Dragon from Ash

by Mortigaunt

"I may be Dunmer, but I am the Dragonborn, and I will defend your people whether they like it or not." Expands on Skyrim. Features fleshed out characters, content from earlier games and apocrypha, alternate choices and consequences for actions. WARNING: Contains mature content, including sexual themes, violence, and in-depth examinations of lore.

15. Chapter 15 - Long Miles of Cold

Chapter 15 – Long Miles of Cold

"I hope you're well, Aunt Lexie, but as you've probably figured out, Father needs a favor. The Council is worried that Skyrim is two bad meals and a sneeze away from open warfare over the Concordat, and I'm inclined to agree. Ever since that idiocy at Markarth, the Nords haven't been able to shut their gods-damned mouths about Talos, and a lot of people are worried that they might do something stupid.

High King Istlod isn't much longer for this world, and Torygg needs to be primed for rulership. Simply put, we want him firmly in his place before he becomes High King. With Ulfric banging his chest and calling for independence, we can't take chances with the Moot, and some on the Council are worried Torygg is too sympathetic to Ulfric and his Talos talk.

Once the dust of succession clears, we need a stable Skyrim, which means someone reliable on the throne. With Torygg, an heir would make a lot of people breathe easier and the new High King has to come to the throne thinking the Empire is the best friend he could ask for. I wouldn't dare tell you how to do your business, but a marriage would be ideal. Someone well-bred, not too controversial, preferably not infertile, makes him happy, the usual business. He's young; parade some pretty faces in front of him and he'll eat out of your hand. Oh, and make sure she's not ambitious? Nobody needs another Wolf Queen.

We can't lose Skyrim. The Concordat stings, but we all knew what we were getting, and now we have to keep the peace. I know you can do this. No matter who you might have married, you're a Mede.

By the Glory of the Divines and the Authority of the Elder Council,

Your loving nephew (You know which one)."

Attrebus II Mede, First Prince of the Empire, coded letter to Countess Alexia Vici, written 4E 198, 1 year prior to the assassination of High King Torygg

---

Ulfric Stormcloak entered the throne room like a hero of old, splendid in his silver furs and flanked by two warriors in bear helms. He strode towards the dais as bold as though it were he, rather than the man he came to meet, who was High King.

Torygg, seated on the gilded throne beside her, rose to greet him. She knew that her husband admired the jarl of Windhelm, but for the High King of all Skyrim to stand when receiving an underling in his own hall was too much. Her husband should know that, and he would doubtless bemoan his foolishness this evening. He was a good man, but sometimes he could be a bit of…well, a Nord. She smiled fondly at the thought, and wondered what it was Ulfric wanted. He was always angry these days, it seemed.

That much, at least, happened as in life. Every time, it mirrored her memories until this moment. From here, though, her nightmares ruled.

When her husband spoke, his lips moved but no sound came forth. His short beard—he had been so proud of his beard— quivered as he tried to make himself heard, but it was in vain.

Then, Ulfric responded.

She would never forget it, hearing the Thu'um. In her dreams though, it was different. It was smoke and wind and fire that cracked and hissed and bellowed, stalking about the room. It held her husband fast and pierced him with blades that vanished as quickly as they appeared. Torygg writhed and fought, but no sound escaped his lips. His mute protests did nothing, and soon he struggled no more.

When she tried to shout to the guards, to demand that Ulfric stop this insanity, the smoke and fury forced itself between her lips, pouring down her throat and suffocating her with the taste of hot blood. As she retched, trying desperately to catch her breath, she could only watch as Ulfric advanced, a sword appearing in his hand.

This was always the worst part. She knew she was dreaming, knew what had happened; but every time she relived the death—relived the murder—she had a moment of agonizing uncertainty, where she was there once more and did not know how it would end.

It ended as it always did. Ulfric plunged the sword through her fool of a husband's chest, and Torygg coughed, blood bubbling out of the wound in his breast and trickling down from his mouth. His face bore an expression of almost childlike puzzlement, as though he couldn't quite figure out what was happening. Then, that expression of befuddlement still on his sweet and simple face, he keeled over, sprawling on the hard stone before the throne.

Ulfric pulled the sword free, and her husband slumped to the floor. In life, the jarl had turned and left the hall, doubtless knowing that no matter what the ancient laws of Skyrim said, the people of Solitude would not look kindly on what he had done. In her dreams, though, Ulfric had one thing more to do. Cold eyes turned towards her, and he took a step forward.

She was next. Rooted in place in her throne, she found herself transfixed by the malignant smoke that rose behind Ulfric, the same evil power that had held her husband down as he died. The jarl of Windhelm, that demon in human form, raised his blade. Its edge still shone wetly with Torygg's life-blood, and she wanted to weep.

She would wake before the blade went in. She always did. She just had to wait, just sit there, helpless, trusting her nightmare to let her go.

She held her breath, willing it to be done. Above, Ulfric was a specter of hate and shadow, cursing her in a voice far deeper than the man had ever possessed. Finally, inexorably, the blood-soaked weapon fell, eager to claim her life.

Her eyes opened, and she took a deep breath, keeping herself from gasping for air. I'm free. The dreams weren't as bad as they had been right after the murder, but this particular one didn't want to go away. She hated them all, but none of the others made her feel so helpless. It was over though, and she was in control again. Or at least, as in control as she ever was these days.

The High King's chambers—her chambers now, for better or worse—occupied the upper levels of the broad tower that crowned the Blue Palace. She knew that this location held immense political and symbolic significance, but she'd only ever loved one thing about it, and that was the view. Huge windows of clear sand-glass from Sentinel looked out in every direction, giving her what had to be the finest view in Skyrim. Now, she strode to the eastern wall, and pulled back the thick drapes to let in the morning light. As she reached out and gently opened one tall panel, the wind snaked its way in, and she felt goose prickles along her arms.

Liking the feel of the air this morning, she pushed the panel open fully. Stepping out onto the balcony, she spread her arms and let the dawn surround her. Out to the east, along the distant and snowy hills of the Pale, the sun was rising, sending vibrant reds and golds arcing across the sky. Another gust came in, this one setting her bed-shift to flutter.

Whatever the Stormcloaks might say, she was as much a Nord as any, and the brisk wind off of the Sea of Ghosts felt wonderful. Kyne, Mother of Men, I welcome you once more. May you give me strength this day, and for all of the days to come. She had prayed to Dibella before, of course, and for the brief time she had been wed she had offered benedictions to Mother Mara, but in these days of uncertainty it was Kyne, Hawk of the Winds and Warrior-Wife of Shor, who was most often in her thoughts.

She knew that her personal faith was neither truly Imperial nor wholly Nord, but it mattered little. Her parents and priests had taught her that the gods existed to offer comfort and guidance, and the Three Wives of Shor were just that, bright lights for her to face during hardships. So, she embraced the wind, and didn't worry overmuch if it was Kyne or Kynareth who had sent it. Most of Solitude did the same, blending Imperial and Nord beliefs into a tapestry of religion. The Old Holds might disapprove, but if she found Akatosh more pleasant to think of than Alduin, did it matter?

She sighed. Apparently she couldn't even take in a morning breeze without it becoming philosophical. Is this growing old? Once, that would have been a joking thought, but now, still shy of her twenty-third name-day, she wasn't so sure. She'd been widowed now for longer than she'd been married to Torygg, and it seemed that any remaining youth the gods had meant for her had been consumed in the fires of Ulfric's ambition.

Quickly, she buried that unworthy complaint. Such thoughts are selfish. If I am to rule, I have to put my people first.

Reluctantly, she turned away from the window, and began to dress herself. Not for the first time, she gave thanks that Nords valued simple and direct presentation; some of the designs currently in fashion in High Rock and the Imperial Province would have required hours and all three of her maids to construct. Fortunately, no Nord of Skyrim would ever hold court in such, and so she was spared.

Idly, she wondered what new problems would arise today. She knew that General Tullius was unhappy, but that was nothing new. The man seemed personally offended every time she even spoke to him; doubtless he would prefer that she simply agree with his every decision and give him control of Solitude. Well, that she could not do. She was jarl of these people, and would speak for them even if it meant defying the Military Governor. Plus, while he might bark at her, she knew that he preferred dealing with one problem to fifty. And so I am the go-between, with my people on one side and the Empire on the other. Again she sighed. It was to be an introspective morning, it seemed.

Looking in the mirror, she winced at the look on her face. Any who saw her would be able to tell she hadn't slept well. She had best start getting ready. The jarl gently pressed her thumb against a small crystal set into the wall, and it glowed for a moment before returning to darkness. The magical chime had been installed by some long-dead ruler and might be considered foolish or un-Nordlike by some, but she would never give it up. It was one thing to distrust the secret machination of mages, but simple magics like this made life easier and had never hurt anyone.

Down below, she knew, Ilsa would be waiting for her summons. The woman had been her attendant since girlhood, and knew when she was needed. After all, the jarl couldn't afford to hold court looking anything less than perfectly in control.

When the maid appeared, the other woman was carrying a letter from Falk. Her steward, as always, felt the need to remind her that they were at war, and that food and drink were not as plentiful as they once had been. She knew that this latest reminder was aimed at the feast she was planning for the last day of Hearthfire, to welcome the coming winter. He felt it was a foolish frivolity, but she disagreed. In times like this, it was vital that they show the strength of Solitude. If the jarl could not even feast the mighty of her city, why should they respect her?

No, I have to do this. She would take her lessons to heart and rule justly. She would be the Queen, the ruler Solitude and Skyrim needed in these dark times. She mourned Torygg, but she wouldn't let Skyrim crumble with his death. I will rule it, make it whole again. She swore the oath to herself silently, as she had done every morning since her husband died.

With a satisfied sound, Ilsa finished making the intricate braid that held the jarl's hair. "You're ready, my lady."

"The court awaits." Rising, she made for the door. In the antechamber, Bolgeir was waiting; her housecarl, as always, looked like someone had partially shaved a bear and then stuffed it into steel plate. The big man fell into step at her side, where he would remain for the entire day. Standing at the top of the gentle stairway down to the throne room, she took a deep breath. I have this. She had been born and raised to nobility. Perhaps her parents hadn't intended her to rule all of Solitude herself, but they had always told her to try her best. Smiling to herself, Elisif the Fair, Widow of the High King and jarl of Solitude, strode out to face the world.

I can do this.

---

Less than an hour after leaving the desolate jetty to which he had teleported, Velandryn conceded that his boastful challenge before setting off might not have been the wisest course of action. Pride was good, of course, but tempting fate meant giving fate a chance to hit back, and that could end badly. As if to punctuate his thought, another gust of wind swept through the trees, sending a chill down to his bones. At least it isn't snowing.

He had decided to head inland, figuring that any pursuit from Castle Volkihar would have a harder time tracking him if he was sheltered and away from the coast. He was operating under the assumption that they were pursuing him, though he doubted they would actually set out before nightfall. The gate guard was the only thrall he had seen not under direct supervision, and any mortals sent out would sacrifice the advantage of superior speed. He had to assume that they knew the region better than he did, so he would have to make use of superior distance and hope that finding him wasn't their highest priority. If every one of those vampires he had seen was sent forth, he wouldn't stand a chance. And if one of those monsters comes after me…

The image of Harkon's transformation still lurked in the back of his mind. It had tapped into something primal deep within him, a fear that he hadn't even known existed. The thought of that…thing…behind him gave his every step a little more length, every sound around him just a hint of malice. He could suppress it for a time, but it always came back. Hunter and prey.

Lost in thought, he stumbled over a tree root, and for a moment he was certain that he'd been found. Panic choked his throat, and he gathered magicka to his skin and reached for the sword at his hip. Glancing back, he saw what had happened, and had to chuckle ruefully. Maybe I should get out of my own head now. He'd always had a tendency to overthink, but this time, a lack of focus could actually get him killed. If the Dragonborn was going to die, he'd do himself the honor of dying on his feet.

Ahead, the ground sloped upwards, and sunlight unbroken by trees could be seen. Velandryn was cold and footsore, but he knew there was no way he could pass up a chance to get his bearings. So, pulling a slightly greater trickle of magicka to warm his extremities beyond the bare minimum, he began to climb the hill.

Once he attained the summit, he found himself atop a modest rise, looking down into more forest identical to that behind him. Off to the north the shoreline was visible, and that fogbank squatted on the water like some malevolent shroud. Still too close. He had to be further from here by nightfall.

The mountains ahead loomed ever higher, but even their foothills were still too far to reach today. He'd avoided taking the obvious route back along the shoreline, but his path needed to start steering in the direction of Solitude if he didn't want to spend gods-only-knew how long alone in the wilderness.

Resolved, he pulled magicka through his hands, readying a spell. His time with Serana had him thinking about alternatives to the traditional schools of magic, but his modes of thought were, for better or worse, tied up with the way he had been taught. So, he aligned a framework of Illusion, and cast his magicka outward.

To either side, ghostly images appeared, each a perfect facsimile of the Dunmer. He drew deeply on his well of magicka, and commanded. As one, the illusory doubles started down the hill. They would last for several hours, and take paths deep into the forest. With any luck, the multiple magical residues would confuse the vampires. He had also, at the cost of more than a little of his remaining magicka, given them his scent. With any luck, even if the Volkihar brought hounds of some sort, they'd still be stymied. He probably shouldn't count on it, but it made him feel a little better. This was the third time today he had cast this spell, and he was starting to feel the deep ache of magical exhaustion. His reservoirs were improving, but this was a complex spell being cast in unfavorable conditions.

He uncorked a potion of magicka and downed it in a single gulp; he only had one vial of the foul-tasting stuff left but should be able to brew some more with his empty vials and the plants he had found today. He patted the journal and alchemical apparatus at his side; it had become almost a reflex to check them whenever he drank one of his few remaining concoctions. So long as he made more potions to resist the cold and restore his magicka tonight, he should be okay. Perhaps one that combines the properties? It would take a bit of experimentation, but combining both properties would permit him to stretch his supplies considerably.

He had considered using the enchanted jewelry he'd picked up; he had a pair of rings and an amulet that all boosted the flow of magicka through his body. Eventually, however, he'd decided against it. Long-term usage of enchanted items, especially those made of common ingredients and with non-expert workmanship, caused strain on the user. After a few days with them on, his body would be expecting elevated levels of magical potency, and when he removed them he'd suffer a backlash. It was nothing a day or three of rest couldn't fix, but he was fairly certain he wasn't going to get that luxury. I can always put them on if the situation gets dire enough.

That last thought cheered him, and he decided it was time to press on. Putting the falling sun to his back, he started down the gentle descent before him, eyes on the mountains framing the southern sky. They were the wall he would have to cross, one way or another. Not tonight though. He would put more distance between himself and the vampires, and then he could worry about the mountains.

As he trudged through the woods, his final words in the castle kept coming back to haunt him. You're better than this. Why in Oblivion had he said that? Had it been no more than simple revulsion, an attempt to distinguish Serana from the horrors that apparently surrounded her? Or had it been something else?

He recalled the look on her face as he vanished. He couldn't quite identify it, but it certainly hadn't looked like a feeling of relief at being home. He was no expert at reading faces, gods knew, but hers had been something far from peace. Was she regretting returning? Or did he simply want to believe that?

He liked Serana, definitely more than was wise, but he had to face the reality that they were on opposite sides of a very old conflict. Lord Harkon's clan, the group that Velandryn now all but knew were the origin of the Volkihar bloodline, would have to be dealt with sooner or later. They had been content to torment their little corner of the world, but he couldn't in good conscience let them continue, especially considering he may well have helped them with…well, he didn't know what, but Harkon's pleasure at his daughter's return didn't seem to be all that related to Serana herself. He had eyes only for the Elder Scroll, and that was worrying.

Truth be told, Velandryn couldn't see what practical use a vampire could get out of an Elder Scroll. The Empire had conducted millennia of study into their use, but whatever they had found had been unable to help them avert any of the calamities that had befallen Tamriel in the last few hundred years. Certain discreet investigations into the Scrolls had been made by Temple researchers over the centuries, but none of them had ever uncovered anything of interest, so far as Velandryn knew. Perhaps a Telvanni master wizard had uncovered some ancient knowledge, but the Parliament of Bugs did not share their secrets. The Scrolls held immense power, to be sure—even a moment looking at Serana's had been enough to sense that— but it was power of a hugely remote and almost cosmic nature, the kind that did not translate into mundane applications. Unless the vampire had a desire to read vague prophecies and risk going blind, he shouldn't get much use out of it. Or I'm missing something. It was possible that Lord Harkon knew something about the Scrolls, something that—

Something that Serana's mother knew as well. He'd wondered why the scroll had been secreted away with her, but perhaps, if there was some significance…

Or an attempt to keep it out of Harkon's hands? He sighed. He had no way to answer this. He needed more information, but he had a feeling that he'd played right into someone else's plan. Whether it was Serana's plan or if she was just another pawn he couldn't say, but the sensation of being used was more than a little unpleasant.

Enough. He was letting his wandering mind betray him. He turned his focus inward, concentrating on the here and now. I am stronger than the trials around me. For thousands of year his people had been beset by foes, and had survived through faith and resolve. Duty, piety, wisdom. Through virtue we are made superior, and through superiority we show ourselves to be Dunmer. Nerevar Twice-Born, as you triumphed, so do I aspire. Watch my path and rejoice in my victories, Redeemer.

With a start, he realized that he'd been completely lost in thought, and took his bearings. He was, unsurprisingly, still in a freezing cold forest, surrounded by trees that looked identical to all of the others he had passed this day. Judging by the sun's position behind him, he was still heading in a generally eastern direction, but it was also getting colder, meaning he needed to decide if he was going to camp for the night.

A few minutes later, something else occurred to him. I should probably eat something. He had been running on nerves and magicka all day, but that wouldn't last forever. He'd refilled his waterskin several times when crossing streams and grabbed some berries that the wretched traitor Jolf had pointed out as edible several days before, but he hadn't eaten anything substantial since that morning. He should keep an eye out for game. And then I just have to kill, skin, cook and eat a wild animal. Several of those steps he was familiar with, but he doubted it would be the most appetizing meal of his life. Better than starving, at least.

He began paying attention to the wildlife as he progressed, thought there was little enough to be seen. He knew he wasn't the stealthiest thing in these woods, and every potential meal must have had the same idea, since they had cleared out. If he hadn't been burning all of his excess magicka in an attempt to warm himself, he would have tried to detect life in his vicinity or use night-eye. Unfortunately, he couldn't afford to waste the energy, so he had to make do with mundane senses. Or fail to make do, I guess. He had found nothing, and the day was turning inexorably towards night.

Finally, something darted through the trees, kicking up puffs of snow in its wake. Spinning to follow the motion, Velandryn raised his hand and fired off a stream of flame. A whine came from the creature, and the Dunmer darted over to see what he'd killed.

The fox rolled helplessly on the ground, fur aflame. It kicked and yelped, trying to extinguish itself, but to no avail. Standing over it, Velandryn felt a moment of absurd guilt at what he'd done. It's you or me. Drawing his iron dagger, he knelt and finished the job.

Now, he had the limp corpse of a fox, raw but for some crisped skin. Using the dagger, he tried to do something akin to skinning, but that turned out to be a much tougher job than he'd anticipated. He perched on a log and maneuvered the blade, accidentally lopping off a leg as he worked to get some sort of chunk of meat he could eat.

Finally, he extracted a chunk of muscle and fat, cut from somewhere on what had once been the torso and with only a few tendons remaining. He held the piece gingerly, not really wanting to get raw meat all over his hands but not seeing an alternative. Removing a glove, he wrapped his hand around the fox meat and called forth his fire.

Instantly, the smell of roasted meat filled the forest. Blessed Three, I need to eat! Soon enough, the piece was charred and blackened, and he took a bite that still smoked and burned with tiny embers. It was satisfying to eat the fruit of his labor, even if it was probably the worst meat he'd ever had. Fox didn't taste particularly good, and he'd blasted it into charred ruin with his hasty cooking.

He missed having kitchens prepare food, to be served at regular times. He missed the pantries in the Temple basements, and the way the doors had creaked. How many acolytes got nabbed by old Sister Nelen, since they thought the lock was all they had to worry about? One time, he remembered—

"So, you're the one getting elf all over my forest." The voice came from behind. He leapt from the stump, fox still in his mouth. His hand fell to the Orcish blade, and he spun to face the speaker. However, trying to rise, turn and draw a weapon from his hip in one motion proved too much, and he lost his footing on the uneven ground. The blade went skittering away as he fell, and he heard laughter from above. "An idiot elf! Better and better!"

From his new spot on the ground, Velandryn looked up. A few feet away, arms crossed over his chest, was a Nord. The man was wrinkled and clearly quite old, but he looked immensely strong. His bare torso and arms were covered in blue tattoos and scars; beneath the skin he was thick with muscle, and his sackcloth pants were tied with a piece of rope at the waist. A mane of white hair stuck out from the old man's head, and a thick beard covered the lower half of his face. He had neither weapons nor footwear, and looked none the worse for their lack.

Glaring down at Velandryn, he made no move to help the mer to his feet. "Why are you out here, elf?" His teeth were yellow and his nose red, but the Nord's pale eyes were sharp. His breath, however, was foul.

Velandryn eased himself up into a sitting position, trying not to breathe through his nose. "I'd rather not be. I'm headed for Solitude."

"Didn't answer my question." The old man glanced down at the fox. "You're no woodsman, that's for sure."

Velandryn had hoped the human wouldn't notice that. "A treacherous ship captain left me out here. I need to get to Solitude so I can thank him personally."

The old man waved at the fox. "You won't make it, not if this is how you survive in the wild." He hunched down and poked the corpse. "Breath above, you're terrible at this!"

"Your insight is appreciated." Velandryn hauled himself to his feet. "Is your village around here?" The old man spoke Imperial Common too well to be one of the Old Clansmen he had seen during the fight with Mirmulnir, but he knew little about Skyrim, and remote villages seemed like the sort of thing Nords would have.

Instead of answering though, the old man leaned in towards Velandryn and sniffed. The Dunmer flinched back, startled by the odd behavior. The Nord leaned back and glared at him.

"Don't like liars, elf. You smell like the sea, true enough but no ship puts ashore here. Only one thing out on those waters." He bared his teeth in the most feral smile Velandryn had ever seen. "What you runnin' from, boy?"

Boy? He decided to let it go. Clearly, the old man knew more about the region than he did, and was at least somewhat aware of the Volkihar besides. "I think you know."

The blow came so fast that Velandryn was reeling before he even noticed that the old man had moved. The follow-up sent him face-first to the ground, and a moment later her felt the old man's knee pressed into his back. "You don't have the eyes, elf, but nobody comes out of that castle 'cept them as the vampires want to. So, what are you doing out here, and maybe try the truth this time."

"I ran!" He paused for shallow breaths between statements; anything more was impossible given the knee driving out his air. "Trying to get out of here, want to be far away by nightfall!"

All at once, the pressure was gone, and Velandryn scrambled to his feet. The old man was standing a few paces away rubbing his chin. "That's why you cast the shadow elves, huh? Makes sense. But how'd you get out? And what business do you have with them." He squinted. "You got dealings with the vampires?"

Whoever this man was, Velandryn saw no harm in telling him the truth. He doesn't seem to have any love for the Volkihar. "I…helped one of them get home. She didn't tell me all of the details, though." No reason to burden him with too much truth through. He had figured out almost everything before entering Castle Volkihar, and chosen to walk in regardless. He was somewhat proud of that, but this Nord might not be as appreciative. "I took some precautions beforehand, and teleported back to shore when they got a little…enthusiastic. Unfortunately, the s'wit who took me out here had vanished, leaving me with a bit of a problem, which I am now trying to solve." He exhaled through his nose, less from amusement than to get some warm air flowing through it. "That answer your questions?"

