Loredas 13th of Heartfire 4E201 Night

Delphine

It was not, in fact, a quiet trip to Kynesgrove, for the most part. I was expecting trouble at Valtheim Towers, but not a whole cohort of bandits descending upon us when they recognized Talao having scammed them a few weeks prior. Still, I agreed with Talao that it was just bad luck they noticed him, and the bounty will be well worth it when we get back to Whiterun. And it was a good warmup for me; too long since I've been in a good fight. Not that your average bandits are on the same level as a Thalmor hit squad, but given a possible fight with a dragon (or, Akatosh forbid, more than one dragon), it doesn't hurt to stretch out the old stabbing muscles.

Talao was a bit of a chatterbox, but quieted down when he realized I wasn't about to let slip any sensitive information that I hadn't already volunteered. No, the real annoyance was the storm that hit us the second day when we crossed into Eastmarch. No lightning, but constant rainfall that left us both soaked to the bone. To my pleasant surprise, Talao - but for a few slips downhill - didn't complain about our travel conditions and trekked forward with me at pace. We were still forced to make camp a few hours early or risk losing all light under cloud cover, but we lucked out and found a nice copse of trees that blocks most of the neverending rain.

The fox I snared tastes fine enough thanks to some herbs Talao sprinkled on it. Our travelling gear drying by the crackling fire while he strums some melody and writes in a journal. I want to trust him, if only because the world is doomed if he is a Thalmor agent. I'd hope any Breton would be smart enough to know the Aldmeri Dominion would gladly exterminate the "Man-mer" race if given half a chance. But then I also thought the Khajiit wouldn't believe them about ending the Void Nights a centure ago, either. On the other hand, High Rock did invent politics, so I'd wager a halfway intelligent Breton like Talao could connect those genocidal dots.

When was the last time I crossed sword and spell with the Thalmor, anyway? Five years? Ten? Skyrim was certainly a safe bet for avoiding them, content as they were with enforcing their dogma in Cyrodiil. I haven't seen any Justiciars pass through Riverwood, but with Ulfric stirring up trouble, that isn't likely to remain true for much longer. Soon, my waiting will be over, and the fight will start anew. Which means I have to prepare. The Blades were too insular last time, too closed off, too isolationist Almost two centuries just… waiting. And for what? A mystical saviour with the blood of a dragon? We're meant to serve and protect the Dragonborn, but to what purpose? To sit around and play music? He doesn't seem the dragon-hunting type. And I somehow doubt the Mede dynasty will stand idly by and allow a new Emperor to be crowned, nor the Penitus Oculatus stand aside for the Blades to take the job they currently have, for some fluke of birth. Maybe there's a hint to our purpose in the old texts about the ancient Dragonguard. If only they hadn't all been destroyed at Cloud Ruler Temple… If only I'd been just a few days quicker, I wouldn't have returned to a site of ruin.

The worst thing I still remember was how quiet it was. No sounds of screaming, or falling rubble. Even the few remaining fires seemed stifled. The Thalmor wouldn't have been so uncivilized to leave them to burn. No. They'd been methodical. I could tell as I sifted through the rubble that there was no one left to save, no miracle survivors, no overlooked corner to hide. They'd slit each and every Blades throat, some in their sleep, some even after they were dead, just to be sure. They'd taken everything of value, destroyed what wasn't - or self-proclaimed heresy - down to the foundations, the set it ablaze for good measure. I fell to the ground, hands bloody, too tired even to cry, while the smouldering wreckage of the library set my face aflame

"-elphine? Delphine!"

I snap out of my reverie, hand immediately to the hilt of my blade. My night-vision is shot from staring into the fire, but I can still see Talao watching me. "What is it? More bandits?"

"Uh… no. You just looked like you were a million leagues away; you were so tense, I swear your bones were creaking. Are you alright?"

I blink, trying to restore my sight. Talao looks… concerned? Stendarr's Mercy, the last thing I need is pity. "I'm fine."

Rather than put my weapon away, I grab my bow and quiver as well, when the inevitable "If you want to talk, that could-"

"I'm going to check the perimeter again. You should get some rest. With any luck, the storm will break overnight, and we still have a lot of ground to cover, and less time to cover it."

"...Right. Good talk." Whatever. Let him be annoyed. I hear him bedding down behind as I head out into the darkness. Bow string, arrow nocked as I run a perimeter check. Busy enough to keep me from falling down another rabbit hole in my mind, but routine enough to still think.

I was lucky not to reach Cloud Ruler Temple until I did, and I know it. Any earlier or later and my head would have been added to the cart they dumped in the Emperor's hall. Reality is cruel, but that's all there is. The last Blade, finally fulfilling her purpose of finding and protecting the new Dragonborn, until she dies and the Blades vanish forever. Maybe that was our purpose all along; survive just long enough to protect the world from dragons for good. Talao may be charming, but Reman Cyrodiil or Tiber Septim he is not. And one Blade doesn't make an Order either. But anyone with half a brain can tell that the return of dragons can and will be devastating for man, mer, and beast alike. Unopposed, the world would fall into ruin as they flew roughshod over the people of the world, especially with us all at each others' throats as a new war with the Thalmor looms over the horizon.

Movement in the underbrush interrupts my thoughts, and I swiftly turn, pulling the nocked arrow back, pointing at… A lumbering figure, low growl, and a dismissive snort in my direction. Just a bear. I keep it in my sights til it turns and walks away. Odd. It's past mating season, but too early for denning. Although, it has been unseasonably cold. Either way, not dangerous so long as I keep my distance.

I finish my perimeter soon enough, nothing more interesting to note, and head back to camp. Talao's light breathing tells me he's asleep already. Doesn't snore either. Quick to sleep, quiet, quick to wake; he may not be a soldier, but he sure sleeps like one. You can tell he's spent his fair share of time on the road, but always with someone at his back. I take a seat by the fire for a while to dry the bit of dampness I gained scouting. Maybe I'm being too pessimistic for a change. We may both end up dead, but at least it gets me out of Riverwood. I don't really think I'm cut out for the quiet life. I may be the last Blade, but if I escaped, it's possible others were lucky like me. It's not like we could advertise looking for one another after all. If one of our Loremasters survived, that would be enormous. We could rebuild, better than before, and take the fight to those pointy-eared bastards. With the Dragonborn at the helm? Probably unlikely, but I'm sure his silver tongue would garner us allies aplenty.

I look over at him again, the fabled Dragonborn. I know I'm being too harsh, too sour with him. He sure as hell didn't sign up for this, and I can tell his charisma was honed to a fine edge on the sharpest whetstone of mead halls and Jarl longhouses. But I also know damn well that a sharp tongue can only get you so far. At some point, you need a sharp blade to defend yourself with as well, or the world will cut you down. The Greybeards never understood that, and I'll make sure he understands before he goes back to them that pacifism is fine so long as you live atop a mountain that no one visits. But the rest of us, him included, will have to pick up arms before this is all over. Or else…