings to summon Akatosh and end Mehrunes Dagon's incursion into Tamriel. Akatosh had not only thrown Dagon's Deadlands back into the Void, he had fortified the barriers that surrounded Mundus, effectively hamstringing thousands of years of summoning and Daedric study. The Dunmer had come up with workarounds for many of the more restrictive problems, but it seemed the Nords were content with the scraps of Conjuration that remained to them. Farengar indicated a disdain for ritual magic that fit perfectly with all of Velandryn's worst preconceptions about Nord mages, and the tomes he found seemed to regard it as, at best, an auxiliary form of spellcasting for when a wizard could not be bothered to maintain a spell on their own. Fortunately for Velandryn, ritual magic was still studied extensively by many Dunmer mystics and sorcerers, and it remained the single best way to establish a strong magickal connection to the trans-mundane. Not for the first time, he gave thanks that his ancestors had been open-minded enough to embrace the Planes of Oblivion governed by the Triune as the Far Realms; any Dunmer who knew the way of it had a far easier time drawing from these three Planes than would any other mortal who had not specifically pledged to that Prince. He felt the soul gem thrum with resonance, and sighed in relief. The path was clear.

Any spellcaster in this Era could summon an atronach or bind a soul if they knew the way of it; such cantrips did not require true communion with the Daedric energies that permeated the Realms of Oblivion. However, he figured that the Dragonborn would need something more powerful, a spell of binding that would catch his enemies off guard and offer a decisive tactical advantage. The Nord spell tome that lay open before him detailed the process by which one could go about creating a bound weapon, but emphasized that it was a weapon of last resort for a mage, and required extensive training in conjuration to be more potent than honest steel. Velandryn knew better. This book contained a crippled spell, a makeshift remedy forced by circumstance, and could be circumvented. He had the connection to Oblivion open, and now he pulled the raw Daedric creatia through, and used the framework of the tome to attenuate it to the idea of a sword. Here his own mind took over, and his subconscious biases and preconceptions of what constituted a sword began to take shape. Before him, the soul gem was the epicenter of a roiling mass of light and sound, and a keening wail went up as red and blue ribbons suffused the mass and flickering silver threads appeared and vanished, weaving through the whole, shaping a cage made of more than merely magic or matter, a weapon that would hold at its core the malevolent essence of a Daedra and use its rage at being summoned to strike against his enemies. He poured every drop of his magicka into maintaining the connection, and felt the power flowing through the soul gem intensify. This was it. The spell was burning itself into his mind as he created it. If he could just hold on, it would work. The sword took shape, reminiscent of an Akaviri katana with one edge slightly curved and razor-smooth but with the other edge rough and harsh in the half-finished style of ancient Velothi ritual knives. It was longer than the Nordic blade he carried, but he knew that it would be feather-light in his hand. It was a mottled black and red, and glowed with otherworldly malice. It was exquisite. He reached out to take it.

The door slammed open, and Lydia charged into the room, clad only in a shift but with sword and shield at the ready. "My thane! I heard noises…" She went quiet as she took in the scene, and Velandryn was struck by how sinister this would look to someone not versed in Conjuration ritual magic. The spell tome was burning merrily by this point, the sword hung in the air, rotating ever so slightly, and the soul gem was vibrating with increasing—

Velandryn realized what was happening half a second before the gem exploded. The shield he threw up did not completely enclose the blast, but channeled it downward, obliterating the spell tome and burning a hole in the carpet. He quickly contained the mess, passing his hand over the smoldering fire and extinguishing the flames. The sword itself quietly dissipated as his concentration slipped, and he found himself annoyed both at his housecarl for interrupting and himself for not anticipating that this could happen.

"My thane, what in Oblivion were you doing?" Her voice was strained, and she looked more terrified than angry. Velandryn realized that he was getting better at reading her, and felt a perverse satisfaction in realizing this now.

"We shall see." He uncorked a potion of magicka, downed it, and sat upright. He held his hand out again, retracing the steps in his mind. Now that the mental framework existed, he needed only apply magicka and intent to the latent nodes, triggering a cascade that would transcend the Mundane Ward and—

The sword appeared an inch from his fingers, he took it in his hand, and magical exhaustion hit him like a diving dragon when he realized how carelessly he had been spending magicka. He was bone dry, and though this summoning was simpler than the last, it still wreaked havoc on his reserves. Inefficient, but successful.

One.

Lydia had been giving him pointers in how to smile like a human, and he tried it now. "I was succeeding, Lydia. A bound sword, of superior make and might than the Nord variant."

"Congratulations, my thane." If she was happy for his victory, she hid it well behind a wall of taciturn disapproval. He wondered if this was partially to make up for her fear earlier. He regretted that, as he had genuinely not thought it would wake her.