"Just about." The old man was leaning against a tree now, eyes still fixed on Velandryn. "Good to know elves are as dumb as humans, though."

"What?"

"You said she. Let me guess. Golden eyes, pale skin, whispers promises in the dark? Didn't even need to use magic, got herself a fine pet all the same! Guess you didn't mind the face too much, eh? You like them like that? All scrunched? And the nose! Like a bloody bat!" He chuckled. "Volkihars, ugliest damn vampires I've ever seen. Right bastards too, the lot of 'em. You got damn lucky if you're telling it true. Only reason you're not still there is you have a bit more wit to you than most." He glanced at the sky. "Might be they leave you be, might be they don't."

That was helpful. "Well, I would rather not find out the hard way, so, unless you're planning to help me…" Velandryn let his words trail off. He didn't trust the Nord, not exactly, but he also didn't have many options right now. Unless he wanted to attack the old man, he had to play nice. Well, somewhat nice. "Or do you just tell people they're terrible at survival for your own amusement?"

"When they're as shit at it as you are, then yeah." Grinning with yellowed teeth through his beard, the Nord glanced down at the fox again. "Shor's bones, elf, you'll be dead inside of three days trying to survive."

"So you'll help me?"

"Did I say that? I don't much care if you live or die."

"But if I escape, you'll be putting one in the eye of the Volkihar out there."

The old man smiled sharply. "And who wouldn't want to do that! You know things you shouldn't, smell like cold and fear, and you're running in the direction of nothing but death besides. If those bastards out there wanted to try again at killing me, they wouldn't go through the trouble of using you. Your story smells funny, but not like a lie." He nodded once. "I'll point you the right way, and show you how to clean a kill. From there, you're on your own."

Velandryn bowed, relief causing his knees to almost buckle. "Thank you. Truly."

The old man held up a hand. "But first, payment."

Fetch it all! "I have a few drakes—"

"Not gold! No use for it out here." He pointed at what was left of the fox. "You'd offend a babe with that skill. Your payment is you learn. Your kill, give it to me."

"It's yours." An odd request, but one with which Velandryn had no problems.

The old man hefted the limp body in his hands, and grinned again. For the first time, Velandryn noticed how sharp his teeth were. "Watch and learn, elf." He began tearing the body apart with his bare hands, nails digging into the skin and tearing off long strips of flesh attached to the hide. In less than a minute, he had removed more meat than Velandryn had thought possible, much of it still attached to the skin. "It's all in the wrists."

"Knowing what to do with them, perhaps." He would likely never be as skilled as this master, but he had noticed a few things that would help. He pointed at the meat. "You want the meat, then?"

The Nord shook his head. "Not my hunt, not my kill." He held the pieces out. "Plus, you're too damn skinny. Eat this, maybe you get some muscles. Or not." He chuckled.

"My thanks." He took the meat, not quite knowing what to do with it. "If you could point me in the right direction now…"

The old man pointed. "You need to—ah, forget it. You'd just get lost." He took off. "Follow, elf!"

Velandryn hurried after. The Nord was only a bit taller than him, but each stride seemed to be much longer than one of his. "So, what are you doing out here?"

The old man shrugged expansively. "Living. Gotta do it somewhere, and this is as good a place as any. These hills have everything I need and none of the things I came out here to get away from."

Even if that was true, there were easier places to be alone. "The vampires don't bother you?"

"We have an, ah…agreement, seems like. They don't bother me, and I don't bother them." He waved his hand. "Never sat down around a table all fancy-like, but I think everyone understands their part."

Somehow, Velandryn had a hard time seeing the Lord Harkon he had met liking that arrangement much. "And this band of vampires just lets you be? That hardly seems like them."

The Nord chuckled and leapt a fallen tree, landing lightly on the frozen earth. Very lightly. This Nord moved better than any of his kind Velandryn had ever seen. "First time a hunt brought me up this way, met one of them. He tried to grab me while I was sleeping, so I tore his arm off. Light sleeper, y'know." He scratched his beard, picking some small speck out of the bristly hair and popping it into his mouth. Had Velandryn not been Dunmer, he would have grimaced in disgust. "Sent more then. A whole pack of them, so I made myself scarce for a few weeks. Went up into the mountains, got myself a bear and ate like a king! Next few years, when I came round this way, they'd send some newbloods and slaves after me. If any of them got separated from the pack, I'd pick 'em off, real quick-like. Then, eventually, they just stopped attacking. Don't even come back in the hills much these days." He shrugged. "They can have their sea. Never much liked horker anyway." He leaned in. "Between those High Elf bastards at Northwatch, those vampire bastards out to sea, and the Forsworn bastards, orc bastards, and bandit bastards back behind the mountains, getting a mite crowded for the middle of nowhere."

"Altmer, you said?" What in Oblivion were Altmer doing out here? If the Thalmor had some business in northern Haafingar, he was only glad that he hadn't run into them. No, wait, the rest of his story… "They left you alone because you killed enough of them?" That didn't sound like the Volkihar he'd seen. Could I have judged them wrong? If they were so easily cowed…

The old man gave a bark of laughter. "You think they just rolled over and stuck their tails up?" He laughed again. "The Father gave me his gift, elf, and this is the greatest of hunts."

Velandryn studied the man out of the corner of his eye, trying not to be too obvious in his scrutiny. Almost naked, half-mad, living alone…this might be a Nord out of the best kind of Dunmer stories, if not for the fact that he was all wrong. He had torn that fox apart with his bare hands, and his words…

Not my hunt, not my kill.

In an instant, Velandryn understood. Oddly, realizing what his companion was didn't fill him with dread so much as a sort of doomed calm. If he wanted me dead, I would be.

Velandryn stopped in his tracks, and the old man turned to look at him. "Something wrong, pup?"

"A question, if you don't mind."

Another smile spread slowly over the old man's scarred and bearded face, a crescent of yellowed teeth that grew among the whiskers and wrinkles. "Figure it out yet?"

"I think so. But if I'm right, why did you help me? Shouldn't I be your prey?" He was more than a little proud of the way he delivered that line, almost as though he wasn't afraid.

Another laugh. "I live for the chase, elf. No sport in you." He stepped closer. "I could smell it the instant you realized what I was, and the instant you decided not to fight." He inhaled. "Still, you reek of fear." He stepped back. "You hide it well, but there are no secrets from a favorite son of the huntsman. The wolf blood is strong in me, and the Horned King's blessing gives me a nose like nothing else in this world."

"So, what happens now?" Velandryn managed to keep his voice steady. Despite the other's assurances, he knew that he would be dead in an instant if the man-beast so wished it. He had never met one before, but they were said to be mercurial even at the best of times, afflicted with fierce passion and fanatically dedicated to the ideals of Hircine.

Werewolf.

The thing he had been speaking to, the altered mortal that was neither human nor beast, stretched, a motion that moved a great many muscles, most of which could doubtless be used to kill him in interesting ways. Velandryn wasn't sure if his eyes were playing tricks, but the bare chest seemed hairier than it had before. "Now, we keep going until you're out of my territory. I told you, I don't want elf-stink in my forest."

Lycanthropy was rare in Morrowind, and most afflicted were unknowing victims who had to be dealt with decisively before their rampages could infect others. They were dangerous, but this Nord was clearly of the rarer kind: the true were-kin, chosen hunters of Hircine who were not of the cities but dwelt in the wildest reaches of the world. Like in a stretch of desolate forest out on the farthest scrap of nowhere. The Temple had no quarrel with Hircine, and official doctrine stated that his followers were to be treated with the same tolerance as any other outland cult. If I ever make it back to Blacklight, I'll add a note to the library about looking as pathetic as possible. "Lead the way." It wasn't as though he had any other choice, and being rude to a werewolf might just mean it came at you claws-first the moment your back was turned.

With another laugh, the werewolf leapt ahead. "Try and keep up, elf! No reason to go easy on you now!" He bounded forward, and Velandryn had to put on a new turn of speed not to be left behind.

By the time the man-beast stopped, it was almost full dark, and Velandryn was exhausted like he had never been before. Training with Lydia had been demanding, but there had always been the knowledge that his housecarl wouldn't intentionally hurt him, and so some reserve of energy and dignity always remained.

Now, he was traveling with a complete unknown, a werewolf whose decision not to kill him seemed to be based on a somewhat vague interpretation of a Daedric code. That wasn't a problem in and of itself, but Velandryn wasn't going to trust a werewolf any further than he absolutely had to. Follow, reach the edge of the forest, and put this madness behind me. It was simple. Easy, really.

They had stopped not at the edge of the forest but atop another rise, this one giving a view over the surrounding trees. The mountains still loomed to the south, and the moons illuminated the silver ribbons of breaking waves far to the north. The werewolf pointed east, to something in the distance that might have been open ground. "That's the edge of the forest. From there, head due east for a couple days until you come to a river, one with some size, not a trickle stream, you hear? Follow it south, and there's a pass over the mountains near where the river comes out from the rocks. Should get you to roads, at least." He nodded. "Haven't used the pass in years, but should still be there." He glowered at Velandryn. "You go and die after I help you like this, I'll hunt your soul down myself."

Velandryn tried to speak, but was having trouble with his breath. The cold, combined with the hour or more of running, had left him utterly without air to spare. Finally, he gasped out a faint "Thank you."

The old man turned, an odd expression on his face. "Copurtesy. That's a rare one, out here." He fell silent for a moment, then spoke again, though this time each word came slowly, as though it were being tasted first. "One thing, elf, and you'd best listen well. While you're travelling, if you hear strange tongues in the dark, or see a cave that has odd pikes and fences and great black bugs, get away. Run if you have to, run through the night, but don't be near caves like that when the sun goes down."

Velandryn was taken aback. "Why? What's in them?" He'd never heard of anything like this, but there were always regional hazards, and whatever this was might be one of northern Haafingar's.

The werewolf was shaking his head, however. "Don't know, not for certain. They keep to their caves for the most part, but now and again they'll come out for a spot of killing or rape or torture. I don't go looking for them as a rule, but one time found a whole camp of bandits what camped outside a cave like that." He bared his teeth. "Well, found the camp, at least. Awful lotta blood too, but no bodies." He shrugged. "Might be ghosts, might be goblins, might be the Falmer coming back from below. Your path shouldn't take you near them, but best you know, just in case."

That didn't sound like any goblins Velandryn had ever heard of, but it also wasn't standard ghost behavior. The Falmer had been extinct for millennia, and he would expect this old beast to know of any other obvious suspects, making this more than a little interesting. Whatever these cave-dwellers were, he could learn about them after getting back to civilization. "I'll keep an eye out." He suddenly realized how cold he was. "Any chance for shelter soon?"

The old werewolf pointed. "Down there. Grab some wood, get a fire going. Like I said, you make me waste my time by dying on me, I get the Hunting-prince to call your soul back, just for me."

Once Velandryn had gathered a few braches, the Nord—is a werewolf still truly a Nord? Serana called herself a vampire first, after all—pointed to a tiny cave in the side of the rise they had descended. "Shelter, or close enough. Don't worry, nothing living in there right now."

Velandryn nodded, and began setting up a fire. He had dropped the remains of the fox on a rock nearby, and looked forward to the meal.

"What do you plan to eat, then?" He asked the question with only half a mind, focused on not looking like a fool while trying to start the fire. He could have just blasted it with magic, of course, but he got the feeling that the old wolf would disapprove, and he had looked a fool enough times today. He had said he wouldn't eat another's kill. Unless it's offered, maybe? If he gave the meat as thanks, would Hircine allow the man-beast to take it?

The werewolf gave him a studying look. "You still think I'm gonna kill you, elf?"

With a start, Velandryn realized how he must have sounded. He started to explain himself, but paused before the first word had left his mouth. Yes, a little. He hoped he hadn't done too much damage with the question, but it had been honestly meant. Of course, his scent probably reflected his unease; that might have been enough on its own. Or maybe it's just a fair assumption when dealing with people. For the first time, he considered why a werewolf would live out here besides simply wanting to hunt. It wasn't an entirely pleasant notion. "The thought had crossed my mind."

The old man sighed. "Don't bother. Like I said, you'd be a boring hunt." He paused before continuing. "You ever met one of us before?"

"A werewolf?"

The old man squinted at him. "Don't like that word. I'm blessed, not were-beast, and the blood takes more forms than just wolves. Besides, werewolf is common. There's a fancy word, starts with L, I read a book that used it once…"

"Lycanthrope." It was a medical term originally, one that some scholars preferred to use as an overarching term for the various gifts of Hircine. It lacked specific information on what beast the affected individual turned into, but if the old hunter didn't like werewolf, he had the right to another name.

"That'd be the one. Call me that if you want, or man-beast. That's the old Nord word, you know. Krallvyng. Man and beast, as one." He grinned. "Better than werewolf. You ever met one? Didn't get an answer."

"No, no I haven't. Not until you."

He grunted. "Might be you did, just didn't know. There's some around, a few who know what it means, more who are just stupid fools playing with something they can't understand. Here's a question for ya. What'd you call a bandit with lycanthro-whatever?"

"I assume you're looking for something other than 'werewolf.'"

He frowned. "Mmm, maybe not. That's your answer. Mine is 'bandit.'" He smiled humorlessly. "Some thug with the gift isn't a true hunter, no matter what they turn into when the blood rises in them."

"Hence why you stay out here? Avoid…misunderstandings?"

"That's a cute word for a pack of townsfolk busting down my door and trying to kill me because some damn fool went and gutted a traveler, but aye." He looked into the fire. "Guess I thought I was better loved than that. Thought the ones who knew would understand. I brought in more game than every other hunter in the village combined; sure, I prayed at the Shrine of Bones and gave choice parts to the Horned Hunter, but did I ever turn a hand against any of them? Hah!" The harsh bark of laughter made Velandryn jump, and the old man waved his hand. "Listen to me, going on like some sort of grandfather. Been too long on my own. You've naught to fear, but I'll be back in the morning, and I'd best not find you here. We understand each other?"

Velandryn wondered how long the old werewolf—the old man-beast, he corrected himself— had been alone out here. Hunting was well and good, but this had to be a lonely existence. The Dunmer nodded gravely. "We do." They were silent for a moment then, but there was more that Velandryn had to say. "I was hasty in my judgement. Forgive me."

The old one waved his hand again. "Forget it. You did better than most. You from Morrowind?"

The sudden change in topic took him off-guard. "I am."

"That island out there, Solstheim, you know it?"

"Of it. Never been myself." In the chaotic decades following the Red Year, many of his people had taken refuge there. Now, it was something of a backwater, too remote to be of any real interest to the Great Council, and notable only for a few isolated historical events, including—

Suddenly he realized why the old man was asking. "The Bloodmoon Prophecy, the—that hunt, Hircine's game. It happened on Solstheim, didn't it? Back in the Third Era." It was a half-remembered scrap of history, notable to the Temple only as one of the many victories of Nerevar Incarnate, but it was a link, at least.

The man-beast was nodding. "Lots of my kind there, they say. True hunters, not the miserable whelps who go and turn every time they see the moon."

"Perhaps. Most of the island is unsettled, so far as I know." Something the old Nord had said struck him then. "You can control your transformation?" He had never heard of that.

"Aye. If you've the strength, the power obeys you. If you're weak, it's the beast who's in control. Some fool who got slashed in a brawl can't choose when it takes him, but I drank the blood of a bested brother beneath open sky. Hircine's gift demands worthiness."

"I see." He did. The old man offered fascinating insight into an area he had never given much thought. Of course, this one seems to be an outlier. It would be foolish to judge all of his kind by this single example.

The singular lycanthrope rose and stretched again. "I'm off, elf. Hunting by moonlight has a special flavor about it, and you'll need your sleep. This place is safe enough, but I doubt you'll be getting good nights of rest for a while after this."

"Wait." He still had questions, but he got the feeling his …what was this old man-beast to him? Rescuer? Reluctant guide? Whatever he was, he didn't seem to want to stay here much longer. "Why did you help me, really? You said your code meant you won't hunt me, but you're offering me aid, a place to stay the night, and more. Why?"

The old man sighed. "I'm old, you know. The gift's kept me spry for my age, and I figure being a stubborn old bastard can't hurt, but I've been out here for a long damn time." He grinned. "Every now and then, it's nice to do right by someone else. Besides, you're the first I've ever seen make it out of that rock out there. Always good to poke it in one of their yellow eyes."

"So you like vampires even less than elves?"

He laughed that barking laugh. "Ain't got a problem with elves, pup. Some of your lot are bastards, some aren't, but same goes for anyone, no matter the shape of their ears. Besides, I don't think I get to look down on someone for having the wrong gods." He snorted. "You'll do alright, I think. You get back to Solitude in one piece, you hear? Then, you get strong and come back, maybe bring some friends. You'll give me a hunt worth having, and that's enough for an old man like me. That's my price."

All at once, Velandryn wasn't afraid anymore. "Be a shame to kill you, so you'd best keep sharp."

The Nord grinned. "Words like that, boy, and you might find me chasing you outta these woods."

It was likely a futile offer, but maybe… "You want to come along, I've room for another mad bastard heading back…" he trailed off, waiting. He wasn't entirely certain he wanted this one anywhere near him in a city—the smell alone would ensure that—but he would be of immense help on the way back.

"Hah! You'll have no luck barking up that tree. This world? It's mine. Kill or be killed. Hunt or be prey. Makes sense, and that's how I like it." His eyes were piercing in the darkness. "Not yours, that's easy to see. You like people, like talking, and that's your way. A good way, for you, but not mine." He rose. "I'm off. Snow bears should be coming down from the mountains soon. One of them nearly killed me last year. Gave me a good scar, and I gave him one right back. Hope he's still alive. We've unfinished business, him and me."

"Blessing of the Three upon you, and go with my thanks."

"Hunt well, elf." With that, he was gone, vanishing into the darkness.

Velandryn looked out into the blackness for a long minute, considering how odd his life had become. He had never held much hatred for werewolves, but he certainly hadn't expected to count one as an ally, even in this unlikely way. The old hunter had been fascinating, and given him insight into a world Velandryn could scarcely imagine. And I forgot to ask about those Altmer at Northwatch. If they were Thalmor— and he had a hard time seeing why else Altmer would be in Skyrim willingly— then they were doubtless up to something. Ah well, not my concern, and not much I could do about it if it was.

There was more than enough fuel lying about outside the cave to grow the fire to something that would actually keep him warm throughout the night. As he carried the dead wood inside, he considered the cave itself. A good place to take shelter. Maybe the werewolf—no, the lycanthrope—rested here, and he had to imagine that the scent of something like that would keep lesser beasts clear.

As the fire blazed higher, Velandryn held one of his pieces of meat above the flame. This time, he decided to let it cook properly. The meat earlier had been delicious due to his own hunger and fear, but it had been somewhat lacking in actual taste. This one, by the look of it, would offer finer fare. He would have sold a soul—not his, but somebody's—for a few roasted trama stems, but he would have to make do with only fox meat tonight.

He looked out over the fire, into the blackness of the night. The moons were little more than slivers, and there was no aurora to be seen. It would be a cold night and a dark one; Velandryn was not at all displeased to have this little cave. He pulled out his journal and reagents, and set to work. He needed to prepare his potions, and he wanted to try blending effects for greater efficiency. Checking his notes, he pulled out some likely ingredients. I'll need the mountain flowers, a pinch of salt, and a couple of thistle sprigs to start. Carefully, he ground the reagents to dust and added them to the silver bowl, filled with water set to boiling by his hand.

By the magical signature, he could tell it hadn't taken. Cursing under his breath, he discarded the mixture and prepared another batch. Fortunately, he had filled his waterskin before sitting down, and there was a pond not thirty paces out of the cave. He was a bit tired, but the scale of the task before him and the insanity of the past day gave him the drive he needed. I have all the pieces, I just need to fit them together. There were always answers; they just needed someone clever enough to find them. He drew a line across the page, demarcating a new section in his alchemical notes. Columns denoted quantities and orders of addition. Show me your secrets, and I will bend you to my will. Humming a few bars of an ancient Dunmer hymn, he got to work.

He rose well after sunrise, almost outrageously late by his standards. He had been up far too long into the night, but now he was the proud creator of a formula that seemed to fortify and sustain magicka while simultaneously shielding against the cold. Ideally he would have like to see about lengthening its duration, but he was fairly certain that he had reached his limit given his current knowledge and primitive equipment. So, he had prepared a few vials, and now felt, if not ready to face the trial ahead, as though he had even odds to make it out of this alive. And that's all I need.

Checking his gear, he stepped out into the sunlight. East. Towards the rising sun. Like the pilgrims of old, following Saint Veloth to salvation. It was a nice thought, if nothing else.

---

It was cold. He made potions and drank them, and although his formula might be improving due simply to his increased practice, he still felt the chill all the time. Two hours after leaving the cave, he had torn a strip from the lining of his cloak. It was good thick fur backed by linen, and when he wrapped it around his mouth it no longer hurt to breathe.

He had quickly learned that his sword was too heavy to hang comfortably at his hip while he walked all day, so he'd fashioned a crude leather strap out of the sword-ring and attached it to his armor. It required occasional tightening and stopped his cloak from falling as gracefully as it had, but by keeping the big Orcish blade on his back he had some of his balance restored, and walking became a simpler matter. Which was good, because he was doing quite a lot of it.

He soon fell into a pattern of sorts, walking until his feet were sore and his legs ached and then sitting to massage his calves and have a quick meal of whatever berries and game he had managed to forage. By taking breaks every few hours, he reasoned, he could stave off injury or ravenous hunger. His iron knife made short work of the foxes and rabbits he found, though he was sure that the old lycanthrope would have been disgusted with how much he was unable to save. Sometimes he had found nothing edible, and went hungry, but more than once he had actually had enough food to carry some with him until the next break. It had been a very long time since he was quite so proud over something so trivial.

He reasoned that there was no point in speed if he froze to death, so he made a fire each time he stopped. His magic and attenuation to flame meant he had no need of kindling, as there was dead wood in abundance and the magicka required to ignite it was trivial. Roasting the meat over the fire, rather than using his hands, was both good for his mood as it let him eat meat that wasn't charred to a crisp and gave him a chance to warm up without directly spending his magicka. While sitting beside the fire he had moments of actual reflection, times when he could let his mind wander. Invariably, it wandered on one of three paths.

The first, and the one that crept into his thoughts even while he was focused on putting one foot before the other, was this Dragonborn business. The voice of Dov had been silent since leaving the Volkihar castle, but dragons were never far from his mind. He didn't know why they'd returned, but their voices, their thoughts, were far too easy for him to conjure.

He had no doubt that the Greybeards had some knowledge of his powers and purpose; their use of the Thu'um back at Whiterun proved that much, but they had clearly removed themselves from the concerns of Skyrim as a whole, a luxury he did not have.

Therein lay the second of his three concerns. The political situation in Skyrim was anything but stable, and he had the feeling that while both the Stormcloaks and the Empire would loudly proclaim their support of the Dragonborn, neither would be terribly accommodating to Velandryn Savani.

The Stormcloaks would doubtless have preferred that one of their own be so honored, obsessed as they seemed to be with Nord tradition. And the Empire, well, he didn't actually know how they would respond, but he had no desire to become a cog in their machine. The Thalmor seemed unfriendly but their concerns were not his, so he was perfectly willing to live and let live. They wanted to hunt down worshippers of Talos? They were welcome to waste their time. He could have told them, stamping out belief was a damned hard task, and they'd need more than a few Justiciars to stop the Empire from revering its founder.

Some of the jarls might render assistance, so long as he was willing to advance their interests along with his own. And if his gambit with Lydia went as predicted, well, he might gain a few allies in Morrowind, but he doubted the Great Council would authorize any substantial military action across the border. Which left…

Serana. She was the face that he saw when he closed his eyes. Her golden stare as he vanished, or the shape of her huddled against the sun. She wasn't the only one, of course, but she was easier to conceptualize than trying to list all of the myriad factions and threats that inhabited the forgotten corners of the world. He had chanced upon her; how likely was it that other forces, similarly powerful but completely unknown to him, were lying in wait?

He had held out hope that Serana would turn away, but that had clearly been folly. By the look on her face and the speed with which she'd moved, her father's control was stronger than her desire to be free. It was obvious what she had wanted while they were travelling; the longing in her voice when she talked about distant lands or thing she'd never seen or done was painful in its intensity. However, she'd thrown that away the moment she stepped foot into the castle. Velandryn sighed. He couldn't blame her, not really, and maybe in a century or two she would break free and find her own path. Unfortunately, he didn't have that sort of time, and hanging around to try and seduce her away from her family would have required some…sacrifices…that he wasn't willing to make. No, Serana's choice was in her hands alone, and he had other matters that demanded his focus.

Thoughts like these paraded through his mind both day and night. He would travel until it was too dark to see and set out each morning as soon as there was enough light to guide his way, and his fatigue meant he had little difficult getting to sleep, no matter how wretched the conditions. The potions stopped the cold from causing any lasting damage, though he was soon spending far more time than he'd thought necessary scouring the shrubbery searching for more ingredients. They weren't rare exactly, but at the rate he was going through them, his pack held less than a day's supply. Over the large fires he set each night and the smaller ones throughout the day, he would top off his vials, and in this way he survived.

One morning, he woke to a cold fire and snow falling around him. He'd set up under some sort of spreading tree the night before, but the branches did little to alleviate the snow, and he was cold and wet in a matter of minutes. By the time he found a dry patch of ground he was shivering so hard that he couldn't even keep his teeth from chattering, and he burned through far too much magicka circulating heat through his body. In the end, he was forced to waste most of the day scuttling between sheltered spots, until he found a dugout and used rudimentary telekinesis to deepen it until he could huddle miserably and wait for the snow to pass.

It did, eventually, and he managed to get in a bit more travel before it became too dark and cold for him to continue. That night, he built the biggest fire yet, dug out a hole in the middle of the flames, curled up, and went to sleep. In the morning, he almost felt alive again.

As he travelled, he was grudgingly forced to concede that some of the sights were nothing less than magnificent. There were the meadow of frozen grass, miles across and glimmering like gemstones, split by stones jutting from the earth and tiny streams that could be heard from afar but not seen until they were underfoot. He saw a dragon, though only from a great distance, as it wheeled over the mountains to the south. Small game was uncommon, but flocks of birds soared overhead.

As he was cresting a hill one morning, he saw a pair of bone sledges, pulled by great shaggy dogs and ridden by equally shaggy Nords, traversing the open ground below. They were following a creature of some kind, one that looked like kin to the deer he had seen in his travels. This one, however, had antlers sprouting from its head that reached far wider than his arms and its fur was long and shaggy. As he watched, one of the Nords threw a spear and pierced the beast in its side, though the prey bounded away into a stand of trees and the hunters followed. Velandryn gave them all a wide berth.

Once, as dusk was falling, he even spied a herd of mammoths, tramping across the tundra far to the north. At his distance, it had taken him a moment to understand what he was seeing, and another to realize that the shaggy two-legged things riding and walking among them must have been giants. Awed, and not about to get any closer than he currently was, he watched until they became indistinct in the evening gloom. That night, he'd fancied he heard the rumble of far-off footsteps.

When he did reach the river, he had trouble believing that he'd actually managed to do so. The werewolf had said three days, but Velandryn had lost count at five. Granted, the old skin-changer probably hadn't anticipated how utterly unsuited the Dunmer was for a cross-country trek in temperatures below freezing. His stops and foraging—not to mention that wretched day of snow— had added on more time, and at this point he was walking as much out of habit as because of a genuine belief that he would find anything. So now, staring at the water before him, he was unable to conjure any emotion save a sort of resigned relief. At least it'll be different, walking along a river.

Sadly, it turned out to be almost exactly the same, save for the fact that he now had the omnipresent sound of rushing water in his left ear. He had followed the easiest paths heading east, which led him some distance away from the mountains, so now he had a rather long trek along the river's edge. The mountains loomed before him, but didn't seem to be getting any closer over the course of the day. So, he resigned himself to another cold slog, downed his second to last potion, and continued on.

One side effect of traveling with the river was at once annoying and amusing; he found himself reminded of his bladder far more often. Consequentially, he added a third type of break to his journey, and slowed his pace even further.

It was at one such that he happened to glance up, and see the bear watching him across the river. Oh, gods be damned.

There passed a moment in which neither of them seemed quite sure what to make of the other. Doubtless the bear was unused to seeing humans, let alone mer, and Velandryn wondered if that confusion had bought him an extra few seconds. He had only ever read of them, but bears were said to be some of the mightiest animals in Skyrim, the greatest of those the snow bears of the northern coasts. Naturally, the one facing him had white fur like snow bears were supposed to, and when it rose onto its hind legs, it looked to tower some ten feet or more. Blessed Three, it's a brute.

Apparently cured of its indecision, the great beast lumbered into the water. With a kind of horrified fascination, Velandryn watched it wade deeper, before his brain caught up to what he was seeing. The snow bears are coming down from the mountains, the old man had said. This one would be travelling, and he was in its way. Quickly, he ran through the patterns for a ritual of calming, and sent as powerful a spell as he could manage at the beast. It looked at him for a long moment more, then opened its mouth and roared so loudly that the sound caused him almost physical pain.

Not ideal conditions, and I'd never tried to ensorcell a bear before. The thought salved his pride somewhat, but pride wouldn't help much if he became a meal for this monstrosity.

With a deep breath and a moan of pain for his miserable legs, he took off to the south, heading towards the mountains and away from the great beast. From behind, he could hear growls and splashes, but they didn't seem to be getting closer. Thanks be, it doesn't want a fight. Probably.

Hopeful thoughts notwithstanding, he kept up his half-run for a few minutes more, despite the protests of his lower half. He was lucky the beast hadn't pursued, else he'd likely be done for. He was in no condition for a fight.

Once he had slowed—though he wouldn't take a break for some time yet, just in case the beast wasn't quite as ready to let their encounter be a one-time occurrence as he was—he had a thought, one that had come upon him now and again. It wasn't a worry, exactly, though doubtless it would have set Lydia's dour face to frowning. The way Serana had described the Dragonborn, the title seemed inextricably linked with power, for good or ill. In his travels, nearly every person who had known he was Dragonborn had treated him differently, instantly considering him a figure that belonged more to legend than fact. He had to imagine that, for most of them, the legend didn't include running away from a bear while cursing in pain because his legs were so weak that he couldn't handle a few days' walk. Hardly the stuff of myth. Fortunately, the only benefit to his current situation was that, no matter how foolish he looked, only he would ever have to know.

Jogging along the river and channeling the pain in his legs into a sort of infuriated energy, he managed to keep up this new pace for what seemed like several hours, though the sun had inexplicably barely moved by the time he collapsed, shaking and panting, onto a patch of thin grass along the river's edge.

He was cold, and tired, and miserable out here, no matter what brave words he'd declared. He hurt, and he hated that pain. It might be amusing in the abstract for the Dragonborn to be doing unheroic things, and the writers could wax eloquent about the agony required to overcome one's own limits, but right now he wanted none of it. He didn't want to be Dragonborn, he didn't want to fulfill whatever destiny was supposedly laid out for him.

He would give it all back, right now, if whatever force had made him Dragonborn offered to trade it for a warm bed and some safety. If he could sell his dragon's blood for the price of a teleport to Blacklight, to a cozy sleeping cell near the kitchens, he would have done it and counted himself fortunate. As he sat there, he half-expected Sheogorath or Clavicus Vile to appear and make him an offer. But this isn't that kind of story, is it?

He sighed. Would I give it up? He didn't know, not really. This was awful, but he couldn't even point to this as the fault of his being Dragonborn. If he had no gifts beyond his own skill, he would likely have acted much the same. He would probably be dead now, but it was somewhat comforting to know that Velandryn Savani was the one and only fool who had gotten him into this mess.

Well, guess what, Savani, you lucky bastard. Time to get yourself out of it.

He hauled himself to his feet. The ground sloped up gently ahead. Time to find the river's source. And then we can see about that pass.

---

The pass was there above him, even if the so-called road seemed to be more of a suggestion than any sort of civilized path. Of course, given how miserable this place was, Velandryn really shouldn't have expected anything different, but he'd found himself hoping for an Imperial guardpost or village of some sort. Something to break the wilderness would have been nice.

More than once as he ascended the mountainside, he found some pretense to look back. The first time was genuine, when a stone slipped out from his foot and clattered down the slope behind him and he spun to see what had caused the noise. What he saw took his breath away; the coastline of Haafingar was visible in the distance, and between he and it lay nothing but wilderness, cut only by the silver line of the nameless river that had shown him to this place. It was a desolate beauty, cold and harsh and as likely to kill as not, but exceptionally fitting for this land. It might lack the beauty and grandeur of the winding foyadas and volcanic fields of Morrowind, but Skyrim had wonders of its own, and it would be wrong of him not to acknowledge that. A pity they're wasted on Nords.

As he continued his climb, he kept glancing back. Each time, the view made him pause; it was nearing evening when he reached the top.

Cresting the pass, he decided to overnight as soon as possible. The south side of the mountain was noticeably warmer than the north, likely due to the lack of winds off the Sea of Ghosts, and for that he gave thanks.

He found a shallow cave in the hill, thankfully free of the mysterious hazards of which the werewolf had warned. He built a fire with an ease he'd lacked before starting this fool's errand, and, sighing in exhausted relief, stretched his aching body out before the blessed warmth. He had nothing but a relatively smooth patch of dirt for a pillow, and no blanket save his cloak; he was asleep the moment his head touched earth.

The next morning, he rose tentatively, sore but better than he had been yesterday. It was well past dawn again, and he noted that, once this was over, he'd need to devote some time to getting back on a reasonable sleep schedule. When it's over. He chuckled to himself. When would this be over? When he reached Solitude? When he spoke with the Greybeards? Or would it have to wait until he had cleansed the land of dragons forever? It might be a while before he could sleep properly again.

He broke his fast with a few strips of old meat and a swig of water; he had seen neither game nor stream on his climb, and with the prospect of a proper road so close, he was willing to make do with a meager meal to save time. Soon enough, he was heading down the slope, and within an hour, he found old posts that looked as though they could well be marking out a path of some sort. When he came to the remains of what was unmistakably a signpost, he could have leapt for joy. He didn't, but he could have. The Dragonborn had to maintain some decorum, even if he was alone and freezing on a road seemed to end at the closest approximation of the middle of nowhere he had ever encountered. Smiling slightly to himself, he adjusted the Orcish sword on his back and set off. How much further to Solitude, I wonder?

---

It started subtly, a pressure behind his eyes, trivial given how cold and sore and generally miserable Velandryn was. At first he thought it was a side-effect of the cold, or perhaps his body's protest at the long marches and substandard food. However, as the day stretched on, it only intensified. Not until he realized that he had been focusing on the feeling to the extent that he'd stopped walking to stand and feel it did he decide this might be something more than mere discomfort.

When he turned his attention to the pressure, it only took a moment for him to realize what it was he was experiencing. Magic. It had to be relatively close, quite powerful, and exceptionally unstable.

By rights, he should never have felt it at all. Reactions like this happened when the magicka inside an individual reacted to an external source, but souls were too strong to react easily. However, if someone had been channeling magicka for days on end, and was strung out from cold and fatigue and a dreadful overuse of potions, his body might well be sucking in energy from anywhere it could reach. Turns out I'm a veritable dowsing rod for magic. I just need a few days of torture first.

The other issue, namely the nature of what he was feeling, was more worrisome. Spells weren't supposed to bleed magicka like this, not least because it was exhausting to the point of stupidity. No mage could keep this up for long, unless they were siphoning energy from somewhere else. Generally, that meant necromancers. You could wring a lot of magicka out of a soul, if you knew what you were about.

As he followed the road, waiting for the closest point to the source to leave the beaten path, something else occurred to him. Someplace this isolated would have very little in the way of background magicka, even by Skyrim's standards. Whoever was behind this had doubtless chosen a remote location to reduce the chance of discovery, only to stab themselves in the foot by projecting their spell like an amateur.

Why proceed with a spell so sloppy if it's happening all the way out here? One possibility was that the spell demanded such instability by its very nature, which would put it in a category of magic that not even the most lunatic of the Telvanni would attempt.

Or, something went wrong. It was possible that a ritual had failed, or been interrupted. He could be feeling the desperate attempts of some unfortunate mage to contain some Daedric summons or Aetherial manipulation gone horribly wrong. He should be getting as far away from the source as possible, so that when it inevitably exploded, he wasn't caught in the blast.

He hurried on, aching body and misery from the cold cast aside. This was far too interesting to pass up. Something out of the ordinary was happening, and he'd hate himself forever if he left these questions unanswered.

He found a path that led off the road and straight towards the source. It was a little trail, nothing more, but even he could tell that more than a few people had passed this way very recently. He was no tracker, but even he knew that boot prints in mud didn't last for weeks on end.

The power was stronger now. He was almost running, the pain in his legs forgotten. He heard voices up ahead, and a yell that ended in a high-pitched laugh. Pulling himself up, he ducked off the road and behind a tree, then crept forward to see what awaited him.

Some ten or so people were gathered around the mouth of a cave. They had the look of mercenaries or adventurers, clad in armor that was far more personalized than that of any guards Velandryn had yet seen in the province. They were also somewhat observant; one of them was already pointing in his direction.

"You there, in the trees! Identify yourself!" The voice was female, and obviously from Skyrim. Nobody else pronounced vowels quite like a Nord. It was different from some of the others he had heard, though he couldn't quite place how. Regional accent, or maybe a difference in social station?

This is going well. Placing each foot with deliberate caution and keeping every motion smooth and slow, Velandryn stepped out from behind the tree. "I heard noises, thought it best to investigate. I mean no trouble." Considering that he had no idea how much information about him had leaked out, it might not be best to let a band of strange Nords know that they had the Dragonborn alone out here.

The Nord who had spoken stepped forward. Behind her, others readied weapons, though Velandryn was somewhat relieved to note that they seemed to be doing so defensively, rather than preparing to attack. Two months ago he would have been unable to tell the difference, but training with Lydia had given him the basics, and his adventures up and down Skyrim had given him some practical experience with the topic. After dealing with a number of people trying to kill him that was, in hindsight, frankly alarming, he had come to have something of an instinct for it. This group was wary, but not bloodthirsty. I can work with that.

The Nord removed her helmet, an ornate piece of steel in the shape of a wolf's head. Blonde hair spilled out, framing a face that put him somewhat in mind of Lydia, though this woman's features were fair where his housecarl's were dark. Blue and red war-paint had been daubed onto her brow and checks with an expert's precision, and every piece of her armor was inlaid with fine scrollwork and crimson tint. Had he been forced to wager on her origin, he would have placed money on her being high-born. "Long way from everywhere, to just happen by." She hadn't drawn a weapon, but her posture spoke of wariness. She was young, he guessed, based not just on the lack of lines on her face but also the foolish speed with which she'd removed her helm when facing an unknown. Even he knew not to do that.

He sighed. "Something happened. You are all on edge, and you wonder if I'm involved. I have no idea why you're here, but I am cold, tired, and ready to be done with walking. I've had a feeling all morning, the kind brought on by magic gone very wrong, and I think whatever is causing it is down in that cave. So, answer me, and maybe I can help. Don't and I'll be on my way." He was too miserable to give them any banter. If the situation wasn't exceptionally interesting, he might just leave them to their business. Solitude couldn't be that far away. He'd been walking for a week or more. How much longer could it be?

To his shock, a grin split the blonde Nord's face. "A man of action, eh? I can respect that." She tucked her helm under one arm and extended the other. "Jordis, Sword-Maiden of Haafingar, at your service."

Velandryn smiled as he gripped her wrist. It was only polite. "Velandryn Savani at yours." Man of action. Heh.

She nodded, clearly already thinking about something else. "You said you felt magic. How do you mean?"

He glanced over the others in Jordis' group, none of whom looked to have much in the way of magical acumen. They did, however, have a warm fire and a pot of something that smelled exquisite. He managed another small smile, though he was worried that this one might not come off quite as well. He was distracted, after all. "It's like a headache. Not painful, exactly, but it's there, and you know it. Best I can figure, someone's doing powerful magic down in that cave." He gestured in the general direction of her fellows. "Is that what you're doing out here? Keeping watch?"

Jordis pulled him aside; he moved reluctantly away from that tantalizing fire and pot. When she spoke, it was in a low voice. "You're certain someone is doing magic down there? Truly sure?"

He shrugged, too weary to consider the right phrases. "It feels…ragged, maybe, would be a good word. If you spoke Dunmeris, I'd call it kettif-endal, but I'd need a few hours and a book of erotic poetry to properly explain the term." Trying to explain the feeling to someone who couldn't wield magic… "If this is natural, it's like nothing I've ever felt." He considered further. "Could be Daedric. Might be a Prince is up to something down there. But first I'd know what brings a group of…whatever you are…to camp out here."

Jordis pointed at the entrance proudly. "It's called Wolfskull. There's always been foul rumors about it, though I've never heard of anything worse than bandits or wild beasts living here. Locals heard noises coming from the cave, and asked Eli—Jarl Elisif to do something about it. I volunteered."

He hadn't missed her slip on the jarl of Solitude's name. Clearly this woman was more than a mere underling. "You volunteered? Who exactly are you, Jordis the Shield-Maiden?"

"Sword-Maiden," she corrected, "and I'm the one who's going to purge Wolfskull Cave, with these, the Young Wolves of Solitude."

Velandryn had never heard of the Young Wolves of Solitude; they looked to be well-equipped, if not battle hardened. Mostly Nords, all human, none of them with telltale signs of age or deformity. A band of rich children, off to prove themselves? "And how did the brave Wolves of Solitude come to purge Wolfskull Cave?"

"I told Elisif that no matter what was down there, I'd make sure it never threatened anyone again, and I meant every word." She had set her jaw firmly, and gave him a look full of bravado. "They'll sing songs of our cleansing the evil within!"

Elisif again, no title needed. A jarl's friend might not be a bad person to aid, assuming he had the right of it. "What evil is that, exactly?"

She shrugged, though her eyes betrayed her worry. "We've run into skeletons and draugr, but that's not unusual if there's evil about. We worked slowly all day, killing the undead where we find them and making sure we get them all. I'd rather take an extra day but have every one of us walk out at the end. No magic like you described down there, not that we've seen."

No, skeletons and draugr aren't unusual if there are undead about, but they very rarely raise themselves. "And how many of your number are mages?" This would likely end with him helping clear out this cave, but curiosity had gotten the best of him, and now he wouldn't be able to leave before figuring out what was in this 'evil place.'

She flushed. "We'd no need for that. Besides—"

"Better to have good honest steel? You Nords all sing the same sad song, it seems." He looked at the cave entrance. "There's a spell down there now, and it's got power. You need a mage."

She was already nodding before he'd finished speaking. "Alright, if you're certain. You'll join us then."

"Just like that?" Most Nords he'd met would have suspected this to be some elven scheme.

She grinned. "I know a wicked man when I see him. That's not you."

Too trusting by half. That wasn't necessarily a bad thing, however. It would certainly make his job easier if this lot wasn't waiting for him to stab them in the back. "Give me a moment to warm up, then we can get going. I'd rather not leave whatever'd happening down there for any longer than needed." He noticed suddenly that he'd lapsed into an informal way of speaking, but decided it wasn't worth getting upset over. It wasn't as though he had to be the Dragonborn for these people. Just a Dunmer. He rather liked that.

The Nords made space for him around the fire, and he murmured greetings. One of them, a beardless Nord boy who looked to be even younger than Jordis, offered him a bowl of whatever was cooking. Velandryn accepted, trying not to let his eagerness show.

It was good. Tears filled his eyes as the taste of well simmered vegetables and meat exploded across his tongue and warm broth slid down his throat. Merciful Ancestors! At that moment no earthly pleasure had ever felt half so magnificent as that first taste of soup, though it could have stood to be a bit hotter. He closed his eyes and raised the bowl to his lips again.

The Nord who'd handed it to him chuckled. "Mighty fine, no? The secret's in the broth. I'd tell you, but then my da'd tan my hide for giving it away." By the tone of his voice, he enjoyed seeing people enjoy his food, and by the taste of the soup, he got to experience it often.

All too soon, his bowl ran dry, and he reluctantly raised his eyes. A pair of the group called the Wolves of Solitude were watching him from across the fire, and Jordis had her arms crossed over her chest, grinning. "Taste good? Don't suppose you'll tell us why you're all the way out here?"

Velandryn handed the bowl back to the Nord who'd given it to him. "My thanks. Been too long since I had a meal like that." He wanted more, but he had to get control of himself. This lot seemed friendly enough, but he still knew too little about why they were here, and he wasn't going to let down his guard just yet.

The fact that he'd just achieved near-orgasmic bliss from a bowl of soup notwithstanding, he would remain at a safe distance. The sooner he was back in Solitude, the better.

Jordis leaned in. "How about a story, then? Say, what brings you out to Wolfskull Cave?"

He looked at Jordis. "Later. For now, I want to know what's happening in there. The magic I'm feeling is substantial, after all."

That set the ones around him to muttering. One, a woman with a shock of red hair under a knit cap, peered at him curiously. "What kind we talking here? We've been clearing the cave for two days, haven't found anything but undead."

A large man with armor trimmed with fur and gilded edges laughed. "He's just making it up! That's what elves do, tell stories to make themselves the hero!"

"Velandryn shrugged. "Don't believe me, then. I'll be on my way, let you get back to your business." He bared his teeth, not bothering to make it a smile. "Hopefully whoever's down there isn't a necromancer. Knowing my luck, I'd have to be the one to burn your bodies when they come walking." Groaning, he rose and made to walk away. He'd sooner kiss a draugr than actually leave this mystery unsolved, but these adventurers were young and foolish, and if he was going to work with them, he wouldn't be their lackey. He didn't look over his shoulder, but hopefully they would be considering his words, and making a decision. Any moment now—

"Hold!" Jordis' voice wasn't panicked, exactly, but it was a bit higher than normal. Humans. He was starting to get the hang of them, and their preconceptions about elves were so easy to play with it was almost laughable. They expected arrogance and mysterious knowledge. So long as he gave them that in excess, everyone was content with where they stood. Plus, I get to be arrogant and lord my knowledge over them. She strode over to him. "What is it you want?"

"You Nords have a choice. Either accept that I know what I'm talking about, or make do without me." He tapped the sword on his back. "This doesn't make me a warrior, so I won't tell you how to fight. Do me the same courtesy and don't tell me I must be wrong or something is impossible. I know magic better than any of you; accept that and we'll get along fine."

She leaned in and grinned ruefully. "We don't deal much with mages, you know." She glanced back, speaking softly. "They mean well."

He gave her a smile. "I know, but I figured forcing the conflict now would save trouble down the road."