"Lydia, the ritual was completely safe, and I should have warned you. My apologies." He was getting better at these apologies, he thought, though at some point it would be nice not to have to make them at all. To be fair, Lydia was also quick to apologize when she was at fault, so he could live with it for now.

She raised a single eyebrow, and looked pointedly at the charred circle below where the soul gem had been. He shrugged. "The soul gem served as a conduit as well as a focus, and limited the rate of transfer of magicka. I used a lesser gem; it would be incapable of generating anywhere near the power necessary to do real damage. What you saw was the worst-case scenario, and even that was trivial compared to the reward."

He turned the sword experimentally, marveling at the look and feel of it. It weighed almost nothing at all, but had the feel of momentum when he moved it. He released the blade, and it vanished again. So long as I am touching it, the binding remains secure. That was good. He had been worried that the more powerful Daedric creatia necessary to house the essence would cause a constant depletion of his magical reserves, but it seemed that the spell, like most of the School of Conjuration, front-loaded the cost from the caster to achieve a clean summons, then sustained itself for a period on its own energies. The possibilities are…significant. This blade would give him an edge in melee fights, and he already had some ideas about how best to use it for more…unorthodox…tactics.

Lydia sighed. "I suppose I shall have to design a new training regimen for you, my thane. I wish to thank you for keeping me so constructively occupied." Once she had gotten more comfortable in her role as housecarl, the sardonic side of her had emerged, and Velandryn actually found himself liking it when she showed some hint of a personality. Dangerous thought, liking Nords.

"Any time, housecarl. Now, I am going to sleep. Spellcrafting is tiring, and no doubt you will be thrashing me up and down that little courtyard bright and early tomorrow." His victories had been few and far between, and he could count on the thumb of one hand those won without the use of some trick or subterfuge.

Lydia made her good nights and closed the door once again, and Velandryn set to work cleaning up the detritus of his night's work. As he finished, he put his hand out before him, and arranged the summoning in his head. He cast, and the sword appeared once again.

Two.

This time, he nearly lost his balance. The exhaustion was getting worse as he depleted those stores of magicka that he had been using of late to sustain himself through Lydia's training and long days spent learning all he could. However, he needed to push himself to have any chance of improving, and if he did not become stronger, he could not hope to survive another dragon. He released the blade, and moved to lie in the bed. The Illusion shattered as he lay down, and the Dov came roaring to the front of his mind, though he felt nothing but joy at this potent new weapon to subdue and destroy his foes.

One more time, he raised his hand, and stretched it out to one side, so he could not see. He visualized, and cast the spell with his last drop of magicka. Instantly, his body gave out, and he slumped powerlessly onto the covers. Too much, perhaps. He felt the weight slide into his hand, and smiled.

Three.

He had time only to feel the sword slip from his fingers and evaporate into nothingness before sleep claimed him.

Dearest Dee,

It was so good to hear from you! Of course, you must have heard the news by now! A Dragonborn! And a Dark Elf no less! It's all anybody at the Mare can talk about. I even saw him when he came back after the battle. A whole crowd of guards, and him in the middle looking so odd himself, with a strange red hand on his armor and that sharp elf face. It's strange days coming, Dee, but having a Dragonborn, even an elf, makes me feel safe, you know? You need to come visit Whiterun! It must get so boring down there, I don't know how you do it.

All my best to Orgnar, and you take care too!

Hulda

The best informant in the world was a chatty friend. Send a letter every few weeks, and any news in Whiterun was on its way to her the morning after it had occurred. Delphine had told Orgnar she needed a few days, saddled Ysmir, and set off northward, towards the ancient barrow-hall of Ustengrav. She had heard the Greybeards call Dovahkiin, and that meant the Dragonborn would be on his way to them soon enough. Eventually, they'd send him for their precious horn, and she would make sure that led him to her. A Dragonborn. For Hulda it meant safety, but not for her. For Delphine, it meant cold nights and risking her neck on foolhardy missions like this. It meant new dangers and more like than not an early death. It meant having a purpose again, and riding off to save the world. It meant hope.