Her laugh was a pleasant sound, though he could have done without the clap on his shoulder that sent him staggering forward. "Hah! Clever! You'll do fine here." She waved at the group. "Let's finish eating and get back down there."

Velandryn eagerly accepted another bowl of the soup, and listened as his companions prepared for the fight ahead. He quickly realized these weren't hardened warriors, but rather would-be heroes, the well-to-do youth of Solitude craving adventure. The one who had prepared the meal proudly declared that his parents owned the best inn in Solitude, and another showed off the arms and armor he'd forged himself at the smithy where he was apprenticed.

The red-haired woman—girl, rather, Velandryn mused, realizing that she too was terrifyingly young, rose and sang them a snippet of some song about a long-dead hero, and several among the group wiped away tears. When she finished, she sat with her arms wrapped around a Nord with a scraggly brown beard, the two of them whispering to each other and giggling occasionally.

I'm going into battle with children!

Jordis brought him a mug of some drink. "Don't suppose you want a drink before battle? You seem like you could do with some higher spirits."

He raised an eyebrow. "You want a drunk mage with you? That might make you the first in the history of Tamriel." Nonetheless, he accepted the pewter mug and inhaled the scent of the liquid within. Ah, mead. He'd almost forgotten how much he hated the smell of mead. And the taste.

A laugh from one of the others drew their attention. The bard had made some joke, and her fellows were showing their appreciation. Velandryn handed back the drink. "Quite the army you brought out here." None of them were seasoned, but Jordis had the bearing of a trained warrior, if nothing else.

She smacked his shoulder playfully. "I know what you mean. You think we're young fools."

He didn't bother to deny it. "I hope I'm wrong about what's down there. I'll look a proper fool and once the cave is clear, you all can have a good laugh at my expense." He bared his teeth. "It won't happen, but I'd like it to." He looked over at the group, joyous in the daylight. "Why them? Surely there are others at your disposal." He gestured to her armor. "You can afford it, clearly."

Jordis snorted in laughter, a sound that put Velandryn oddly in mind of Lydia. "Oh, aye, I could buy steel." She grinned. "I can be just like some Imperial noble, sitting back and letting someone else do the work." She leaned in. "Or, I can go out myself, take up weapons and armor, and show what I'm made of." She smiled. "I didn't bring Sophie just because I thought Irek needed his sweetheart, I brought her because she's part of the Bard's College. When they sing about the legend of Jordis the Sword-Maiden, I want them to get it right!" She was shouting now, and the rest of the Nords raised a cheer.

The red-haired one, Sophie apparently, leapt to her feet. "For the Wolves, and the Sword-Maiden our leader!" She led the group in a round of singing, which Jordis joined enthusiastically.

Madgod be true, I'm surrounded by glory-hounds! He'd grown up with the lessons of Boethiah and Mephala as watchwords. Oftentimes, action had to be taken, but it was simply foolish to place yourself in the spotlight. Careful maneuvering would put the blade in another's hand, and give them the will to strike. That was true victory.

The Dunmer had ever been outnumbered and beset by enemies without and within, so their heroes had a nasty habit of dying long before their time. Those mentioned in songs rarely got to enjoy hearing them, and he could count on one hand the number of saints who had died of natural causes. The thought of bringing along somebody to make sure everyone knew what a high opinion you had of yourself caused him almost physical pain. On the plus side, these idiots will be so busy shining their own armor I could probably use the Thu'um and they'd all just try and take credit.

Soon, enough, the festivities died down, and Jordis corralled the Wolves—a foolish name for a foolish lot— into something approximating an order of battle. They'd been telling their stories, and he'd gleaned that most were of high birth or rich families, those who had been trained with arms growing up but never had the need to use them. And each one is certain it will be like the stories. Well, if all they had to deal with were skeletons and zombies, perhaps it would be.

The fact remained, however, that generally dead bodies didn't just get up and start walking around on their own. Jordis had mentioned draugr, but his studies in Whiterun had shown that the Nords attached that word to any risen corpse that had undergone mummification. The half-living monsters he had fought, those who had some unexplained link to the dragons, might have been the origin of the term, but they were far from the only examples. He had found a book stating that necromancers would raid Nord tombs to create draugr of their own, and another postulating that sufficiently vengeful spirits could inhabit their preserved bodies to fulfill some last mission or prophecy. He couldn't speak to the accuracy of those, but he wasn't going to make a categorical classification of those down in Wolfskull Cave based solely on the word Jordis had chosen to use.

Groaning slightly to himself, he rose as well. For the first time in a week or more, he was among people who he couldn't see drinking his blood or eating his flesh, and he rather liked it. Fools they might be, but they were better than wandering alone through frozen mountains. And so now I'm helping them clear out a cave. A cave that, as the pounding in his head reminded him, almost certainly held a few nasty surprises.

---

With a roar, Jordis drove her shield into the last skeleton's ribcage. The creature gave a moan, and half its torso flew away, the scattered bones clattering against the walls and floor. Irek followed up with a gauntlet to its face, and the innkeep's son rammed his shield into another. It was over in a moment, and Velandryn, watching from a safe distance away, had to give them credit.

This group lacked the methodical efficiency of Lydia, and none of them came close to matching an Ordinator, but they all clearly knew one end of a blade from the other. The fact that they were all having an enormous amount of fun, while odd to his eyes, did not seem to harm them in any way. He still thought they were fools, but he felt comfortable standing back and letting them clear the way.

As they descended, every undead they put down only strengthened his suspicions about this place. The skeletons fell easily, and the draugr were little more than puppets on magical strings. There was no comparison to the creatures in Bleak Falls or Dimhollow; those draugr would have lain in wait and emerged from tombs at unexpected moments, laying ambushes with grim cunning. These merely wandered the halls and charged at noises, only to quickly fall.

Nonetheless, the pressure behind his eyes kept him from complacency. The entire cave reeked of spellcraft. Whatever was below was putting off energy in abundance, and they were only getting closer.

Something struck him then. They had encountered draugr, but had yet to see a tomb. He might not know too much about Nord culture, but no priest could become Anointed without having a thorough understanding of corpse handling. Mummification was difficult and required special preparatory tools and dry conditions. Unlike the elaborate and well-built tombs where he had encountered the far-deadlier draugr previously, Wolfskull was nothing more than a hole in the ground, completely wrong for storing bodies. A quick glance upward with eyes enhanced by night-eye confirmed that this cave had visible moisture beading on the ceiling. There's no way draugr were made here.

He glanced down at the motionless body at his feet. Either the draugr had come up from a deeper tomb, or they had been brought here. The second seemed more likely. A Nordic tomb where the bodies weren't walking around would provide an ample supply of material for any necromancer interested in animating some servants. But why bring them here?

Jordis had spoken of evil in Wolfskull Cave. Perhaps…

There were possibilities, to be sure. He had ideas, some of which were more troubling than others. To be certain of them, though, he'd need some help.

Looking up, Velandryn realized that he'd fallen behind the party. Up ahead, he could make out the sound of them putting down another undead. He hurried to catch up, and reached them just as a woman with a battleaxe was decapitating what was left of a draugr.

Jordis noticed his excitement. "What is it?"

"I think I might know what's going on here."

"What do you mean?" Irek had heard them and now made his approach, his mace stained with some dark liquid. Behind the bearded Nord, the others gathered around, waiting.

"Undead generally don't go walking on their own. I want to finds out who or what's controlling these, and we might get some answers about what lies ahead."

Jordis was nodding before he had finished speaking. "Sounds good. Grab yourself a body and take a look."

Now it was Velandryn's turn to grin. He gave this one some thought, making sure that the smile crept over his face in such a way as to perfectly express the dark glee he was feeling at what he was going to make them do. "I'm afraid it's not that simple." He looked over the group of Nords. My group of Nords, if I play my cards right. "Who wants to go capture a draugr?"

He had expected protests, or perhaps accusations of treachery. He had an entire logical backing laid out, and a dozen phrases that he was confident would spin their heads around. In short, he had expected to embrace the Dunmer, and the dark nature attributed his race.

He did not expect Jordis' grin, or Sophie's whoop of glee. Irek began laughing, and the woman with the battleaxe grabbed one of her companions. "Let's get moving!" In an instant, he and Jordis were alone, and he felt more than a little perplexed.

He waved down the tunnel. "Aren't you going to go haring off after them?"

She chuckled. "I'd like to know why, first."

'So would I." At her perplexed expression, he explained. "Why in Azura's name would they be so eager to run off and try to capture a draugr alive?" He briefly considered letting that last word be, but it was beyond his abilities. "Not alive, but animated. No matter, the point's the same. I worry for your lot if this is how they respond to—"

"Adventure?" Jordis was smiling again. "You gave them a mysterious task, one that's difficult and dangerous. I thought it a clever tactic on your part, asking which of them wanted to do it. How could any refuse?"

They're all mad! Shaking his head, he followed Jordis down the hall. "I'll never understand Nords."

The golden-haired human laughed. "Weren't you ever young, elf?"

"I am young, Nord." Combined with his splitting headache, her typical human inability to tell his age annoyed him more than it should have. "What I'm not is stupid."

By rights, that should have offended her. Instead, she only laughed again. "You say stupid, I say adventurous! Come, let's go get a draugr!"

Up ahead, the sound of a struggle was mixed with laughter and excited shouting. The others were coming back, and they were dragging with them a disarmed draugr. One of the Nords—Velandryn hadn't bothered to learn this one's name— was bleeding from a gash in his arm, but even he was smiling as he pulled the creature along.

"Here you are, elf! A draugr, just for you!" Sophie's voice was triumphant as she gestured to the creature.

What is it with Nords and that word? He hadn't forgotten his deal with Lydia, but even if he wouldn't assume that any who used the word was an ignoramus, he did have a name. He'd even told it to them, a move that in hindsight had been quite foolish. Fortunately, the identity of the Dragonborn didn't seem to have reached this group. Or none of them paid any attention to my name.

He gestured to a wide spot in the tunnel. "Secure the draugr." The Nords pushed the undead down, eventually securing it with four people at the ankles and wrists. He noted with interest that the draugr was not attempting to attack them, but rather free itself.

Kneeling beside the torso, he unsheathed his iron dagger. This old piece of metal with the flame-scorched grip had proven invaluable numerous times on his cold and lonely trek, and now it simply felt right in his hand. Besides, the enchantments on his other dagger might well interfere with his examination. Carefully, he aimed the tip of the blade at the torso. There was little he could read from the outside, but with luck…The flesh should be pulsing with energy. Hopefully—

"What are you doing?" Jordis' voice came from just over his shoulder, almost making him miss his mark. He hoped that the glare he sent her conveyed his annoyance, but she seemed impervious. "What is it you hope to find?"

Velandryn didn't especially feel like explaining, but considering that they'd helped him procure an animated draugr, it was only fair. How did he explain the intricacies of necromancy to Nords who had never had even a day of training, though? How do you teach a wasp to dance? With a whip made of fire, as generations of House Dres beastmasters had learned, but that probably wouldn't work here.

The first incision was shallow, barely even going beneath the skin. He wanted to see an intact muscle first. "Necromancy is poorly-defined even by those who practice it, but raising dead bodies always falls into one of two categories." The muscle responded well to stimulus, which was worrying. An awful lot of magicka flowing through this one. "It's either anchored, or held." He cut deep into the flesh, and felt the tip of the blade nick bone. Energy lanced up his arm, and he focused, dissipating it before it could do anything. "This one's anchored, and well."

"Meaning?" The group was quiet save Jordis, seemingly hanging on his words. An unusual audience, but attentive.

"Holding a reanimation is just what it sounds like." He was lecturing, he knew, but he was trying to get a feel for the nature of the spell, and had little concentration to spare. He'd give them the information, but they'd get it as it came. "The spellcaster sustains the body with their own magicka. It's far quicker and simpler than an anchor ritual, but the caster has to maintain the link." The flesh was paper-dry; he had to be careful that his probing magicka didn't ignite anything. "A novice can hold onto one skeleton or so, while two or three is a mark of skill, and a master could probably directly control half-a-dozen or more, if they didn't feel like focusing on anything too strenuous." The draugr thrashed as his knife dug in again. "Hold it still!" Core seems relatively stable, anchor holding but not offering alterations to original reanimation. Unlikely they've noticed me poking around.

They wrestled it back into stillness, and he extended his magicka once the draugr was again restrained. "Anchors are the opposite. The body is prepared, and raised through ritual. Energy is pulled from external sources, so the caster doesn't have to do all the work." This time, he made an incision along an arm; rate of magicka die-off along the extremities should show if this was a single or multi-node anchor, which would be a key clue to determining the complexity of the origin ritual. "Problem with anchors is, there's a degree of separation between necromancer and thrall. Meaning that there's a good chance whoever raised these doesn't know exactly what's going on." He nudged a Nord away from one of the wrists, and cut into the bony joint. Rate of decay consistent. Single point of fixture. That was good. It meant that any part hacked off of the bodies would become inert.

A powerful array, but one not specialized for resurrection. Briefly igniting his hands to clean off the draugr bits, he rose and slipped his gloves back on. "This undead is probably one of many linked in to some larger ritual. If I had to guess, they were raised en masse to provide protection."

One of the Nords coughed. "Umm, what should we do about…?"

Velandryn realized the half-dismembered draugr was still there and waved his hand in dismissal. "I have no further need of it. Pulverizing the torso should disrupt the reanimation."

Another Nord, the innkeep's son, he saw, rose in protest. "We should treat the body with more respect! He helped us, and never asked for this."

Velandryn was about to snap at the Nord for being a sentimental fool when he saw that the rest of the group was nodding with various expressions of agreement. Ah, well, so it goes. He supposed he couldn't fault them, as he'd likely be more than a little incensed if the necromancers had been using Dunmeri remains for a similar purpose.

Jordis, as ever, served as their voice. "Is there a more…noble way to end it?"

"Noble?" Putting down undead wasn't noble, it was necessary. Then, a thought struck him. It would be pointless, but it might placate them. "I can burn the body. Give it a warrior's sendoff."

Frankly, he didn't know if that was even a tradition, though it seemed vague enough that someone in Skyrim's history had done it. Hopefully, it would do. And, indeed, some of them were nodding at his words.

Jordis too seemed amenable to his suggestion. She glanced down at the draugr, and nodded again. "Do it."

As he once more removed his gloves and placed his hands atop the draugr's chest, he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. The bard, Sophie, was standing over the draugr, and as the fire flowed from his hands and took root in the dry skin of the undead, she began to sing, a low chanting hymn whose words he could not quite make out. At first he thought it was simply a matter of accent, but after a moment he realized she was singing in the ancient Nord tongue, the same one Serana had spoken upon awakening.

As he listened to the song, he wondered if the Nords would treat his body with so much respect, should he fall. More likely they'd just dump me and be on their way.

The body reduced to ash, he rose again. Jordis stepped forward, and the spell was broken. The group began gearing up, and Jordis drew Velandryn a bit down the hall. "All right. What exactly did you figure out? I want all of it."

He raised an eyebrow, a gesture of which he was growing increasingly fond. "All of it would be too much, unless the details of necromantic array structures interest you." He shrugged. "We're dealing with necromancy, to be sure, but there's no chance they're doing all of this just to make a few bodies walk around. The energy I'm feeling from down below is far too powerful for the crudity of the binding I just inspected. Unless these necromancers are controlling literally thousands of undead, and doing so with an insultingly basic tether, they're up to something else, and modified the array just enough so that a fraction of that power would go into sustaining their watchbeasts."

Jordis' eyes narrowed. "You know a lot about necromancy, it seems."

"As well I should. My people have studied the craft extensively from an adversarial standpoint, and I can interact with and deconstruct most common forms of necromantic arrays." He gave a smile, hoping to show good faith. "Rest assured, I find the practice abhorrent." That wasn't entirely true, of course, but he had no desire to have that debate with anyone today. "However, it would be foolish to ignore an entire school of magic simply because it isn't one I practice." He thought back to endless lessons on the variants of necromancy, and which were permissible within the strictures of the Temple. No, I know plenty about this.

Jordis seemed inclined to take his words as face value, however. "Well, in that case I'm glad you're here." She waved to the others. "Let's go!" Turning back to Velandryn, she smiled broadly. "Ready to see what's down there?"

"Well, we've come this far." He reached out and ran a hand along the cave wall. It was cool to the touch, and ever so slightly damp. Time to bring the fires of Morrowind down upon whatever lies below.

---

"It's just ahead." The innkeep's son spoke in a whisper, and Velandryn crept forward towards the opening in the tunnel wall. Jordis was already there, peering through, and waved him up beside her.

It had been perhaps an hour since his examination of the body, and he could feel that they were getting closer to the source. Jordis had told him about this place, how it had always had an evil reputation, but generally held nothing more dangerous than wild beasts or bandits. Obviously, that was no longer the case.

The hole through which they were looking in the wall of a great cavern, giving them a magnificent view of the crumbling tower ruins rising from the floor. The scene was lit by luminous fungus and daylight through cracks in the ceiling as well as torches set around the ruins and on the cave walls. Dozens of undead patrolled the grounds, and figures in black robes moved here and there, though what work they were up to Velandryn couldn't make out.

This was all secondary, however, to what was happening atop the tower. The crumbling stone drum rose high enough that Velandryn could only make out the effects of whatever these unknown mages were up to. Shafts of light in various shades of purple and blue shot out from the crenelated crown, and the pulses of raw magicka that flowed out from the site left Velandryn with no doubt as to what he had been feeling all day.

This close, the intensity of the feeling was not exactly more intense, but he was more acutely aware of it. He could have closed his eyes and been spun about, and still pointed to the exact focus of the ritual. As to what they were trying to accomplish, he still had no idea.

One thing about what he was seeing, however, solved a minor mystery. "They knew you were coming for them."

"What?" Jordis had been gaping at the scene below, but apparently she'd still heard him.

"That ritual, whatever it is, shouldn't be bleeding like that. They must have been half-done setting it up when you started killing undead up there. They panicked, and now they're trying to complete it before the Legion or whoever they fear comes crashing down on their heads."

The odd light gave Jordis a sickly pallor, making her cheerful demeanor seem almost ghoulish. "Well, then, we'd best not disappoint them. How many can you take?"

Sometimes he wished his face was as expressive as a human's simply because he was worried that right now he wasn't properly conveying exactly how insane her question was. "Not nearly that many, if that's what you wanted to know."

She chuckled. "Good, or there'd be nothing left for the rest of us!" She pointed down below. "Look, there's tunnels leading in. We can rush them and take them by surprise."

"Are you mad, Jordis?" It might have been the first time he had used her name, so strange it felt on his tongue. "You'll send your people up against an entire coven of necromancers and Three-only-know how many undead? With what? Swords and battle cries?"

"And if those necromancers succeed, what then? If they pull off whatever foul sorcery they're after?" Her face was drawn with something that could well be either rage or fear. "You might think we're fools after glory, or whatever insults you've been dreaming up while watching us, but you'd best never doubt our spirit!"

He would have been more impressed had he been unable to count her vaunted forces on his fingers. "I don't doubt your commitment, merely your sense. Charging in there gets you all killed."

Jordis' glare was matched by the Nords gathered around them. "What would you do then, elf?"

He considered for a few seconds. How would he approach this? The ritual was key, obviously, but there was no way for him to get more information without either getting much closer or revealing his position with a magical probe of the array. Not much I can do from here…

"Speaking as the only one here who knows an array from an atronach, I'll need to get as close to that ritual circle as possible. Disrupt the spell, and everything comes down." He gazed out at the tower. "And while I could levitate myself over there, I doubt they'd just let me float in without sending some nasty magic my way." He stroked his chin, annoyed by the bristly stubble he felt there; it was an unwelcome reminder of how ragged he'd become. "Whoever dreamed up this scheme chose a good location."

One of the Nords spoke then. "Couldn't you shoot magic at the tower, ruin their spell? Your magic fights theirs!" His voice was choked with excitement at the idea.

Velandryn was shaking his head before the Nord had finished speaking. "That array's spitting off so much magicka that anything this far out will cease to exist long before it can affect the source. You'd do better to throw rocks at the tower and hope they scuff a focal rune. No, the only way to attack the ritual is to be on top of the tower, using immediate directed magicka integration." He thought further, then chuckled. "Or, kill all of the mages. That'd do it too."

The Nords were muttering among themselves, though Jordis was gazing out at the scene. "Why do you think they built a tower down here?"

Velandryn didn't know if she was talking to him, but that had never stopped him from giving his opinion before. "Ego. Even the kind of scum that hides in caves wants to feel important. Looks like this ruin is ancient; all it takes is one outlaw band with too much time on their hands. Not like weather's going to do much to it down here."

She was giving him a look he couldn't read, but then she nodded. "It's a good thing you've a sharp mind, Vel, because you're a bit of a know-it-all." The smile robbed the words of any sting, and he nodded thanks.

Vel, is it? He would have castigated one of his own for butchering his name like that, but no Dunmer would have been so rude. Unless they wanted to insult me, I suppose. A few had, over the years. Then, his mind finished hearing the rest of her words, and he had to chuckle. "There are few higher compliments you could pay me."

Jordis laughed. "I don't doubt it!" She sobered quickly, however. "You get on top of that tower, can you stop this magic?"

He closed his eyes, trying to feel something, anything else he could glean about this massive ritual. "I don't know." He opened his eyes, and felt absurdly guilty upon seeing the expression on Jordis' round human face. "I don't like making promises I can't keep, but I have a better chance from the top than anywhere else. First rule of arrays is everything gets more complicated with distance, and I'm not nearly skilled enough in Destruction to try and overwhelm it from here." Mind still poring over the possibilities, he nodded absently. "If I can get inside the array up there, I can at least disrupt it. Might be we all die when it goes, but I can make it fail." He shrugged. "That's the best I can offer, but it's also the best you'll get."

Jordis' eyes held an almost elven intensity as she surveyed the ground below. "If you get to the top of the tower while we…no, we'd never make it. Could…" Suddenly, she perked up, and that familiar joyous light returned to her countenance. "I've got it! Hern, Ilana, get over here."

At her words, two of the Wolves, a nondescript Breton woman in dark leathers and a man with a beard that looked to have been oiled and painstakingly sculpted into its point, approached. Jordis smiled. "Vel, meet your new best friends."

Vel again? He'd let it go the first time, but this was a little bit absurd. Maybe Nords strung their names together from whatever grunts sounded appropriate, but his was a name that echoed the history of his people, and he felt as protective of it, and the lineage it represented, as he did of his own body and soul. Unusual by the standards of the House Dunmer, it gave him a link to his heritage as a child of two traditions, and he had never had cause to wish it changed. And I will not be disparaged by some ignorant human!

However, if he were trying to come up with inopportune times to get into a fight with someone over names, he would be hard pressed to find one worse than this. Maybe a dragon attack. So, he bared his teeth, remembered at the last second to make it a smile, and raised his eyebrows in a gesture of benign curiosity. I'm getting better at this.

Jordis was still grinning, and he had to admit that her face was made to smile. "All right, you three, listen up. Here's what's going on…"

---

"Victory or Sovngarde!"

"To Victory!"

"For the Wolves!"

To the mages below, the war cries must have appeared to come from nowhere. They might have been accelerating their ritual due to their undead being destroyed, but clearly they hadn't expected an attack so soon.

With the war cries still ringing, Jordis led the charge into the cavern. Behind her came the rest, each trying to outdo the others and be the first to reach the foes. They crushed the first few undead they hit, battering skeletons into bonemeal and hacking draugr apart with fury born of exuberance. By the time the mages had cast their first spell, the warriors were upon them.

Ilana nudged Velandryn's shoulder and pointed. Hern had already slipped out of the tunnel and dropped to the ground, and the two of them followed. Velandryn landed safely, if not gracefully, and the three of them took off across the cavern floor.

Their goal was a crumbling hole in the ruin's outer wall, now guarded only by a single skeleton. The mage who had been standing there was currently running full-tilt towards the other side of the cavern, where Jordis' attack seemed to be having exactly the desired effect. Thus far the three making for the rear hadn't been noticed, and so long as that held true—

The only warning Velandryn received was a flash of movement from behind the wall, and then the mage was attacking. Velandryn's only impression was of a deep dark robe, and a harsh shout accompanied by a pair of fireballs aimed in their general direction.

As soon as he realized what was happening, Velandryn altered his course. He noticed the skeleton moving to attack as well, and barked notice. "Skeleton!"

Hern's blade went flashing towards the undead, who met it on an axe that looked to be as much rust as iron. However, Velandryn only had an instant to notice the fight, since his own target was drawing closer.

That first salvo from the mage had told Velandryn plenty. Whatever this cultist, or necromancer, might be playing at, it was no true mage. Those fireballs had been weak and without true intent; fired from panic and driven by only a trickle of Will, rather than the great torrent that should fuel battle-magic. The strength of a mage depended on many things, but somebody who lacked the arrogant certainty that each change they made to the world was correct, that it should be, would never be strong.

Doubtless this cultist had joined craving power, or respect. It was a simple thing to teach a neophyte a spell or two, make them just competent enough to prepare the bodies for reanimation or scribe a portion of a ritual circle. But here, this human's lack was clear.

Time to die, pretender! He reached up, grasping the hilt of his sword. The heavy Orcish weapon was a bit too much for him to use one-handed, so when he pulled it free, only a few strides away from the mage, both of his hands were occupied. This was the moment of danger. Even a weak spellcaster could pull out a nasty trick, and both his hands were filled with sword.

He needn't have worried, however. The cultist was too busy stumbling back over his robes, pale face drawn with panic beneath his hood, to try much of anything. He was fumbling with a dagger when Velandryn reached him, and had almost brought it up into a guard when the Orcish sword sliced open his chest.

The wound wasn't especially deep, but the necromancer was unarmored, and began screaming in pain. He makes too much noise, more'll come back here. That was the last thing they needed.

Fortunately, long days on the road had made him handy with his dagger, and it was in his hand almost before he realized he would need it. Still holding the heavy Orcish blade awkwardly with his right hand, his left brought the dagger to bear and he stepped in to finish the job.

The point of the dagger entered the man's throat cleanly, and Velandryn followed it up with a quick slash that opened the side of the cultist's neck. Blood streamed from the wound, and the man's head lolled to one side as he collapsed.

That issue dealt with and no more foes before him, Velandryn turned to see what had happened with the undead. Hern and Ilana had things well in hand, it seemed. The skeleton had fallen, and they were now dealing with a draugr who had come to help its fellow.

A noise from above alerted Velandryn to more danger, and he managed to throw himself out of the way of a chunk of ice that would have torn clean through his torso. Of course, as he watched the ice shatter upon hitting the wall behind him, it might not be that substantial. It wouldn't do to grow complacent, but these necromancers were most assuredly not battlemages.

His attacker did not stick around to try again, however, and Velandryn soon realized that whatever the mage in the tower window might lack in skill, their ability to raise an alarm was not in question. He ran around the tower, the other two following close, looking for a way in.

When they found an entrance, Velandryn had a full heartbeat to wish they had not before the undead fell upon them. Nearly a dozen of the shambling creatures lurched forward, and the mage behind, now firing off more of those large but somewhat fragile ice projectiles from a long staff held awkwardly in one hand, left no doubt as to why so many had gathered here. So much for surprise.

He'd used the large Orcish sword last time, but here it would likely be too unwieldy, especially if he made it into the tower proper. Rather than reach to his back, therefore, he extended one hand and let his mind form a familiar pattern. It's time for a superior blade.

He had used his magicka sparingly since entering the tunnel, letting the Nords do the brunt of the fighting and rationing his spells so as not to be caught with nothing in reserve. Now, he was not. He flexed his fingers, and a familiar heat suffused his arm as the Daedric blade materialized.

The moment his hand touched the blade, he wanted to kill these bastards. This wasn't the dragon's certainty, which was an acute outrage at the temerity of lesser beings' challenge; nor was it Dunmer fury, the age-old knowledge that the world stood against you and you had to fight for every inch of gain. This was the unadulterated scorn of the Daedra, a clarion call that sounded across the worlds and heralded damnation for all that stood in its path. This was Oblivion given voice, the footsteps of Dagon's red hordes that had burned Tamriel in the name of their master. This was the hatred, the primal conflict, and this scum before him would burn in his fires!

Before him, two skeletons and a draugr were advancing, weapons raised. He brought the burning sword up to meet the first, his void-honed edge slicing through the other's rusted iron like it was cloth. With one stroke he removed half the draugr's sword and most of its upper body, setting the pieces ablaze.

Yes! The thought was exultant, yet somehow wrong. He stretched out his free hand, and a lance of flame shot forth, immolating one of the skeletons and overwhelming the magicka that bound it. The bones collapsed to the floor, and he turned his attention to the mage.

To one side, he was vaguely aware of Ilana hacking at a skeleton with her paired axes, and the thud of Hern's shield absorbing a blow. But those were distant concerns. Right now, this mage before him was all that mattered. This trivial human, this mortal that had the temerity to—

Mortal? He might not like Nords overmuch, but he had nothing against mortality. He glanced down at the sword in his hand, flickering by the light of fires that burned as nothing on Mundus could. He began to extend his magicka to probe the blade, but a flicker of motion caught his eye, and then the ice hit him.

Pain exploded across his chest, and cold shot through him. His hand jerked open, and the blade fell away, vanishing the moment it was gone. He spun to the ground, tasting blood as his face hit the rough stone floor.

He lay there for a moment, not wanting to rise. Why had he been so eager to fight? This wasn't his battle.

You made it your battle the moment you joined them. He might not have sought this out, but he couldn't abandon these Nords to die. Well, I could…

He chuckled to himself, still laying on the ground. Gods, it felt good to just lie there. How long had it been since he spent some time doing nothing? Not since—

"Get up, elf!" The voice came as someone gripped him by the cloak and hauled him bodily to his feet. Ilana's face was screwed up with stress and her hair matted with blood, and her voice was more than a little panicked. Hern was fighting off a skeleton and trying to parry the mage's ice shards at the same time, but neither was going too well. As Velandryn watched, the Nord fell to one knee, raising the shield above his head. Ilana gave him a shove, shouted something indistinct, and ran off to help her fellow.

He stood there for a moment longer, head pounding and legs unsteady, before reality hit him. He'd taken a bad blow and hit his head. This wasn't some deep personal crisis, it was trauma and fatigue. He was in a cave filled with necromancers who were trying to kill a pack of good-hearted but naïve adventurers. He could hardly imagine a more black-and-white moral delineation. So why am I still standing here?

He took one shaky step forward, then another. A skeleton turned and hissed at him; he waved a hand and summoned a gout of flame that tossed it aside. I made this my fight. Time to win it.

Another step, and he noticed the mage, now without his staff but conjuring a stream of fire that splashed off of Hern's shield, though by the sound of the curses, not entirely without consequence. With two more steps, Velandryn was in range, and this time he pulled his weapon free and gripped the Orcish blade firmly with both hands.

The mage turned, and the fire turned with him. Velandryn wanted to laugh. A Nord turns flame against me? Instead, he brought the blade up in a vicious sweep, cleaving off the man's hands and most of his forearms.

The necromancer's screams filled the room, and Ilana looked up from where she was hacking another draugr into pieces to shout, "Shut him up, elf! He'll bring the dead down on us!"

Even the ones who weren't raised will come checking, with a racket like that. He cast a spell of silence, a simple enough matter when your target was nearly incoherent from agony, and the necromancer's screams suddenly fell eerily quiet.

He looked down at the necromancer. It was a long shot, but just maybe…"What's going om up there?"

The necromancer's only response took the form of bulged eyes and some writhing on the ground.

Velandryn sighed. "Very well." He placed the point of the blade on the man's throat and pushed down until he heard the scrape of metal on stone.

"What's the point of asking if you'd silenced him?" Ilana was leading Hern over; both had various cuts and scrapes, and half of Hern's chestplate was covered in icy crystals.

"He could have nodded, or given some other sign. Truth be told, it was a shot in the dark from a very long way off, but that's no reason not to take it." He waved at them. "Do either of you need healing?"

Ilana grinned. "I've had love bites that did more damage. Hern might need some help though."

The Nord with the pointed beard glared at him. "Not from you. What happened? You went down like a…like a…"

"Like an elf." Ilana's wit was sharper than Hern's, clearly. "You talk a good game, but you failed when it came time to stand and be reckoned."

He would have given her a tongue-lashing were it not for the fact that she was absolutely correct. He wasn't sure why the rage of the bound weapon had affected him so deeply, but it had completely pulled him out of the battle. The rage, and my reaction to it. He had heard of bound tools overwhelming the mortals that wielded them, of course; the risks associated with using the Daedric powers were well-known to any who studied the arts of Conjuration. He had always thought himself better than that, however, and the notion that, even weakened and exhausted, his mind was so vulnerable, was an unwelcome one.

Instead of arguing, he nodded. "I did."

That caught them by surprise, he could tell. Probably never seen an elf admit they were wrong before. Well, he might have to kill them later to keep his mystique intact. At least they don't know I'm the Dragonborn.

Finally, Hern nodded, looking skeptical but not as angry as he had. Ilana simply stuck her hand out and grabbed him by the shoulder. "You better now?"

Slightly shamed by their forgiveness, he bowed his head, then looked at his two companions. "Jordis is buying us time. Let's finish this."

They had entered the tower, but the epicenter of the ritual still lay above them. This close, the magicka was almost tangible, and Velandryn was struck once more by how unstable this entire array must be. And just what in Oblivion are they doing with this much magicka?

The stair was guarded by yet more draugr, with a mage behind them, though this one, a human with her cowl pushed back, seemed more interested in remaining behind the undead than engaging them directly. His eyes met those of the woman in the black robe, and Velandryn easily read the necromancer's fear. I could get used to that. He raised his hand and sent a lance of flame towards her. She hurriedly raised a ward and his fire splashed harmlessly off, but it also forced her to adjust her footing and turn her focus to him. You and me, human.

Hern and Ilana might not have been trained to the extent of Lydia, but these undead hardly required her skill. They fought well together, and that was enough to counteract the superior numbers of the foe. Had the mage been focusing on them, she would have broken them in moments, but Velandryn had her occupied.

They were locked together, him and this necromancer, neither able to bring the other down. She was stronger than the one he had faced earlier, and while he would likely have been able to outmaneuver her at his most lucid, he was too ragged right now to do much more than try and overwhelm her. He hurled bolts of fire and sent jolts of magicka that would have reduced her mind to incoherent agony, but her wards were strong.

In the end, the two Nords and Velandryn prevailed, mostly due to having three minds at work rather than only one. Undead had a certain tenacity about them, but they were only as clever as their animation spell, and whoever had designed the ritual behind these had been more concerned with quantity than quality. That it was a ritual was no longer in any doubt at all; Velandryn could almost physically feel the connection between the maelstrom above and the movements of the undead.

With her front line destroyed, the mage tried to retreat, but Velandryn had seen that move coming. The torches in the scones behind her flared up at a wave of his hand, and when she turned to defend against the sudden light and sound, his other hand gestured and sent a bolt of flame slamming into her back.

Ilana leapt, pinning the woman to the floor. Velandryn hurried over. A single word, any hint he could get about what awaited them above, could make all of the difference.

The woman's arms and legs were pinioned by the Nords, and Velandryn squatted, bringing his face close to hers. "What are they doing up there? Tell me the spell, and you might walk out of here."

She laughed in his face. "Go fuck yourself, elf."

He raised an eyebrow. "So you wish to die?" Necromancers were one and all motivated by a fear of death. None but those who dreaded the cessation of existence would study so assiduously ways to extend it.

She laughed again, and spat at him, missing by quite a bit considering the close range. "I'll tell you nothing. You'll know soon enough, and then you will wish you'd never tried to stop us. Death is nothing compared to what comes!"

The tower shook, and a booming sound that might have been a voice echoed through the stones. Velandryn looked up, feeling the way the magicka twisted, swirling around something. A cage of magicka, to hold—

"What did you summon?" He grabbed her by the collar and pulled her upwards. She was jerked towards him but brought short by the hold on her arms, and he planted his face mere inches from hers. "What dead soul have you brought forth?"

She smiled. "The Wolf Queen is come, elf."

With a snarl, he grabbed her by the throat. "Potema? You summoned a necromancer? You fools!" he might not know too much about the minutiae of Imperial history, but the Wolf Queen was infamous. Potema Septim, daughter of one Emperor or another, had waged decades of war on her family, fighting an ultimately doomed battle to seize the throne. She had died in the end, but not before raising legions of the dead and entire hosts of Daedra to serve her, rituals that had doubtless required immense amounts of death to fuel. And they thought this was the soul they should bring back?

Ilana looked as though someone had hit her very hard in the stomach, and Hern had actually gone pale, something Velandryn had always thought was simply a figure of speech. "Potema…no, they can't be…"

Velandryn pulled out his dagger, the one he had taken from Lokil, and drew it across the necromancer's throat. As she died, he felt her energy and magicka flow into him, and when he stood, it was with a straighter back and lighter step than he'd had in some time. "Time to finish this."

Ilana looked like she would be sick on the steps. "We can't…Potema, she's…"

"Four hundred years dead and being summoned by a pack of fools! A soul like that doesn't come gently back into the world. If she'd arrived, we'd know it." He pointed upwards. "There'd be a lot more screaming, for one."

Hern had apparently managed to get his fear under control. "What's the plan, elf?" Ilana too, though breathing heavily, was listening intently.

Oh, so when the undead necromancer queen gets involved, suddenly they're listening to me. They weren't wrong, though. He had a few ideas about how to wreck that ritual array, for one, and while it might have been the body he'd just drained of magicka, he was feeling better than he had in a while.

He pointed downward. "Jordis should be playing it safe, pulling as many of the forces below as she can, but they might well be coming for us once this starts. I'm going to try and disrupt the reanimation portion of the array, but that might require taking down the whole thing, which requires killing every living thing on that rooftop. Either way, the moment we're out, we move fast and hit hard. Powerful souls echo before appearing, but I'd rather not have Potema move beyond a voice before we shut this down."

"Why are you so sure she hasn't?" That was Ilana, looking down at the corpse. "This one thought she was here."

"Because the entire thing hasn't descended into bloody chaos yet. The mages we've seen so far wouldn't have a prayer of containing her, and the ones up top are panicking. Their array wasn't finished, remember? That's why I felt it from outside." He rubbed his chin; the fact that the stubble no longer bothered him was a sign of how desperately he needed to spend a night somewhere that wasn't the wilderness. "I'd wager some self-taught necromancer dreamed this up, thinking he'd bind her like another zombie. When she shows up, she'll rip his soul out and drink it whole as thanks. Summoning a necromancer's soul is like…locking up a soldier in the armory. She'll be sitting in the middle of a powerful array, and all the mages trying to control her are linked into it." Pulling a necromancer's soul into an array similar to one such as they had used in life was asking to have things turned around. The only way they could have been more foolish was if they'd gone for Mannimarco! But he doubted the Worm would have deigned to appear; Potema seemed like the sort who would devour the souls of the ones who had summoned her because she was irate. "No, let's go put down a queen."

"Aye!" In moments, the Nords were ready.

Velandryn found himself running over spells and counters in his head, but he knew this wouldn't be that kind of fight. Move fast, hit hard. They needed to break the array, deanimate the undead, and prevent Potema's emergence. They took the spiral of steps two at a time, and gained the roof in a rush.

The scene they encountered was exactly as bad as Velandryn had feared. The entire tower was taken up by a tremendous ritual circle, and it pulsed blue and purple light in the same tempo that had been pounding itself into his head all day. A ring of black-robed cultists stood around the edge at even intervals, each shouting and gesturing wildly.

The cause of their alarm was obvious, though that did little to make Velandryn feel better. The center of the circle, which was a mass of concentric runic rings that looked to have been scribed in no less than six languages, held a pulsing violet mass, one that bore the unmistakable signature of a soul. A voice was sounding; female, loud, and commanding, it was mocking the mages trying to control it. For the moment, it seemed that these necromancers and the spirit of Potema were locked in a stalemate.

That changed quickly. Ilana decapitated one of the cultists before the black-robes had time to realize they were no longer alone on the roof, and Velandryn knelt immediately, placing his hands on the spot vacated by the cultist now bleeding out onto the stone. With all the magicka swirling around him, it was the easiest thing he had ever done to tap into the flow and connect to the ritual.

By Azura! He'd been wrong, calling it a ritual. This was a cacophony, dozens of overlapping and cascading spells performing four completely separate tasks. The fact that the entire situation hadn't collapsed into anarchic magical overload was a testament to whatever lunatic had made it. The array wasn't badly designed, just haphazard, and it was doing as good a job as could be expected at containing Potema. Judging by the resonance, it would hold her for five minutes more, perhaps a bit longer if a few of the mages sacrificed their own souls to hold it.

The Triune Temple had strict protocols concerning the use and storage of magical knowledge confiscated from lawbreakers and outlaw spellcasters. There were few areas that were completely off-limits, but numerous practices and conventions had been deemed inefficient, profane, or excessively dangerous, and so were taught only as a prerequisite for understanding how to avoid or counteract them. Fortunately, as I was learning why a circle of this nature is evil, I was also learning how to bring it down.

From somewhere beyond his current range of awareness, he could hear voices and the sounds of battle. However, anything that was not him or the ritual was irrelevant. I'm detecting ten foci for the array. They were spellcasters, human all, nine of them merely acting as magical anchors and providing basic manipulation in rote patterns. The last was more complex, and seemed to be doing the majority of the complex spell work needed to maintain the four simultaneous castings. Impressive, for a human.

There was one other major presence in the ritual, and that was the enraged bundle of magicka sitting at the center of the array. He had to assume that this was Potema, and the speed with which her essence was deconstructing the wards around her was more than a little impressive. Even in death, she's more dangerous than the fools who summoned her.

Of the four spells the array was sustaining, three pertained to Potema. One seemed to be drawing on a number of atrifacts and magical signatures to locate and identify the soul of the Wolf Queen, while a second had drawn her to this place from whatever pit she had inhabited; their combined effect had resulted in one very angry necromancer's soul. The fact that she hadn't yet annihilated the array and those attached to it was due to the third spell, a massively powerful binding.

The fourth spell in the array was almost trivial by comparison to its fellows, a simple soul siphon that animated any corpses connected to the circle. The mages controlling the circle could give broad commands to the reanimated dead, and their residual magicka, scant as it might be, would offer some support and stabilization to the array as a whole. And that's the first to go.

It was easy to ruin an array from the inside, and this one was no exception. Velandryn sent jolts of magicka, the densest he could, skittering along the transliminal pathways that crisscrossed the array.

His first sign that it was working was a terrific wrenching, an intangible twist in his gut that felt like it should have been accompanied by a screech of breaking metal or stone. Immersed as he was in the intricacies of the array, he couldn't afford to check and make sure the dead had truly fallen; he needed to abort this summoning before Potema could destroy them all. Hopefully that deanimated the dead. If Jordis and her lot were still alive, they'd be of use in cleaning up the rest of these cultists.

As he unraveled a knot of magicka that had been integrated into a reservoir tethered by an Ayleid-derived runic array, he wondered at the origins of this group. He'd been thinking of them as a cult, but he didn't actually know what they believed. They weren't Daedric, unless this group had bound itself to some Daedra so minor that it couldn't even scrounge up a few scamps to keep an eye on things.

The summoning of Potema too was odd. Had it been any other Septim, he might have considered a radical cult of Talos, but Potema was infamous, and rightly so, as a necromancer first and a member of Tiber Septim's dynasty second. It was possible, he conceded, that they had simply been seeking to conjure Potema and bind her to their wills, but that seemed an ill-advised plan at best.

Well, regardless of their intent, he was going to stop them. If he could destroy the wards that had drawn Potema's soul to this place while holding the ones that kept her from breaking free, the liminal barriers should force her soul out of the Mundus. Hopefully the Nords would have killed the rest of the necromancers by then, and this business would be over and done with. Not that I'm like to be that lucky.

On closer inspection, however, it wouldn't be as easy as he'd thought. He'd seen that the array was a piecemeal construction drawn from multiple magical traditions, but this was even more of a nightmare than he'd imagined. He recognized Ayleid- and Aldmer-derived patterns, a few that were undoubtedly Nord in nature, and some that looked as though a half-blind imbecile had tried to copy Daedric sigaldry while rats chewed off their thumbs. It would be difficult to disrupt, and nigh-impossible to stop one of the three primary spells without also halting the other two. Fetch it all, you necromancer s'wit!

Sighing, Velandryn carefully began extracting his magicka from the ritual. There was another way; removing the focal mages should deny the array its energy, leading to a depletion event. If he killed the necromancers, the whole thing might well shut down. Or Potema seizes control and then I'm dealing with an undead Empress. As fascinating as it would be to question the existence that was Potema, he didn't think that would end well too for him. When subtle magical craft fails, just kill everyone in a black robe. There were worse plans. No vampires this time, at least.

He opened his eyes, the last tendrils of his magicka returning to his body. The circle was in complete pandemonium. Three of the mages were dead, their bodies held standing in place by the ritual that was still pulling power from their souls. The others were trying to fight off Hern and Ilana while keeping Potema contained, and doing a poor job at both. One in particular, however, was funneling magic quite adeptly; Velandryn could only assume that this was the ritual master, the slightly more clever fool who had probably devised this idiocy.

Time for a Redoran Silence. It was an old joke among the Dunmer: while House Redoran did boast some pure mages among its nobles and armsmer, the warrior house's general approach to dealing with magical threats was a straightforward one. If it was bad magic, whack it with something heavy. If it was still moving, you should probably give it another just to be safe. A Redoran Silence, therefore, while not held in high esteem by the academies of the Temple or the Six Towers, was widely accepted as a useful alternative for when traditional means of counterspell failed. And it's cathartic besides.

His thoughts had taken only a few seconds, but in that time two things had changed. The first was that Ilana had put one of her axes into another mage, and blood flowed freely from under a black robe. The second was that the leader had noticed him, and, with a casual gesture, sent a surge of magicka through the array that manifested as a burst of lightning beneath his feet.

He threw himself to one side, avoiding the attack but hitting the ground hard. This isn't good. The ritual master had control of the circle, and as long as they were within it, this necromancer could hit them from anywhere. Diverting so much attention to them might let Potema get free, but the ritual's failure would be cold comfort if Velandryn died along with the cultists.

He glanced around for a moment, tentatively extending his magicka to try and get an edge on any more incoming attacks. Ilana and Hern had moved on to another mage, and were wearing this new one down as well—

He had half a heartbeat's warning, throwing himself aside once more before another eruption of magicka cracked the stone where he'd been standing. Can't get distracted.

The necromancer leader had pulled back her hood, revealing the lined face of an aged Nord woman. Smiling slightly, she sent another attack through the array. Velandryn readied himself, but this time—

Shit! The curse came to his mind in Imperial Tamrielic, but it seemed somehow tried to shout a warning, but he was a moment too slow. By the time his lips had finished forming the words, the sparks and discharge had exploded beneath Hern and Ilana, and the duo were sent flying before collapsing limply to the stone.