As they moved through one of the markets in the Plains District, Lydia realized that this was the first time her thane had left Dragonsreach in the almost two weeks since their return from killing the dragon he called Mirmulnir. In between training, meeting with Farengar to discuss Divines only knew what, meeting local notables and complaining about them to her once they had left, going to private discussions with the jarl, and nearly killing himself creating new spells, Velandryn Savani had been very busy. By extension, that meant Lydia had been cooped up in the palace for just as long. She was fond of the mighty hall, but it was nice to breathe crisp air and hear the hubbub of commerce again. And that is worth the annoyance of being the center of attention, or at least next to him. Clearly, word of the Dragonborn had reached every last citizen, given the number of looks both surreptitious and overt that they were receiving. Velandryn, to his credit, seemed not to notice, moving with measured grace made all the more impressive by the extraordinary string of curses she had awoken to this morning when he tried to get out of bed. She had suggested he eschew magical reinforcement and recuperation for one day of training, and he had agreed. Yesterday, he fought using only the strength and durability of his own flesh and bone, with no healing whatsoever. Today, he had glared at her with what she had momentarily been concerned was real hated. However, the glimmer in his eyes and muttered request for some 'gods-damned ice for every inch of me' put her at ease. Had he truly resented her, he would simply have healed his soreness. As it was, his resolve to act as a Dragonborn should masked any hint of his unhappiness.

She was proud of him; his willingness to eschew his area of comfort to improve a skill was admirable. Besides which, she had to admit that his skill with a sword was improving. At this rate, he might soon be able to handle one of the bandits that infested the remote places of the hold. They would be leaving the city in just a few days, but she planned to keep them on the main roads until they reached Ivarstead, and from there the ascent up the Seven Thousand Steps based on what she had heard should be free of anything beyond wild beasts. His current level of skill was enough to get them to the Greybeards, and hopefully they would be able to improve his Shouting and tech him whatever dragonslaying lore the Dragonborn should possess. Once or twice the notion had come to her that perhaps there were no special skills that could slay dragons with ease, but she rejected that as absurd. Why would they be sent a Dragonborn if he was not able to vanquish their foe?

Lost in thought, she realized suddenly that the passerby was focused on her no longer; she had lost her thane. Glancing around, she saw no trace of him or the finery gifted to him by the jarl. Cursing herself for a useless bodyguard, she pushed her way back through the crowd, searching for any trace of the red hand sigil that the jarl had ordered put on his cloak. It had pleased Velandryn when he first saw it, and he had seemed happy to wear it today. Now, it allowed her to mark he charge; her thane was deep in conversation with a pair of warriors in strange segmented armor with sunburst crests on their cloaks. One was showing him some sort of contraption of wood and metal while the other wrote on a piece of parchment and handed it to the Dragonborn. As she approached, the two went on their way, and she noticed that the one with the strange device had been an Orc, of all things. Velandryn noticed her then, and gestured to an empty stall off in a lightly-trafficked corner of the market. As they moved beneath the woven awning and leaned against the rail, he produced the parchment on which the stranger had been writing.

"We may have a detour on our way to the Greybeards." He showed her the paper, and she took note of the crude map scrawled there with a name beneath it.

"Dimhollow Crypt? What is there for us in a crypt?" She had no desire to go trudging through caves when all of Skyrim was in peril. Besides which, this Dimhollow Crypt looked to be located in the no-man's land between Hjaalmarch and The Pale, one of the main areas of conflict in the Stormcloak's rebellion. "This looks like a terrible idea, my thane."

He looked at her with bright, happy eyes. "Ordinarily, I would agree with you. However, they have something we need. A weapon that could very well turn the tide for Whiterun against the dragons."

That got her interest. "What weapon is in Dimhollow, and how did those two know about it?"

"Not in Dimhallow. That Dawnguard Orc showed it to me, a crossbow!" He seemed almost giddy; such excitement looked out of place on his long angular face as he gestured animatedly.

"What's a Dawnguard? And of all people shouldn't you use the word Orsimer?" In truth she did not care that much what he called the Orc, but she did enjoy poking at his pride.

However, he simply waved her complaint away. "Orcs are barely mer. But the Dawnguard, they're vampire hunters of some sort. That's what's in Dimhollow. Apparently a pack of the bloodsuckers torched one of the Vigil of Stendarr's halls, and a survivor heard their plans. The Vigilants want payback, and went to the Dawnguard. The vampires are looking for something in Dimhollow, and I received a guarantee of crossbows, bolts and schematics for Whiterun if we assist in taking down the pack." He looked almost as pleased with himself as when he had summoned that wretched sword.

"Very good, my thane. Now, what is a crossbow, and why does it excite you so much?" Not for the first time, she wondered how old he truly was. He had mentioned before that he was forty-seven years old, but what that corresponded to in human age was unclear. At times he seemed almost ancient with his esoteric knowledge and unconventional thinking, but then he would go off and get so very agitated over something trivial, like being called 'elf' or this crossbow weapon.

He was excited now, describing this weapon, and as she heard the details, she began to understand why. "Think of it as a handheld ballista. It fires a bolt that can punch clean through plate armor, and can be locked in ready position and fired in an instant. We arm the Whiterun guard with these, suddenly every wall has two dozen mobile scorpions when the dragons come by. It could change everything!" She had to admit, it did sound good.