Whirling, he sent a bolt of flame at the master necromancer, but she raised a ward and the fire splashed off harmlessly. In response, she unleashed a torrent of ice, not bothering with the array this time. He raised a ward of his own, ducking down to minimize the space he needed to cover.

Cursing under his breath, Velandryn pulled out a potion, studying the slightly murky liquid within. He'd made this one outside the cave, hoping he wouldn't have to use it. It would give him magicka in excess, but he'd been unable to filter it completely with his current ingredients and skill, meaning he was likely going to experience all kinds of wonderful side effects. What doesn't kill me…

The potion tasted foul going down, but instantly the magicka within him swelled in response. Grimacing at the sharp pain in his gut, he rose, letting flames flow out to surround his arms. The necromancers were distracted by the array and Potema's swirling rage, but the master still faced him, smile still stretched across her wrinkled face. At the sight, Dov, long silent, roared rage, and Velandreyn felt an old excitement rise from deep in his soul.

…Makes you stronger. He sent a spray of fireballs across the circle, almost a dozen spinning out in a great fan of flame. The master raised a ward and shielded herself, sneering and saying something that he couldn't make out over the roaring in his ears. He figured it was a taunt, some jibe at his expense, but he really didn't care. She hadn't been his target in the first place.

Time for a taste of your own medicine, witch. By the time the other cultists realized they were under attack, it was almost too late. Most at least managed to throw up wards or duck away, surviving with little more than burning robes and bruises.

Two, however, were not so lucky. One looked to have been focused on the ritual to the exclusion of all else, and a lucky trio of shots punched through the other's ward. He had charged his bolts with the fury and flames of Red Mountain; neither would be walking out of here without grievous burns. Both of the unfortunate necromancers were on the ground screaming and thrashing in moments, and Velandryn's enemies were down to four.

They faced each other again, now slightly less unequal but still far from a fair fight. At a gesture from the leader, one of the cultists knelt and spread his hands on the ritual circle. The wounded cultists were hoisted into the air, and they jerked as bolts of light stabbed upward and pierced their bodies with savage speed. Keeping the ritual going. Efficient for the short-term. It wouldn't last long, however. With Potema's spirit still trying to break free and the undead decoupled from the array, a few dead cultists wouldn't be able to keep things together for more than a few minutes. And when that happened, there was no telling what would happen next.

Hopefully it wouldn't come to that. He shielded himself from a burst of lightning sent by one of the cultists and sent a long finger of flame lancing back. He began moving slowly forward, hoping to get into range of the nearest cultist and cut him down. Hern and Ilana were still on the ground, and Velandryn wondered where Jordis had gotten to. I stopped the spell, the undead should have fallen!

"That's far enough!" The roaring in his ears was brought on by the potion rather than any actual noise, and somehow the lead necromancer's words made it through. "When Potema is bound—"

He stopped listening. He needed to figure this out, and that didn't include paying attention to taunts. The possibility that the ritual master would let something slip wasn't worth the split focus. He gathered magicka in his hands, and sent another barrage of fireballs at the four foes he had left.

Had these four all been facing him with their full attention, he might not have lasted too long. Numbers mattered, and four lesser mages could overwhelm him. However, the three underlings were still managing the ritual, leaving the master to deal with him. A mistake.

He could see his path to victory. A pulse through the ritual would stun the mages, leaving them vulnerable. Any more of the underlings fell—the nearest one was less than five paces away, and his blade was solid on his back—and the ritual would begin unraveling in earnest. Chaos like that—and the close quarters—meant that he could cut down the rest in a matter of seconds. None of them were even armed, after all.

Except…he had allies down in the middle of it all, and pulsing magicka through the array would do nothing good for them. Plus, with Potema there, they would undoubtedly be in danger.

He'd already played this game with himself; he knew where he stood on the subject of this little band of would-be heroes. He couldn't let them die. Unfortunately, there was only one other tactic he could think up to get them out of this.

They'll never see this coming. He let magicka flow into his hands again, sending forth another barrage of fireballs. Give them what they want. Predictable, but maybe I get lucky. All but one avoided the attack, the last was heard to curse loudly. Velandryn stepped forward and cleared his throat. He had rather liked being just another traveler, but all good things had to come to an end. It was a fine thing to walk cloaked and unseen, especially in foreign lands. There was no shame in his pretending to be no more than a Dunmer. And where does caution become cowardice? For him, it was apparently the place where he would risk the lives of others to protect his secret. If I am Dragonborn, let them see me as I am!

FUS!

For an instant, the roaring abated completely. There was an infinitesimal moment of pure silence, then the earth-shaking force of his Thu'um, and then one moment more of blessed silence before the roar returned.

He had not used the Thu'um in some time, but it had come to him as easily as shockwave sent the ritual master staggering back, her ward dissolving as her concentration crumbled. Shouting does do that to people. He hadn't aimed at the other mages, but they too seemed to be every bit as shocked, and he could feel the ritual fluctuate as their holds wavered. Perfect.

He rushed forward, pulling his daggers from their sheaths. This close, shorter weapons would be faster. He drove the iron through the ritual master's robes deep into her gut, and the vampire's blade he drew across her throat. She was dead before she hit the stone, and the ritual blazed up in response.

A roar filled his ears, and he realized that Potema's spirit was trying to break out, to seize control of the array and make her will felt on Mundus once more. Hurriedly, he spun, realizing that he needed to finish the other necromancers so he could deal with Potema without interference. Hopefully I can banish her, or we might all be dead before sundown.

He turned, daggers raised and ready to take down the nearest of the remaining necromancers, but the man was busy dying, one of Ilana's axes buried in his back. From her spot half-lying on the ground, she gave him a bloody grin. Then, she slumped limply to the stone beside Hern, neither moving.

A war cry from below heralded the arrival of Jordis and the rest of the Wolves, all of them looking ragged and bloody, but as welcome a sight as any he'd ever seen. The reinforcements fell upon the necromancers with wild abandon, and in moments the cultists were little more than corpses staining the stones.

Now, only one thing remained. The roaring in his ears drowned out anything else, and he turned to regard the entity in the center of the array. The malevolence pouring off of it was palpable, and he had no issue imagining that this was indeed Potema the Wolf Queen.

With quick strides, he moved to where the ritual master had been standing and extended his hands. The array flared, and the multilingual riot of power cascaded into his mind. By the Scourge, this is madness! One mind could scarcely hold all of these threads, let alone try and do anything with them. Clearly the other mages had been providing more than simply raw power.

Fortunately, he wasn't trying to do anything fancy. From this position at the head of the array, and without the interference of the necromancers, he could at least grasp the three major spells that were still working. A summoning, a liminal holding, and a binding. If the first went, parts of the soul might be weakened or possibly vanish entirely. The second, and it might slip back to the place from which it had come. The third….best not to think about what happens if the third fails. The idea of being the undead thrall of a lich was not especially pleasant.

So, all he had to do was disentangle a single part of three interwoven spells while an opposing entity that had far more knowledge about this type of magic than he did attempted to do the same. This should be fun.

It soon became clear that Potema was far and away his superior when dealing with this type of array. He found himself destroying parts of the summons and liminal transference matrices simply because he was hoping that his actions would make some part of the soul return to nothingness. A new attack, blinding and painful, lashed out, and he almost lost control. Desperately, he responded with a surge at a node composed primarily of Daedric runes—

"—dying!" Jorids' voice broke in, and something gripped him by the shoulder and shook him roughly. "Do something, Vel! They're dying!"

He opened his eyes to see Jordis looming over him. Behind her, the bodies of Hern and Ilana had been moved to lie beside each other. He glared. "I need to focus!" He closed his eyes again and reached back into—

"They'll die!" Jordis sounded as though she was on the verge of tears. "You're a mage! Can't you heal them?"

He wanted to shout at her, to tell her that he was trying to return the Wolf Queen to the grave, and if they failed here, it was all for naught. However, as he looked over at them, he chanced to feel their magicka. That's not natural. It only took him a moment to realize what was happening. Potema was bolstering herself by pulling power from the dead, stealing life force from the array that held her. Ilana and Hern had simply been caught up in it.

It was in that moment that Velandryn lost control of the battle over the array. It was all too much, the problem was too big. This wasn't about having determination or finding a clever trick anymore, this was a contest beyond his capabilities. Potema was too strong for him. Every second he wasted she gained in strength, and all of his efforts were only delaying the inevitable. She would gather her power, overwhelm him and the array, and then she would be free. Unless…

Only one option remained to him. Sighing, he uncorked his last two potions, and downed them in two quick gulps. This was going to hurt.

As pain seized him, he poured every drop of magicka he had into the array. He wasn't trying to do anything subtle anymore. Now, he was ravaging every nexus and focus, disrupting each array and overloading every rune-pattern. He had to do it as quickly as possible, before Potema caught on to his plan.

Theoretically, holding a soul in Mundus was a more delicate procedure than binding it within a circle. If everything collapsed in a cascade of failure, the liminal barriers that permeated the Aurbis should force her soul back into whatever darkness it had inhabited. Of course, if his wanton destruction damaged the bindings too severely before unmaking the soul vice, Potema would be able to force herself fully into this world, and the Wolf Queen would be reborn with all of her legendary power.

It happened all at once, and then it was done. Whatever he had destroyed must have been crucial, since the entire array began to tear itself apart. He felt a stabbing pain and saw a flash of light, and Potema was gone. Blue and violet light recede into the shadows at the corners of the cavern, and Velandryn sagged to the stone, exhausted.

"Why aren't you helping them? They're dying, Vel!" Oh, right. It would be a shame if he let them die. Can't have the Dragonborn doing that now. Of course, given that those two were the only ones that had seen him use the Thu'um…

Every part of him protested as he pulled himself to his feet. He staggered over to Ilana and Hern, and fell to his knees between them. Grimacing, he tore at their armor and clothing until his hands rested on the bare flesh of their chests. He had no time or energy to waste on modesty, and he wanted direct and central contact.

Restoration had been drilled into every Temple novitiate since their earliest lessons in magic. Every Dunmer could be a mage, and every priest could be a healer. It wasn't strictly true, of course; any race had outliers with no talents in a given area, but as a group the Anointed of the Temple were an exceptionally reliable source of healing for those in need. Were it not for his wretched state and everything he'd just gone through, he would have found this healing a calming and well-familiar experience.

Light poured from his hands, sucking out every drop of magicka in him, the air, and the patients. Their wounds were, for the most part, more numerous than severe. Burns and bruises he healed quickly on the outside, though the ones on their internal organs left by the ritual master's attack required a defter touch. They were drained dry of energy and magicka, though it seemed Potema hadn't had the time to pull out anything permanent. They'd be groggy and thirsty, but Nords seemed to live their entire lives in that state, given their absurd fondness for alcohol. Most importantly, they would live, and Velandryn was too exhausted to figure out why that was so important to him. As he removed his hands, Velandryn Savani felt…well, he didn't rightly know. Drained, but a good drained.

Sighing to himself, he stretched out on the blood-drenched stone and slipped into blissful unconsciousness.

---

The array exploded in a blinding torrent of chaos, and the power she had gathered began to unravel. She could feel the nothingness pulling at her, but she would never return. Not now, not when she was so close.

With a final effort, she gathered her strength into a single point, and focused it inward. Where this would send her, she did not know, but she would be free.

All she'd ever wanted was freedom. The freedom to choose her fate, to let her son live up to his potential.

She flew, flew as nothing mortal could. She did not have eyes to see, nor skin to feel the wind, but she could feel the world move around her, until she came to rest within a familiar vessel.

Hello, old friend. It's been a while.

The work would not be swift. She'd managed only to salvage the kernel of her essence, that tiny and essential component of her soul from which all that was her derived.

But she had time. They would think her defeated, banished back to nothingness. She didn't know who they were, but it hardly mattered. Months, years, Eras, these were meaningless. There had been no time in the nothingness, and liberation from the needs of the flesh enabled her to take a longer view of things.

No matter how long it takes, I will have what is mine! I am Potema, and I will not be denied!

---

"So, Dragonborn, eh?"

Velandryn glanced over at Ilana, who was looking entirely too pleased with herself. "I don't suppose I'm lucky enough for you not to have told anyone else."

She smiled. "Just Jordis. Hern saw you too, but Jordis is the only one I told. Figured it was only fair, what with her making you save my life and all."

Velandryn snorted. "I told you, I needed to deal with Potema. But, you are welcome, since you've been so effusive with your thanks."

Potema. He didn't know what had happened, but it seemed that, at the very least, the Wolf Queen had not broken free with all of her power. If she had, we wouldn't have made it out of that cave alive.

They told him he'd slept a night and a day after his collapse; the sun had been high overhead when he came to in the Wolves' camp. They'd carried him out and destroyed everything they could that had been part of the ritual, though Jordis had been kind enough to hand him a pouch of gold and soul gems, telling him it was his part of the spoils. If it felt a little heavy for an equal share, he kept that to himself. There had also been a tome that the Wolves had salvaged, but it was more ruin than grimoire, and he'd burned it after a cursory examination had failed to produce anything of interest. However the ritual master had hatched her plan, she'd taken it to her grave.

When he'd woken, his wounds had been wrapped in bandages, and the primitive practice had nearly set him to panicking. He'd wasted no time in healing his wounds before they could scar or fester; while marks earned in battle were honorably won, he felt no need to acquire any himself.

They'd waited for him to come to and eat four bowls of that stew before setting off, and now they were well on the way back to Solitude. Traveling with a group meant a slower pace, but it also meant others watching your back, conversation instead of silent contemplation, and a level of camaraderie that he never would have expected to feel for Nords.

He had extended an offer of healing to his companions as well, and some had taken him up on it. More puzzling to him were the ones who refused; it seemed that they would rather carry wounds that doubtless caused unnecessary pain and hampered motion rather than be healed. Pride was one thing, but he'd assured them that he could heal the wounds so they left perfectly ghastly scars, and they'd still refused. Finally, he'd been forced to shrug and admit that he was still a long way from understanding these people.

Ilana and Hern looked none the worse for wear, though both were sporting a few new battle scars, though Ilana did let him mend her broken arm. Later, she'd pulled open her leathers to show him a spiderweb of burn scars across her breasts, and thanked him for giving her something new to brag about.

Hern now seemed to regard him with a wary respect, and the rest of the Young Wolves had accepted him as, if not one of their own, then at least a worthy companion. Sophie told him she was composing a song about the battle of Wolfskull Cave, and he would have a stanza all to himself. It was an odd honor, but kindly meant, and Velandryn thanked her with a smile. As for Jordis, he caught the Nord shooting him knowing looks over the campfire, but of his being Dragonborn she said nothing.

All in all, it was a pleasant enough way to return to Solitude. Four days on the road, and the great windmill came into view one cold morning. They were approaching from the west this time, so while the arch of Solitude was as impressive as ever, it lacked some of the looming grandeur it had held the first time Velandryn had seen it.

Last time, Velandryn had restricted his activities mostly to the Shores, and only gone towards the main gates of the city one time, when he'd been in need of a bank to store his money and a few things he hadn't wanted to bring north. Now, they went straight to the Climb, and Jordis steered them towards the main gates at the top of the wide cobbled road.

Last time, his mind had been filled with thoughts of Serana and the task ahead. Now, Velandryn noticed things he hadn't before. The main street was lined with inns and shops, to be sure, but now he peered into the alleys beyond and beheld the tall, narrow houses crowding each other for space on the slope. As they climbed the storefronts grew more ornate, and the houses more elegant. Clearly, proximity to the walls was desirable.

It wasn't until they entered the square before the main gate that Velandryn realized that his presence here made no sense. He needed to retrieve his possessions from the bank and commission passage to Morthal for the horses and gear they had left in the care of Jarl Ravenscrone. There was no purpose for his entering the city proper.

When he told this to Jordis, however, she only laughed at him. "You're a hero, Vel! We're going to show you Solitude the way it's meant to be seen!"

He lowered his voice. "I do have obligations elsewhere, you know. A certain mountain awaits." If everybody else was going to use the Greybeards to tell him what to do, he'd return the favor to avoid being dragged into whatever Jordis was planning for him.

He had neglected, however, to take into account just how stubborn the Nord woman was. "Nonsense! If you've waited this long, a few days more won't be the end of the world."

Given what I've been involved with, I wouldn't necessarily discount the possibility. Nonetheless, he squared his shoulders and faced the huge gate, really seeing it for the first time. It was impressive, wrought of steel and dark wood, set into the ancient stone of the wall. He'd come to realize that Nordic styles could be as ornate as anything his people made, and these gates were elegant by any measure. Nords liked incorporating animal themes into their metal and stonework, and it seemed that wolves had been the beast of choice for the artisans of Solitude, which was hardly surprising given how often the name and motif seemed to crop up around here. There were snarling wolves climbing the stone, and a great wolf's head overlooking the gate itself. Below, a group of Legionaries watched the crowd as it entered.

Those entering the city looked to be mostly local, apparently shopping or simply out for a stroll. He saw mercenaries here and there, and a few merchants with laborers hauling goods behind them, but for every traveler, there must have been ten locals. Not so diverse as the Shores, either. The guards didn't seem particularly interested in stopping anyone, preferring to watch and occasionally ask a question before waving someone through.

Velandryn spotted a flash of familiar grey; a fellow Dunmer was moving towards the city gates as part of what looked to be a band of adventurers. Velandryn was only a little surprised to see the Dunmer alone be stopped by one of the Legionaries; his people shouldn't expect fair treatment in Skyrim.

Then, something about the Legionary who had done the stopping struck him. He turned to Jordis. "How many Dunmer serve in the Legion here?"

She shrugged. "Some. Not many. It's mostly humans here, truth be told." She grinned. "Most like you lot are too smart to get stuck watching over city walls, I'd bet."

"Hmm." His wordless response was little more than a distracted acknowledgement that Jordis had spoken; he was busy wondering what the odds were that a Dunmer Legionary would just so happen to be inspecting Dunmer who came through.

He nudged Jordis again. "How easily can humans tell Dunmer apart?" There was more urgency in his voice now; if he was correct in his assumption, they didn't have much time until he was noticed.

"You? I could spot you at a hundred paces, now. Before we'd met? Not without a portrait, or calling out to confirm." She had noticed something was wrong, and answered seriously, a fact he appreciated.

Velandryn very much doubted that the Empire had a portrait of him. A description, however, was not impossible. Red hair, grey skin, arrogant, flanked by a big Nord in armor. Wearing boiled leather marked with a red hand, probably sneering down his nose at the locals. There were any number of people who could have spotted him in Whiterun, Morthal, or the Shores; the Empire could easily have his hair color, general look, and possible companions. It would be simple, really: order your agents to report any unusual activity from Dunmer, then compile the data to build a profile. Send out the profile, refine the search. Repeat and repeat until an individual is identified, and then…I don't think the next part is terribly good for me. They probably wouldn't kill him, but he wasn't in the mood to meet General Tullius again.

The problem, from the Empire's point of view, would be that red hair was hardly unheard of among Dunmer, and his bone structure was typical of inland Houses and Ashlander tribes. It wouldn't do for the Legion to harass every Dunmer they encountered, and Velandryn knew what he would have done in their boots. If they wanted to do it right, put a Dunmer on the gate, give him a description, and let someone who knows the look do the looking. It was clever, he had to admit.

Jordis had followed his eyes, and noticed the two Dunmer talking. "You think they're looking for you?"

"Unless something else happened to make the Empire post a mer at a city gate in Skyrim. Way I understand it, that's asking for trouble."

Jordis looked a little bit offended at that. "We aren't Windhelm, you know. We don't beat elves in the street for fun." She chewed her lip for a moment. "Does seem odd, though."

"I think I might need to pass on your offer, Jordis." Truth be told, he wouldn't have minded a night within the walls, but he had no wish to fall back into the hands of the Legion. This time, I might not have a dragon swoop in to rescue me.

He had forgotten, however, exactly who he was dealing with. "Nonsense! We'll just have to give them something better to think about!" She grabbed Sophie by the arm. "Think you can distract those guards?"

The bard looked at the gate and the legionaries standing watch. "Sure!" She grabbed Irek and Ilana by the arms and dragged them off, whispering rapidly.

Velandryn sighed. "This is all a game to you, isn't it?" He liked these Nords more than he would have thought upon meeting them, but that didn't mean he wanted to put his life in their hands.

Jordis only grinned at him again. "Is it wrong to enjoy life? I want things, sure, and I'm not going to pretend the world doesn't have problems, but at the end of the day we can only be as happy as we let ourselves." She punched him lightly on the shoulder. "You've got real problems, sure, but no need to let your attitude be another one."

"An…interesting…perspective, to be sure." He would have said more, but a slap and a scream rang out from the direction of the gate. He spun to see what had happened and pushed his way through the crowd that had formed up, fearing the worst. Whatever plan Sophie dreamed up, it's gone wrong!

Instead of tragedy, he was confronted with melodrama. Sophie was wailing and pounding on Irek's chest while Ilana wept loudly into her hands. Irek tried vainly to hold Sophie at arm's length, but she slipped through and delivered a forceful push that sent him to the ground.

"How could you? And with her!" She grabbed Ilana, but the other woman tackled the bard bodily, sending them both into the Dunmer Legionary.

With a snort, Jordis gave Velandryn's arm a poke. "Let's go, before that poor elf picks himself up." He followed her, weaving through the gathered onlookers to the spectacle and avoiding the sight of the guards until they were beneath the wall. The rest of the wolves had stayed behind or wandered off, and the two of them were now alone.

Jordis grinned at him. "Based on a true story, you know. Sophie wrote a beautiful song about it, and now none of us are allowed into a certain alehouse owned by the boy's family." Chuckling, she took the lead. "Onward to Solitude!"

The rest of the Young Wolves of Solitude had already dispersed or stayed behind to watch the show, and the two of them passed beneath the walls alone. "Have I not already been to Solitude? I spent some time down—"

"Pah, the Shores and the Climb aren't Solitude! They're…outskirts." She waved a hand airily. "The real city's behind the walls. Why else would we have them, if not to keep the best parts safe?" That last sentence seemed to bring her down from her earlier jubilation, and her pace slowed.

Velandryn looked up, noting the additional fortifications that would allow defenders to drop spells or burning oil should anyone in the passage. There was no sign of any guard there, however, nor were any watchmen waiting at the inner gate. "Not terribly safe, it seems. Were those two the only guards on the gate to Solitude? That seems as though…"

"As though most of our guard, and the legion that should protect us, is off to fight in a war?" The levity had fled from Jordis' voice. "Aye. We're the ones left behind, with families important or rich enough to buy us out of our duty." The tunnel opened before them, and the light was such that Jordis' face was in sharp relief. She was as somber as Velandryn had ever seen her. "So we go off and play soldier while they fight for the future of Skyrim." She'd stopped walking then, eyes downcast and mouth downturned, not stepping out into the light beyond.

I could break her, here and now. The thought came suddenly, a moment of dark realization that he recognized as wholly his own. He couldn't blame this one on Dov.

Those like Jordis, the ones who wore their hearts on their sleeve, were easy to manipulate, and in moments of downturn they left themselves vulnerable. It was a weakness of forthright warriors, and lessons of Mephala and Boethiah illustrated to brutal effect how this vulnerability could be exploited.

He knew every word he could speak to start her down a path of despair, but there was no purpose. They weren't enemies, he and her, and she had only aid to offer him at this point. Besides, it would be pointlessly cruel. She hadn't wronged him, and it would be dishonorable to take advantage of her weakness. Another Nord I rather like. Will wonders never cease?