Almost too good. "If these are such magnificent weapons, why have I never heard of them?" It also had not escaped her notice that this weapon would let any thug so amred bring down even the Dragonsreach Elites with a lucky shot.

He looked slightly abashed at that. "That is…an unfortunate series of events, I would say. The design was originally based on Dwemer technology unearthed on Vvardenfell late in the Third Era, and several outposts of the Imperial Legion had begun experimenting with mass-producing them around the time of the Incarnate's Return. However, with the Oblivion Crisis and then the Red Year following, the crossbow became a low priority. For all of its power, it was an impractical weapon for any but strong soldiers serving in low-mobility formations; it was ruinously heavy and had a long reload time that required the use of a foot to brace the weapon or a second soldier passing off and reloading crossbows. Combine that with difficult and precise machining being necessary for it to be at all practical, and it was quickly deemed an unnecessary complication when arming ourselves against the Daedra and later the Argonian raiders. It shouldn't come as much of a shock that the only examples I had ever seen before today were housed in museums or as conversation pieces in estates or temple halls."

Part of Lydia wanted to ask about the Incarnate, as she had heard him take that name as an oath several times. However, more pressing matters called. "If the weapon is so impractical, why are you so overjoyed? It sounds a useful tool, but hardly the all-mighty weapon you claimed."

His enthusiasm was back in an instant. "Because somebody did the work! Somebody went through the trouble of making it a viable alternative to the traditional bow! That one he showed me had had the mechanism updated and portions of the frame replaced with wood. It is half as heavy as any crossbow I've seen, can be reloaded in maybe a third of the time of the older models, and a skilled craftsman could make dozens in a week or less! He said the schematics are at some place he called Fort Dawnguard, but he was willing to give us a copy if we help with this cleansing." He lowered his voice conspiratorially. "He knew who I was, and I'd wager the real reason this is going through is he figures getting a thane and the Dragonborn on his group's good side is worth giving up those schematics. Dimhollow just sweetens the deal" He looked up at her, and twisted his mouth into a human-style smile. This one was notably less ghastly now that she had been giving him tips on how best to make it a gesture of affection and not intimidation, though he still showed an unnerving number of teeth. He was getting better at them, though. "What do you say, housecarl? Shall we go kill some vampires, and get crossbows for Whiterun? A chance to exterminate the spawn of Molag Bal and a windfall for your hold, surely that's worth a detour."

He was right. If these weapons were as good as he claimed, they might make a real difference should a dragon attack again. "Very well, my thane. We clear Dimhollow Crypt, then on to Ivarstead, High Hrothgar, and the Greybeards. When will we be leaving?"

"Early tomorrow morning. I'd like to get this done quickly; I have many questions for the Greybeards, and this seems a good week away even mounted."

"Do you ride, my thane?"

"Guar, I ride badly. Horses, even worse. You?"

"I have spent some time on horseback." Not much, truth be told, but she could plod a mare down the roads of Whiterun Hold well enough. "We have horses set aside for us in the stables, I was told. We should have them prepared for our departure."

"Sounds good. I suppose I should meet the beast I will be riding." He gave a slight shudder. She took the lead, cutting through the crowd, as her thane moved by her side. The stables were not far past the main gate, and there was much to do.

++Prism-spore active++

++Sub-aetherial contact established++

+Status report

+Talos reduction proceeds as projected rebel escalation within predicted parameters no evidence of extramundane interference

+Report status dragons

+Unknown origin capabilities goals structure significance

+Report known information dragons

+Massive power exceptionally dangerous

+Priority 1 obtain further information on dragons contain control destroy

+Understood request permission utilize Thalmor resources

+Denied

+Current resources insufficient for comprehensive analysis

+Utilize extant resources Priority 1 do not alert Empire to existence

+Understood Aldmeris Survives

+Aldmeris Survives

++Sub-aetherial contact terminated++

++Prism-spore dormant++

A/N Late update, apologies, life got in the way and a few parts of this chapter were a slog. Only big thing to address from last time is Lydia's reaction to Freya. I intentionally made it jarring and out of nowhere to signify that this was a part of Lydia's life that she had left behind. Freya was a young love, but Lydia moved on and excelled as a guard. Freya is not a long lost love, nor does Lydia harbor secret feelings for her. She thought of her very briefly before the battle, but she isn't the type to dwell on other things during a fight. That's much more Velandryn's thing. Basically, Lydia needed an emotional core in her past to contrast with the duty she has embraced, and while this was cheap and easy, it gives her some badly needed characterization and sets up a few arcs for her to undergo in the future.

As always, questions, compliments, complaints, all welcome.