Wordlessly, he reached out and tapped her pauldron, jolting her head up and arresting whatever path of dark introspection she'd been wandering down. That's the last thing I need right now. She looked at him quizzically, and he smiled in as friendly and upbeat a manner as he could. It felt horrifically unnatural, but it might help. "You just took out an entire cave of necromancers! A cult attempted to resurrect the dread Potema, and you sent them to the grave! Weren't you the one who told me they'd sing about you, the Sword-Maiden of Whiterun?" He gestured to the light in front of them and the indistinct shapes beyond. "Come, show me your city!" He nudged her again. "Besides, you mentioned knowing the best inn in town, and I feel as though I deserve that tonight."

It worked, as he'd suspected it would. He knew the symptoms of somebody who loved their home, and those so afflicted would never pass up the chance to show it off. Jordis' look brightened, and it was with a smile that the blonde human led him out into onto the city atop the arch, and Velandryn beheld the ancient Nord city of Solitude.

They stood at the base of the wall, at the end of a broad boulevard filled with people going about their business. All around were buildings of stone and painted wood. They' were not particularly tall but had an air of attention and deliberate care about them, as though those who lived and worked in these buildings valued them greatly.

Off to one side was a raised platform of stone set out from the wall. A familiar block and basket sat there in such a place as to be clearly visible from below, and Velandryn was suddenly back in Helgen, being dragged to his execution. He took a step back involuntarily, before realizing that this was not Helgen, and no axe would come down on his neck today. He took a deep breath. The Empire will not find me!

Jordis noticed his gaze, but took entirely the wrong thing away from his silence. "Bad business, that."

"What?"

She pointed, and Velandryn noticed a tar-covered head impaled on a pike overlooking the execution ground. "The guard who let Ulfric Stormcloak escape. Man was doing what he thought right, but it he'd just kept the gate shut, this whole war would never have happened."

There, Velandryn privately disagreed. Even in Morrowind the Nords' outrage at the Concordat was well-known. They hated the idea of capitulating to the Dominion, and he had the feeling that even if it were Ulfric Stormcloak whose head adorned that pike, it would only have been a matter of time until something else set them off.

Grunting, he tugged at the hood of his cloak. "Ordinarily this is exactly the sort of thing that would fascinate me, but I have been on the road for far too long, so—"

"Right! The inn! Let's go!"

Jordis was pointing at the buildings as they made their way down the street, telling her story with each one. "Down that alley's an inn that serves the best mammoth you've ever had." She pointed at a shop that looked to sell rugs and tapestries; it was draped in its wares and was colorful even by the riotous standards of the Markets. "When I was eight I got in my first fight just over there; Hern had made Sophie cry, so I grabbed him by the hair and put his face into the side of the shop. Good thing a rug was hanging on the wall, or I might have smashed his head open and gotten in some real trouble!" She pointed out a building with sparkling crystal-studded walls and glass ornaments hanging from the roof. T"hat's Radiant Raiment, where a pair of High Elf sisters have been making the best clothes in Solitude since before my mother was born. Over there's…"

Velandryn still listened with half an ear, but now that Jordis was happily chatting away, he was content to leave her be and simply enjoy her excitement. His own eyes, ears, and nose were enough to take in the city as it was. His impression was one of color. All around them fluttered banners and streamers in red and green and gold. Every windows had curtains, and many doors bore painted sigils or images of what was offered or sold within. It was somewhat overwhelming, but when added to the bustle of the crowd it became something extraordinary.

As they approached the plaza, the crowd grew thicker, and when Velandryn found himself unable to see over or around the humans that surrounded him, he was suddenly and uncomfortably reminded of his small stature in comparison to the average Nord. It was easy to forget when he was out in the wilds, but in the cities he was always on the small side. As a child pushed past him, he glanced at Jordis, who looked completely at ease. It's been a while since I've seen a crowd of my own people. It was a sobering reminder that, for all that he might get along with some Nords as individuals, he was hardly less an outsider in Skyrim than he had been on the day of his arrival.

But, there was nowhere to go save forward, so he looked out once again to see what sort of place the heart of Solitude was. According to the river-boatman Jorik, the Blue was where the Jarl held court, and Castle Dour was the headquarters of the Legion. Velandryn didn't see any harm in going to the Blue, but he had the feeling that getting anywhere near the Castle would be an unwise action verging on stupidity. He might not deny the Empire its right to exist, but even the possibility of running into anybody associated with Helgen turned his gut to anxious knots.

Turning to Jordis, he caught her making eyes at a Nord with a braided golden beard, and decided he would rather embrace the moment than wallow in bad memories. "Friend of yours?"

"Not yet, but who knows?" She grinned and pointed. "Inn's that way. You came to Solitude at a good time, you know."

"Oh?" Velandryn couldn't help but notice how…ostentatious…all of this color seemed, so it would make sense if it was only a sometime occurrence. "What's happening?"

"The Hearthfire Banquet. Winter is upon us, and this is the Nord way, to welcome it with feasting and song." She grinned at him. "I'd hoped to get back before the festival, and it looks like we just barely made it."

Velandryn could think of worse fates than seeing a Skyrim harvest festival. However, he really didn't want to spend too much time in Solitude. Lydia should be on her way to Ivarstead Village, and it would be crass of him to keep her idle for too long. That she might not be there when he arrived was too ludicrous a thought even to entertain. After all, he'd been stranded in the wilderness for weeks, and his housecarl had only to travel through Morrowind. There was no way she wouldn't be waiting for him, likely with an impatient word or two for his trouble. It will be good to see her again, though. He'd only had her as a housecarl for a short time, but he found himself missing her looming presence at his side.

He glanced over to Jordis. She seemed capable enough, but this woman was certainly no Lydia. Despite that, he was glad to have found her, and these Young Wolves seemed fairly acceptable, as far as humans went. No sense hating all Nords. Now I can save that hatred for the ones who deserve it.

His chuckle drew Jordis' attention, and she peered down at him curiously. "What's funny?"

He thought for a moment. "I promise you wouldn't appreciate it in the slightest."

"Elf humor? Fair enough." She took off walking again and Velandryn followed, wondering exactly what divided elven humor from other kinds.

Speaking of mer…He hadn't seen many of his people in the Shores or the Climb, but nonhumans had been positively numerous down there compared to their scarcity up here. When he mentioned it to Jordis however, she just nodded. "Not too many foreigners in the city proper. Everything they need is down below, and most are just passing though." She shrugged. "Probably for the best; no reason for them to come up here, after all."

Velandryn could almost count on both hands the number of nonhumans he'd seen since entering the city; even Solitude's cosmopolitan nature, it seemed, did little to encourage integration. For all that Bretons, Imperial Cyrods, and even Redguards were in abundance, he still felt very much an outsider. A mer who feels alienated in Skyrim, what other news is there?

Jordis had stopped to look out over the crowd, and Velandryn followed her gaze. They were in front of a wide stone building some three stories high and with a front so broad that Velandryn couldn't make out either side without craning his neck. The sign hanging from its peaked roof proclaimed it to be the Karthview Inn, and he realized they'd reached their destination. With a wide smile, Jordis gestured expansively and indicated he should go in. He did so, approaching the bright green door with some curiosity. He'd been in many inns so far in Skyrim, but none of them even approached the scale of this monstrosity.

Inside, he found himself greeted by a rush of warm air and the burble of conversation. Before him stretched a room that, while large, was clearly only a small part of this building's footprint, judging by the doors and hallways leading off in all directions. Gazing about the room and taking in the several dozen people who were seated at circular tables or talking quietly while reclining on raised cushions, Velandryn realized what that innkeep's son had meant when he called his parents' place the finest inn in Solitude.

Redguards in flowing silk robes and Bretons in ruffled shirts sat together over boards laid out with games Velandryn had never before seen. A Cyrod of immense age was deep in conversation with an Altmer who stood at least seven feet, tall even by the standards of that race. Nords were everywhere, of course, though most of the ones Velandryn could see were dressed in a fashion he would have expected from Imperials or Bretons. Clearly, Solitude favored a more cosmopolitan Nord.

"And how may we assist you today, Serjo?" He turned, startled to hear his people's honorific spoken in a Skyrim accent. The woman who addressed him was clearly part of the staff of the establishment, a human whose stature suggested she was not fully Nord, with a lined face and silver hair. She looked at him quizzically, and he realized he was supposed to respond.

Before he could, however, the door swung open behind him and Jordis made her appearance. "Alfa, it's been too long!" She swept the Breton up into a hug, and the old woman laughed even as her feet left the ground.

"Jordis! Goodness, girl, you grow every time I see you!" She adopted an air of mock strictness. "I trust you brought my boy home safe? The ghosts of Wolfskull didn't cause too much mischief?"

Jordis laughed loudly. "Aye, Brenden's safe home as I promised, and right now probably getting a drink and stealing a kiss from a likely lad." Her tone sobered, and she lowered her voice. "Wolfskull, though, it was bad. Nobody died, thanks be to Kyne, but Vel here" her nudge was unexpected enough that he staggered a bit, "is the reason we got through it at all."

Alfa was looking at him with an expression Velandryn couldn't identify. When next I see Lydia, I'm going to have her make as many emotional faces as I can think of, so I can get a feel for them. Some of these are impossible to decipher.

When the woman spoke, however, her voice had no strong emotion that Velandryn could detect. "Well, then, sir elf, you have my thanks."

Jordis did have a nice smile, which was fortunate considering how often it spread across her face. "Your thanks are appreciated, I'm sure, but Master Savani here need of a place to spend the night, and seeing as there's no place finer…" She trailed off and did some contortion with her eyebrows that must have held some significance. It's either that or she's gone and gotten possessed.

Alfa laughed. "Oh very well." She looked Velandryn up and down. "I'll throw in a bath as well; you look like one of those would do you a world of good."

She wasn't wrong. Jordis, however, wasn't done. "I'll pay for whatever he wants, Alfa. He saved all of lives down there, and healed Hern and Ilana up from the brink of death."

She makes me sound a hero! He raised a hand slightly. "I am perfectly capable of paying—"

"No! I'm covering it, and that's final!" She smiled. "Don't want it to get around that I owe you, do I?"

"I suppose it couldn't be good for your reputation to be indebted to an elf."

Jordis beamed. "Then it's settled. Alfa, your best room and anything else he wants!"

The old woman gave them both a look that Velandryn was fairly certain was exasperation. "My best rooms are currently occupied by a Redguard prince from Sentinel, here to court jarl Elisif. My second-best rooms have had a resident for the last two months, and they're paid up for three more. You'll get what you get, child."

Jordis huffed. "Alfa! We've been out in the wilderness, and—"

"You will get my third-best rooms, and that will be the end of that. Is this a problem, Mistress Proudspire?"

Jordis flushed red. "Mistress Proudspire's my mother. I'm—"

"Are you still the Sword-Maiden? Name like that, you'd best hope it's the good kind of song you wind up in. Else, you might hear them singing about how a sword got stuck—well, no need for that, I suppose." Jordis had turned an interesting shade of red, and was now studying the floor. "Really, sword-maiden. Of all the silly...It's good to see you, but you are a handful, girl."

Jordis had regained some of her composure, though her skin was still flushed from embarrassment. "The third-best room will be fine."

Alfa gave Velandryn a smile that for some word seemed…motherly. "It's a very nice room, have no fear."

Velandryn bowed. "I am certain it is, and the bath you mentioned sounds magnificent. If you could also send up a razor and shaving kit, it's been far too long for that as well."

Alfa smiled, and then reached out and patted his cheek before Velandryn could move. "Such manners, and from a Dunmer! Will wonders never cease?" Humming, she wandered away, leaving a shocked Velandryn to try to figure out how insulted he was supposed to be.

"Is it rude in Skyrim to disembowel your host for doing that?

"I think so, except maybe in Windhelm. They're odd up there." Jordis was looking slightly stunned, but found her tongue soon enough. "I've got some business to take care of, but if you need some help with hiding the body—"

Velandryn decided that he could definitely see himself liking Jordis the Sword-Maiden. "Oh, I can manage. I'm very good with fire." He looked out across the room, but everything felt very far away. Then, he made up his mind. "Jordis, I'm about to go relax after trudging across most of Haafingar and fighting a coven of necromancers. You could come back tomorrow and face even odds I'll still be in the tub." He held out a hand, and she clasped it. "Fare thee well, Sword-Maiden."

She grinned. "See you later, Vel." And with that, she was gone, the door swinging shut in her wake.

Vel. He did not like that name, but he wasn't fool enough to let Jordis know that. She was the sort who would never let it go if she knew something nettled him.

From behind, he heard a quiet voice. "Master Savani?" Turning back, Velandryn found a woman he didn't recognize standing with her hands clasped at her waist. "Your room is ready. If you would follow me?" She wouldn't meet his eyes, and sounded as though the prospect terrified her. Humans. Right now, he just wanted to get in the bath. She could be afraid of him on her own time.

He bowed slightly. "Lead the way."

---

Velandryn Savani was in bliss. They had filled the tub in good time, while he shaved with the provided razor and a thick paste the serving girl claimed was rendered from horker fat. By the time he was done, the wood and copper basin was full enough, and he thanked the servants for their service and dismissed them so quickly that he momentarily wondered if it had been rude.

It took him all of one heartbeat to decide that he didn't care. The bath was waiting, and as he eased his body into the lukewarm water, he could feel his body relax. It wasn't hot enough for him, of course; he hadn't actually expected Nords to heat water to something that a Dunmer would find pleasurable, but if he couldn't use magic to warm his bath, then what was the point of being mer?

In moments, the bath was boiling around him, and he let himself slip deeper into the water. Blessed Ancestors, thank you for this bath. He wasn't sure if that counted as irreverence, and right now he didn't care. He relaxed his neck, let his head fall back, and let his mind fill with warm thoughts.

As he lay there, enjoying beyond description the pleasure of hot water lapping against his skin, he felt the flow of magicka from his body into the water and realized something. It was coming easily, too easily. He'd never been this adept at moving large amounts of magicka through his body before. The most he could manage had been a burst of flame, and that required draining his reserves dry. What happened?

Worried, Velandryn prodded his chest experimentally. He was heating the water almost by reflex, and could barely even feel the strain. How did I get this power?

Then, he understood. For over a week, he'd been pushing himself beyond all reasonable limits. From waking until sleep, he'd been cycling magicka through his body and putting his reserves into constant use. Was it any wonder, then, that his body had responded accordingly? There were stories of such things, abilities that came from times of great stress or extraordinary feats. There had long been whispers about divine favor, but in reality it was no more than a testament to the body's ability to improve itself rapidly when the need arose. And I think I like it.

A tentative knock came at the outer door. "Is there anything you need, Master Savani?" The timid voice belonged to the serving girl from before.

"I'm well, thank you." And he was. By the Three, he was. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been this warm, and the prospect of a full meal rather than whatever he could scrounge while hiking across the tundra lifted his spirits immensely.

All in all, things seemed to be looking up. While Alfa wasn't somebody he'd want to spend too much time around, she kept a good inn, and these rooms were more than fair. Especially considering they're on Jordis' drake. He wondered if the inn could get him some sujamma. It had been too long since he'd had a real drink.

The bathing-room both opened off of the main chamber, a richly-furnished room that could have seated all of the Young Wolves at once, and a bed that could have slept three. He had expected something a bit simpler when Jordis complained after hearing that he would be getting the third-best room, but if Alfa was willing to put him here, he wouldn't complain. I've earned a bit of luxury. He could go back and forth on the relative merits of luxury and asceticism all day long, but right now he wanted to relax, and these rooms were perfect for just that.

Upon entering the bathing-room, Velandryn had been shocked to see a functioning drainage system, but in retrospect it was the obvious choice. The streets of Solitude were dotted with gratings that clearly indicated an Imperial-style sewer, and it would be the height of foolishness for this inn not to tap into that resource. Say what you want about the Empire, they know how to design infrastructure.

Even his own people, when building and rebuilding their cities over the Eras, had incorporated a number of Imperial designs. Sewers especially had improved immensely since the days of Reman Cyrodiil. Not that I'd ever tell that to a human. There was no need to inflate their heads, and besides, almost all of the same effects could be achieved with some well-made spell arrays. Still, it was an interesting design under Velandryn's tub, and he was glad to have seen it.

There was a sound on the other side of the door, and Velandryn craned his neck to see. Perhaps one of the staff, come to see if he wanted food? As long as they weren't going to serve him roasted fox—

"So, how is it?" Jordis entered as though the rooms were hers, and he supposed an argument could be made that it was. "Brenden didn't lie about it being the best in Solitude, did he?"

Given the way Jordis had behaved previously, he really shouldn't have been surprised at her entrance, but he still spilled quite a bit of water as he submerged himself in the tub. He didn't particularly want to be seen nude, and she noticed.

"What's wrong, Vel?"

"Do you make a habit out of walking in on people as they bathe?" She wasn't making a fuss out of it at least; perhaps she truly acted out of ignorance rather than discourtesy. He had heard that Nords had no shame about nudity, but seeing it in action was a bit disconcerting.

"Sometimes. Like when I paid for their room. Why? Does it…excite you?" Her last words were spoken with playful intonation, and she wriggled her eyebrows again.

Suddenly he realized what she was implying, and had to laugh aloud. "You think this is sexual?" He chuckled. "I'm exhausted, Jordis. After what I've gone through, I'm frankly astonished I'm still awake. Not to mention, you and I are better as allies."

The Nord laughed. "Glad you see it that same!" That, at least, was not in question. They worked fairly well together, but just as clearly neither was what the other looked for in a lover. Velandryn liked that. It relaxed things.

He stretched, enjoying the feel of his muscles in the warmth. "By Azura! This bath is wonderful!" Sighing, he slid deeper into the water.

Jordis shook her head. "Are you cooking a mudcrab in there? I can feel the heat over here."

"What you Nords are in the cold cold, that's me to heat. You can go out at night without a cloak and three layers, I can sit in boiling water and think the heat is perfect." He closed his eyes. "It is. It's nice to be warm again." He wasn't used to this level of comfort, so maybe that was why he was spilling his thoughts like this.

When he opened his eyes, Jordis was looking at him. "Is this a happy Dunmer, then" She didn't wait for a response. "Oh, what do you think about that girl in the hall outside? By the way she's standing there, I think you're her type, if nothing else. Looks like she can't decide if she wants to run away or barge in."

"The servant?" At Jordis' nod he sighed. Is that why she was acting like I was an unshackled Xivilai? "So nervous she could barely speak? If she wants me she's welcome to come and get me herself." She hadn't been unattractive, though Velandryn wasn't really in the mood for anything much right now. Leaving the tub was something he knew would have to happen someday, but he wasn't ready just yet.

Jordis dragged a stool beside the tub and perched casually on the edge; she had changed out of her armor into the tunic and pants favored by so many Nords, though hers were of an obviously superior cut. Velandryn could only marvel at the fact that she was able to go out with arms bared, and not for the first time he felt a twinge of envy at how the Nords could ignore the cold. "You aren't going to go out and ravish her? I heard Dunmer do that."

"Ravish? Sounds exhausting." Truth be told, the woman hadn't been rather fetching, given the fact that she was a human. If she'd had the fire needed to make her move, he might well have gone along with it. But someone too timid to make her interest known didn't excite him at all, and he didn't have the passion at hand to work himself up for it. "Why'd you really barge in, Jordis? That eager to see what a Dunmer looks like naked?"

Jordis' mouth twitched. "Always important, that." She leaned forward, elbows on knees, and peered into his eyes. "So, what's it like, being the Dragonborn?"

Ah, of course. Ilana had warned him that Jordis knew, but when the leader of the Young Wolves of Solitude hadn't mentioned it at any point of their journey, he'd let that knowledge, and his edge around the blonde Nord, slip away. "Much like not being the Dragonborn, I suppose, except for the parts that aren't."

"That's not an answer."

"I know. I'm trying to figure out a way to answer your question in a way gives you information while also not forcing me to try and be a poet. It's different, is what it is. Once I can explain it to myself, I'll let you know."

She shrugged. "It'll do. So why were you really at Wolfskull Cave?"

He paused. "It was a…detour. Just my good luck to run into you lot. Simple as that. Why? Did you think I was on some mission of my own?" The fact that he had been was irrelevant here; he wanted to know what Jordis thought.

Instead, she shrugged. "A random elf going for a walk around there is strange, but not unheard of. The Dragonborn, though, the Dragonborn just turning up is—"

"More than passing odd?" At her nod, he continued. "I don't disagree, but I had to be somewhere. Just our good fortune that we ran into each other, I think."

She nodded. "Well, if it was happenstance, then I'm glad it happened. You saved a lot of us, maybe all." Rising, Jordis peered down at him, and he resisted the urge to cover himself. If she wasn't going to make an issue of his nudity he would have to do the same, no matter how unnatural it felt. "You know, it wasn't much of a beard, but you still look strange with it gone."

He had been looking in a mirror when he shaved, so he was confident in thinking that anybody who would call the scruff that had marred his cheeks and chin a beard was looking for something that wasn't there. "Well, I have confidence you'll survive the shock."

Jorids snapped her fingers. "Oh! You need to go to the Blue Palace!"

"What? Why?" A horrible thought occurred to him. "Did they figure out—"

"Oh, no, nobody knows you're the Dragonborn. It's just that it's the Hearthfire banquet tonight, and you should go. Good food, all the Young Wolves will be there, and I can introduce you to Elisif! Nobody even has to know you're Dragonborn, just my guest!" She looked excessively proud of herself.

Clever. "So really, this is a chance to sneak the Dragonborn in to meet the jarl?" It would likely work, so long as nobody looked too closely at Jordis' guest and put two and two together.

Jordis just looked puzzled though. "What, no! I just think you should meet her. You two would get along, and the stories about Wolfskull will be so much better if she knows who you are!" She snapped her fingers again and exclaimed, "I bet she'd be able to give you help, too. Y'know, with Dragonborning!"

Velandryn had never encountered accidental subterfuge, but Jordis was making a good stab at it. It was true what she had said, and so long as the Empire didn't catch on, it might not be the worst thing in the world to at least introduce himself to the jarl. Of course, is she truly is the Empire's creature, meeting her might be the same as stretching my neck out for the axe again. Who did he trust more, The Ravenscrone or the Sword-Maiden?

Instead of voicing these thought, he merely nodded. "I might be able to make some time to drop by. What time does it begin?"

Jordis waved dismissively. "Getting there on time only matters for an appointment. Show up after dark, and you're good. It's a party, and people come and go." She leaned in, grinning. "There's a lord up from the Bangorkai, trying for Elisif's hand. I aim to bed him before dawn."

Well, it wasn't out of character for her, at least. "Well, I wish you all the best in your escapades."

She jabbed a finger into his face, eyes narrowed. "You'd better be there. I already sent Elisif a note telling her I was bringing a surprise."

"As if you seducing one of her suitors wasn't enough. Also, thank you for giving me so much say in the matter." She was a bit much for him, but he was fairly certain Jordis meant well.

"First, she doesn't like any of them, so what's the harm? It's not like I'm ruining something for her. Second, you get to go to the best party in Skyrim! I'm doing you a favor, really."

Velandryn sighed. Truth be told, he might actually have fun there. So long as they never find out who I am. "Assuming I actually do decide to go, how will I get in? I doubt they're going to let a Dunmer in travel garb invade their party. I might decide to go ravaging."

Jordis matched his grin for a moment before bursting out in laughter. "Well, if you decide to give in to your instincts, I know a few ladies who'd be more than happy to help you find a dark corner." She snorted, and sobered a bit. "Stop by Proudspire Manor. It's my family's home in the city, so you're more than welcome there. I can get you whatever you need. It won't be perfectly tailored, but it should serve."

Her home in the city, is it? As opposed to the other one? Jordis was obviously well-to-do, but it seemed he'd somewhat underestimated her family's wealth. "With a name like that, I assume it won't be hard to find?"

"Not a bit. Just ask any guard in the Blue, they'll point you there." She rose. "I'll see you tonight then?"

"Don't wager too much money on it, but you'd be safe with a little." He bowed his head, the motion feeling slightly ridiculous given how he was reclining in the tub. "I can safely say this is the most productive conversation I've ever had while bathing."

"Clearly you've never lived through a Solitude winter. Climb in the bath at the end of Frost Fall, and get out halfway through First Seed." He honestly couldn't tell how serious she was about that, but if this was the autumn, the winter must be horrific. "A good skill for the Dragonborn to have, making deals while bathing. Be well!" And with that, Jordis was gone, the door swinging shut in her wake.

Well, that was certainly something. He still wasn't entirely sure what to make of Jordis Proudspire, who called herself the Sword-Maiden and had a fondness for butchering his name, but she might not be the worst person with whom to cultivate a friendship. She clearly had resources to spare, and her willingness to go haring off on ill-informed adventures had enormous potential, both to advance his goals and for his own amusement. She seemed like the sort who would rally a force to help him bring down a dragon, for instance, and that was something he could see himself using.

As he lay there, his thoughts drifted once more. It was nice, being able to do nothing but think. For all of the grandeur he'd experienced while alone in Haafingar he'd been too preoccupied with travel and survival to be able to turn those sights into abstract thought. While among the Young Wolves he'd been inundated with stories and camaraderie, and it was only now that he could let his mind wander freely.

A glance at the door made him wonder about the maid who had shown him to the room. If Jordis could be believed, the servant was caught in some sort of fearful fascination, apparently with an undertone of lust. A titillating thought, but unlikely. Jordis had a romantic's imagination, and he had never laid eyes on this servant before a few hours ago. It made no sense for her to be interested in him.

Or did it? A basic exercise from the Temple came back to him, a method by which the Anointed could step outside of themselves for when a situation called for impartial consideration. View it through the eyes of others. This wouldn't solve any of his real problems, but it could prove diverting and maybe give him some insight into how he was viewed in the city.

He stripped away every true fact about himself, and replaced them with rumor and stereotype. Dunmer were dangerous, Daedra worshippers from a hostile land. They were versed in magic and untrustworthy, and rare in this part of the world besides. She wouldn't have seen many.

She worked here, in an exceptionally upscale establishment. Thinking back, Velandryn tried to picture the main room, searching for any grey skin or red eyes, but came up empty. Dunmer don't come here often.

It made sense. He could count on the thumbs of one hand the number of Dunmer he'd seen since passing the gate, and that one had been a private guard standing watch outside some sort of high-end alchemical perfumery. He doubted that was the sort who came to the Karthview Inn.

So, what does she see? A Dunmer where one shouldn't be, for one. Suddenly he wasn't just a weary traveler, but a mysterious one, and that warranted interest. And a mysterious Dunmer just cries out for sexual intrigue. If Jordis' offhand comments were anything to go by, the stereotypes of his people were well-known in Solitude, meaning that he doubtless had a reputation as a libertine and sexual deviant by the mere virtue of his skin and eyes.

Neither accusation was particularly accurate, of course, but that was irrelevant here. Velandryn was still open to the possibility of any random Nord suddenly turning into a drunken loon, so how much stronger must the rumors be when most of these people had never even spoken to a Dunmer before. A lifetime of tales, and then I walk in the door. He should probably be happy some sidelong glances were the only reaction he'd gotten.

From there, his thought drifted further astray. He wondered where Serana was now, and how she was liking her homecoming. It was an odd sensation, as he genuinely hoped she was content, but also recognized that she and her family had to be stopped. Still, it would have been nice to talk to her again. She had been an adept conversationalist when she could be coaxed out of her shell, and those last few nights on the Sea of Ghosts had shown him something…

Quickly, he turned away from that line of thinking. There was no need to go dwelling on a vampire, especially one who he'd just spent an inordinate amount of time and money getting home, and who he could probably have to kill one of these days.

That last reminded him, he still needed to hunt down Jolf and do absolutely horrific things to the man. He'd never tortured someone to death before, but in the abstract it seemed like it might not be the worst way in the world to make his displeasure know. Abandon me in the middle of nowhere, will you?

Almost at once, the face of Lydia swam into his thoughts, tutting a reprimand at considering actions that would reflect so badly on the Dragonborn. But Lydia, he betrayed me! His housecarl's silent response, that a swift and simple death would suffice, did make sense, though he had a suspicion that the real Lydia wouldn't suggest that as a first alternative. Then again, considering that his safety had most assuredly been threatened, Lydia might just kill the man herself.

It was with a twinge of guilt that he wondered how his one and only underling was liking Morrowind. She should have arrived some time ago, and might even be back in Skyrim by now, but he'd left instructions in his letters not to attempt contact by magical means, since he didn't want the Volkihar getting wind of her mission. The point was moot now, but it did mean he had no idea where she might be

She would come to no harm in Morrowind unless she went looking for it, that much was certain. He'd sent instructions to the Anointed at Great Fane to take good care of her, so hopefully she was still in one piece and not of a mind to throttle him for sending her so far away. Doubtless she was making for Ivarstead with all speed, and it wouldn't do for him to be too delayed in arriving. Lydia might come looking for him, and he could only imagine how many broken doors and stunned guards she would leave in her wake. Past time I was gone.

Leaving Solitude tonight made no sense; there would doubtless be plenty of traffic heading south tomorrow morning, and he could likely reach Morthal and his horses in only a couple days.

That left him tonight, and while sleep was always nice, Jordis had piqued his interest. This party at the Blue Palace was an opportunity, though not one without dangers. Did the potential of finding an ally in Jarl Elisif outweigh the risk of the Empire realizing he was in the city?

On that note, it was entirely possible that he was being paranoid about the Empire and building a hunt for him where none existed. Perhaps the Dunmer had simply been on gate duty, and taken the chance to speak with another of his race. For that matter, perhaps the Empire truly wanted to assist him; General Tullius had to recognize the advantages that having a Dragonborn on his side could provide among the people of Skyrim. Or, he wants me dead so I can't interfere with his plans. If the general decided that he was a threat to the Empire, he had no doubt that the Imperials would waste no time putting his head back on the block.

The problem was, he didn't know enough to come to any real conclusions. He had to gather more information, view the problem from the outside. Walk the streets, get a feel for the city. It wasn't something he made a habit of doing, but the thought appealed to him at this moment. I might even learn something about what's going on in Solitude and Skyrim.

First, though, he could enjoy himself a bit longer. He let his mind wander, picturing that girl if she'd had just a bit more nerve. She would come in the door, shedding articles of clothing one by one as she approached, to stand naked before the tub. He saw her, arms folded playfully over her naked chest, and felt himself stir at the imagining. Delicately, she placed one pale foot into the water, and then the other joined it, so she stood above him, the fine dark hair between her legs glistening invitingly. Smiling, she bared her chest and ran a hand up between her breasts, twisting a stiff nipple and then bringing fingers to her blood-dark lips.

Her tongue darted out to tease him, and her golden eyes were moist with longing. She—

No! He opened his eyes, and Serana vanished. No! That was the absolute last thing he needed now, and thinking about her—

Such thoughts did him no good, he knew. If only it was that simple. Fortunately, he had plenty to occupy his mind; there was an afternoon and a night to waste in Solitude, and he'd be damned if he couldn't find a good way to do so.

There was no shame in lust, of course, but having such thoughts about a vampire made him feel…unclean. She was attractive, that much was beyond question, with her pale skin that made a wonderful contrast to her dark features. It wasn't just that, though. Her eyes as well were—

Damn it all to the Corners! He needed to get moving. This was only a sign that he'd been too long without sex. It meant nothing, only that he had spent time with an attractive woman, and his mind responded as it would.

Groaning, he heaved himself from the tub, eschewing the folded drying-cloths in favor of steaming the water from his skin with magic. The heat was pleasant, and it gave him a chance to appreciate this new control he had over his body's magicka flow. It was a marked improvement over his previous capabilities, and he could only imagine how much easier it would be to cloak himself in flames should the need arise.

Dressing, he chose the plain, dark tunic and pants that had seen him across Haafingar—though, to be fair, chose was something of a misnomer when it was the only clothing he had available— and consciously left all of his armor on the table. He did bring boots and gloves, but only to keep himself warm. Wearing armor in a city sent messages he didn't necessarily want to send, and he doubted a few pieces of travel-worn leather armor would be the difference between life and death tonight.

He buckled on his belt, and slid both of his daggers into their sheaths. Armor was one thing, but he wasn't stupid enough to go walking around a Nord city unarmed. Besides, once he threw his cloak over his shoulders, they were completely hidden. A simple gold ring with an enchantment of magicka completed his ensemble, and as he walked out the door, he felt better than he had in a long time.

Solitude awaits.

---

One of the nice things about being in a proper city, Velandryn mused, was being once more in the presence of accurate timekeeping. The Empire had shamelessly stolen the underpinnings of clockwork from the Dwemer, and now their handiwork adorned cities beyond count. Humans might never be able to replicate the sublime delicacy of Dwemer machining, but a timepiece, in general, needed little in the way of fancy detail. So, Velandryn no longer had to look at the sun to tell the time. A simple glance at the square stone spire inset with a clock in each of the four faces told him it was two hours past midday, and that meant he had plenty of time before making up his mind about this Blue Palace business.

It was interesting, the selective diversity of Solitude. For all that every type of human walked the streets, mer and the beast races were in short supply. Truth be told, the lack of Argonians and Khajiit didn't bother him overmuch, but it was notable nonetheless.

As he travelled through the Markets, he had two constant landmarks by which to gauge his path. To the north, the grey bulk of Castle Dour squatted atop the highest ground within the walls. It was visible from every open space, a constant reminder of the Empire's presence. Exactly what the Empire had in mind when they raised it, I'm sure. He realized that he didn't know for certain that the Empire had built the castle, but it looked as though they had at least had a say in its design. That monumental bulk was a trademark of the imperial forts remaining in Morrowind, though none of them had hosted any Cyrod forces in centuries.

The second was the Great Windmill of Solitude, standing fifty feet above the walls, and towering a full eighty or more above Velandryn's head. It was visible by virtue of its height, but also by the shadows cast every time its massive blades slid in front of the sun. Velandryn couldn't begin to imagine the masterful engineering that must have gone into its design and construction, but he admired the vision—and ego—of the Nord who had decided to create it. The fact that it appeared to stand without magic made it even more impressive. The Dunmer had raised structures beyond count that put this piece to shame, but to do it without magic—that alone was worthy of recognition.

Focus returning to the world around him, Velandryn realized that he wasn't entirely sure where he was. He was on one of the broad streets that crisscrossed the Markets, but he wasn't entirely sure where the Karthview inn lay relative to his current position. It wasn't cause for concern, exactly, but he probably shouldn't be letting his mind wander while he walked anymore.

Orienting himself by using Castle Dour as a rough estimate of north, Velandryn turned in the direction that should have pointed away from the inn. If I'm wandering lost, might as well see something new. Facing east, the Blue District should be some ways ahead of him, and he was curious what the manors and estates of the well-to-do looked like. Cheerful at the thought of seeing the city, he set off down the wide boulevard, weaving between clumps of shoppers and avoiding the gaze of guards as he passed. He received a few second glances, but nobody seemed to care enough to stop him.

At first glance, Solitude had seemed to be thriving despite the war, but Velandryn was starting to reassess. People were out, but most weren't buying much, and every snippet of conversation he overhead was carried out in worried and hushed tones. As well, he noticed that very few of those he passed were adults in their prime. Rather, these were the young, the old, and the infirm. War takes the strong, it would seem. Not all of them, to be sure, but enough had heeded the Empire's call for soldiers that even Velandryn, who still had trouble pinpointing a human's age to within even the correct decade sometimes, could see what was happening. Of those young adults who remained, most seemed to be finely dressed and richly heeled; doubtless these were more of Jordis' peers.

Ahead, the street jogged to the left, and passed beneath a grey stone wall that looked to link the windmill to Castle Dour. Velandryn imagined that this would be where the Markets became the Blue, and indeed, a trio of guards in Solitude's colors and a pair of legionaries were standing watch under the arch. Fortunately, none of them were Dunmer, and they looked to be otherwise occupied. A vagrant of some variety had gotten too close, it seemed, and they were dealing with the problem with all of the tact and subtlety he had come to expect from Nords.

"Begone, beggar!" The guard who had shouted aimed a rock at the scrawny man in the dirty clothes, but missed by several feet. The target scampered away up the street in Velandryn's general direction, and the guards turned back to whatever conversation they'd been having before, unconcerned.

As he approached, Velandryn was forced to reassess, as this was clearly no man. The Bosmer was old, and looked much the worse for wear. His beard looked to have been well-kept once, though time had done it no favors, and the same held true for his hair and clothes. Everything about him shouted of a mer brought low from a position of power, and Velandryn wondered what had happened.

Perhaps his curiosity had been more overt than he'd intended, because the strange mer stopped a few paces away and fixed Velandryn with his dark eyes. "Oh, please, you must help me!"

"Must I?" Charity was one thing, but Velandryn wasn't going to get mixed up in whatever grudge this odd mer and the guards had against each other.

"Yes! You can find my master, and convince him to come home!" The Bosmer had transitioned from desperation to excitement instantly, and now he clapped his hands before him as though he were praying. "They won't let me go to him, but you can!"

Velandryn had to chuckle. "Sorry, but I'm the wrong person to ask. Wherever your master is, I'd wager a Nord would have an easier time getting there."

"Oh, but it must be you. Here, you'll need the hipbone!" Before Velandryn could do more than wonder for the briefest moment what the Bosmer meant, the other mer produced what was unmistakably a human pelvis from some unseen pocket. As it was shoved unceremoniously into Velandryn's hands, the Bosmer drew close and nodded vigorously. "He's in the Blue Palace, in the Pelagius Wing! You'd best hurry, he's been gone so long already."

Half-stunned, Velandryn opened his mouth, but before he could speak, he felt something. The item he'd been given resonated like only one thing he had ever known.

Dragon!

He almost dropped the hipbone, but clutched it and spun on the Bosmer. "What is this? What have you done?" He couldn't say how, but this…thing…in his hand sang out.

Mad terror now covered the other's face, eyes wide and mouth spooning and closing soundlessly. "You have to go! The Blue Palace, Pelagius! You have to!" Then, before Velandryn could react, he was off, running down the street with arms and legs flapping in a graceless sprint.

With another start, Velandryn realized that this odd scene had drawn attention, and now he was standing in the center of a growing circle of curious onlookers. Tucking the hipbone beneath his cloak, he pivoted and headed down one of the side alleys, trying desperately to act as though he knew what he was doing.

After a few random turns, he was fairly confident that any curious onlookers had been left behind. He lifted the bone and examined it more closely. It was unmistakably human—he had studied comparative anatomy long enough to recognize the difference between a human's skeletal structure and that of a mer, and this one lacked the secondary iliac ridges that typified mortals of meric descent—but there was no mistaking what he was feeling. This bone belonged to a dragon. And there was only one way he could think of for a pelvis that looked like this to sing like dragonbone.

He hefted the bone in his hand and looked east, to where he knew the Blue Place could be found. It wouldn't be easy getting in, he imagined, and he ran the very real risk of being revealed as the Dragonborn, but there was no way in Oblivion he could just walk away from this.

After all, it wasn't every day somebody handed you the hipbone of a Dragonborn, and there was only so much that could be explained by coincidence. Meeting Jordis in the wilderness he could accept. This, however, reeked of design.

It was time to get some answers.

---

"Wake up, outlander."

With a start, Lydia pulled herself from a fitful sleep, and this time she remembered not to sit up. The cabin was cramped even for the crew, and she was a good head taller than most of those who served aboard the Amar'balak. For the past three days she'd given herself a fine blow to the head each time she'd sat up in her bunk, but now she rolled sideways and slid her bare feet down onto the rough planks of the floor. She still wasn't steady at sea, but at least this time she didn't fall when the floor rocked. Deck. They call it a deck.

As she stood, the sailor who'd spoken reached out, handing her a skin that sloshed invitingly. The first time this had happened, she'd drank eagerly, but now she only sipped. Sure enough, it was the dry, bitter wine that the Dunmer called shein. She'd heard one complaining that they were all out of greef, and she only imagine the horrors that other drink would hold. Grimacing slightly, she handed it back. It seemed there was no interest in mead in Morrowind; the ship carried not even a single keg.

The sailor took it, and turned to go. "We've all but reached Morrowind. You should come see." This sailor—she could not for the life of her remember his name, though they had been introduced when she first boarded—spoke Imperial Common well enough, but his accent and occasional odd turns of phrase were a constant reminded that she was aboard a foreign ship.

She took the stairs slowly, not bothering to pull on her boots. The floors were designed so that even bare feet could grip well, so long as you didn't mind the occasional splinter. Of course, these sailors put even her feet, well-worn as they were form a lifetime of patrolling, to shame. Some seemed to have soles that were more callus than flesh, and Captain Milara Andaram had shown Lydia her own feet, with which the Dunmer claimed she could walk on broken glass and feel nothing. Not for the first time, Lydia gave thanks that Whiterun was far, far away from the sea.

The Amar'balak had been cutting past icebergs and keeping watch for sea raiders when she'd gone to bed last night—gone to hammock?—but now they were sailing through a muddy grey sea, with no ice to be seen. Off to their right, a row of mountains rose from the water, and the sky above was a dark reddish-grey that put her in mind of a dying fire. She sniffed, and smelled smoke, though from where she could not say.

The sailor was waiting for her, and handed her a length of cloth. He pantomimed wrapping it around her face. "Bad air for outlanders. Don't breathe it." She did as he'd suggested, fumbling slightly with the unfamiliar garment. Face impassive, the sailor watched.

When she thought she had it well enough tied, she left it and looked out over the water. She could see the shore and the sky was clearer behind them, but the haze and grey made it impossible to tell what was ahead. "Is it always like this?"

The Dunmer shook his head, face impassive. "Wind from the east, brings Dag—Red Mountain's fire." Now that he mentioned it, she noticed the wind was in her face. She hadn't though ships could sail against the wind very well, but she knew little of such matters, and wasn't about to question sailors on their craft.

Lydia nodded, her distaste for this entire scheme of Velandryn's not in the least abated by the knowledge that a changing wind could make the very air dangerous. "Why did you bring me up here then?"

"Captain said wake the Nord. We're here." He pointed east. "Baan Malur." He paused. "Blacklight, in your words." Another pause. "Home."

At first, she saw nothing. The sailor left her standing there, going off to perform one of the hundreds of tasks that kept the ship running to Captain Andaram's pleasure, or the closest approximation the Dunmer permitted. She turned, looking for someone to question, and saw a Nord with a similar cloth around his face hauling a rope across the deck. That was Kollar, one of the few on the crew not a native of Morrowind.

When she asked, however, he simply shook his head. "I signed on in Jehanna. Never seen Blacklight." She'd known that, she suddenly remembered. Whether it was the unnatural light or the faint smell of smoke or something else altogether, she was on edge, and not thinking too clearly.

Muttering vague curses against all Dunmer, and her thane in particular, she stomped forward and positioned herself at the bow. If she was going to be shown something, she might as well get it over with.

Behind her, someone raised a cry, and ropes and sails creaked as they moved. The ship swung rightward, and suddenly, the shapes of moutnains were before them, resolving themselves out of the fog with worrying speed. Blessed Shor, we'll crash! She wondered what madness had seized the captain, or whoever was driving this thing. No, they're all too calm. This must be the right thing, even if she couldn't for the life of her understand why.

She gripped the front railing so hard that she heard the wood crack, and watched the shore approach. The moment she could see details, it all became clear. She saw Blacklight, and what awaited her.

And it took her breath away.

---

A/N Long wait, long chapter.

It's been a while. Of course, you could just about split this chapter in two and get halves that would stand on their own, so consider this an affirmation that I will split the story where it feels thematically appropriate, rather than where length dictates. However, if chapters of this length are actually bugging people or making it difficult to read, let me know rather than suffering in silence.

Firelorkzuko: Yeah, none of the big three are really thrilled to be where they are at the moment, but there's no point to a story if everything goes right. As for Velandryn, he did alright, all things considered. Not perfectly, but alive generally beats the alternative.

Mangahero18: A taste in this chapter, and given where things left off, it's safe to say it won't be too much longer until people start meeting.

Dark Purple Insanity: Random elf is a bit harsh, I think, but yes, there are…numerous…challenges to be overcome.

Tylerbamafan: Sorry for the delay. I resolved to do no other writing but this until I got this sucker out.

Yeah, Velandryn has a habit of thinking Skyrim is less deadly than it is. I feel as though he got a bit of a wake-up slap here though. At the very least, he'll pack more potions next time.

Derpington12 Glad to hear it! Keep reading!

Mr. Handy: What could draw a Dunmer to the Blue Palace? What madness could possess him?

Naruto Loves FemKyuubi: Always enjoy discussing the lore with you. I honestly could have gone either way on this, but made a judgement call because the symbolism was too perfect to ignore. Velandryn lives and breathes fire (possibly literally, considering the whole Dragonborn thing), so making Serana weak against it gives them a juxtaposition that I couldn't resist.

Perpetual Dreaming: Well then, I apologize for pulling them apart so suddenly. We'll be getting back to Serana, she is in store for some serious soul-searching. I can't stand romances where one person is either helpless without the other or so emotionally stunted that we get the "can't live without you" spiel. Fortunately, for Serana, that point's moot!

Pietersielie: Yeah, Velandryn likes to wax poetic about how superior Dunmer are, but Serana is his equal intellectually, even if she's playing a bit of catch-up due to circumstance. And Velandryn likely knows it, though he'd never admit it to anyone. I'm afraid some of these questions will remain unanswered a bit longer, as such things are wont to do in life.

Zenwriter: I don't know if they've got it yet, but they're both getting something. Velandryn was a little preoccupied this chapter, but she's well and truly in his head. And Serana…she's hardly free of him either.

Moorhhn1989: yup. Nothing like a true believer. And when his beliefs get challenged, well, that's when the fun begins.

Reality deviant: He's heard of shapeshifting as a vampiric ability, but this notion of a "true form" is unique to the Volkihar and new to him. As far as Daughters of Coldharbour, that's exceptionally well-hidden vampire lore, and while a reference might exist in the Temple archives, Velandryn hasn't come across them at all.

Ettore: Swearing is fun! Morrowind is coming, and I plan on taking the College and running with it. A huge amount of potential there; no way I'm letting it slide.

Resisting Harkon is one thing, since Velandryn has been taught his entire life that Molag Bal is the enemy. Hermaeus Mora, though, is an entirely different matter. There is no Daedra as dangerous for Velandryn specifically.

Theseus12: Good to see you here as well!

Night's Beloved: Thanks! I put my all into this, and I'm glad it's working for you.

Dragon Man: The party will be reunited, though each of them needs a bit of time on their own. I like my team dynamics, but solo excursions force them all to face some stuff about themselves. And Lydia and Serana need some time to start trusting each other, but given that, well, they work well together when they need to.

DeejayMil: I can respect that. Sorry it's not your taste.

Pegueng: Being an Elder Scrolls nerd since Morrowind pays off, it seems. Glad you're enjoying it!