Chapter 5
Whiterun
"Whiterun is critically important to the war. Because of her centralised location, control of the province's roads belongs to her ruler. Though Whiterun is currently independent she is far from vulnerable. The people within are hardy, surrounded by thick walls and fierce soldiers. Capturing the city will be hard, and holding it without the support of her people would prove impossible. I recommend waiting for now. Let Whiterun decide for whom she will draw swords and we may win her without force."- Excerpt from Legate Quentin Cipius' Report to General Tullius, Supreme Commander of the Imperial Legion Forces in Skyrim. 4E 201
"You come to the city seeking aid from Jarl Balgruuf, yes?" Ri'saad asked casually. The Khajiit was still trying to put all the pieces together. He hadn't seen Greymist in years, the Nord soldier who'd saved his life. After the battle they'd shared drinks and then Greymist left for parts unknown. Ri'saad couldn't believe the Gods had brought this particular Nord back onto his path.
This was a fated meeting then.
"In a nutshell." Hammel finished his glass of wine with typical Nord gusto, not savouring the fine example of the vintner's art. The Alto Wine was remarkably aged, smooth, and rich with notes of flavour. Knowing he'd probably never taste something so exceptional again, Ri'saad took his time with the beverage. He was drinking out of his finest glass and sitting comfortably on his most expensive rug. Life truly couldn't be better.
"So, the dragons are coming back, yes?" Ri'saad shook his head, "That is very bad." He took another small sip of the Alto Wine. "Well, bad for this one's life, but not for his purse."
"What does that mean?" Hammel asked, obviously trying to read Ri'saad. Despite the time Greymist had spent among the Khajiit people, Ri'saad could tell he struggled with understanding their facial expressions. "In fact, I'm surprised you're in Skyrim at all. I know your people hate the cold."
"An astute observation." He agreed, nodding his head sagely. "In truth, Ri'saad misses his home greatly. The warm sands of Elsweyr...they are beautiful. This is a cold, harsh land, ravaged by war, and now by dragons. Why would this one come here?" While his question was mostly rhetorical, Greymist answered anyway. He shrugged his shoulders in a manner that humans considered questioning.
"The wisest trader goes where the profit is greatest," Ri'saad explained. "Even though I miss my homeland, there is much profit to be made in Skyrim. The war has frightened off most merchants and now with the dragons..." Taking a long drag of wine to emphasise his point, the Khajiit smirked. "So as long as Ri'saad doesn't end up inside the belly of a dragon, his purse will be very heavy on the return trip."
"I'm glad someone's succeeding at something," Greymist said, looking at his friend. "My time in Skyrim so far hasn't been pleasant."
"You are speaking, of course, of the execution?" Ri'saad nodded solemnly, "This one understands your frustrations. Khajiit are blamed all the time for things they do not do. If your spoon goes missing, Khajiit scum must have taken it! Terrible, terrible lies." Ri'saad shrugged, leaning back against his dresser. "But what difference can this one make? So this one deals with the lies and the glances, selling his goods outside city walls to those with the courtesy to stop by. Because the Khajiit are the only ones with fresh supplies, Nords deal with them simply because no one else can be dealt with. Very much profit in it, yes."
Hammel gazed down into his cup, taking a long sip. He seemed to be working up to something. He was perhaps ashamed, or embarrassed? Ri'saad struggled with human emotions. "I'm sorry we abandoned Free Elswyer to the Dominion. The Empire should have fought harder for you."
The Khajiit didn't speak. "Yes, a tragedy." It wasn't up to him to decide the politics of his home. He wasn't sure if the rumours about the Dominion's actions were true or not, but the Empire was a sinking ship, and Free Elswyer had been nothing but a few noble's Moon Sugar dreams. The Empire had lost Ri'saad's home, and they wouldn't likely be getting it back. "Still, it wasn't your fault Greymist." Ri'saad put a hand on his friend's shoulder, "I know you fought hard."
The moment of awkwardness passed like it had never happened. Hammel smiled and nodded, "Thank you."
Ri'saad watched as Hammel stood and placed his cup back on the little loop on his pack. As he stored the Alto Wine Hammel said, "As fun as it's been reminiscing, I need to see the Jarl."
"It's too late now," Ri'saad said, jabbing a claw toward the setting sun. "Jarl Balgruuf won't be seeing anyone else today. When you enter town, you'll need to rest for the night. The Jarl will see you come morning. However, before you go, Ri'saad has something for you."
Hammel clearly wasn't expecting that. He turned back to the Khajiit, "You're giving me something? For free?"
"You did save this one's life." The words were simple, the gratitude behind them obvious. "Not the other Legionaries, Greymist stood over Ri'saad and protected him. Ri'saad owes him a debt, and he has something to pay it with." Ri'saad walked across his rug towards a wooden chest and popped the lock.
"It's in here somewhere," he growled. Several silver candlesticks, a brass plate, and a Dwemer bowl flew out of the trunk at various speeds as Ri'saad hunted for it. "By the twin moons! It shouldn't have been buried that deep..." The rummaging stopped abruptly because he had found it.
It was a box, roughly the size of a loaf of bread and covered with a green silk cloth. "Thanks Ri'saad," Hammel said nonplussed, "I've needed a box for quite some time."
Shaking his head ruefully, Ri'saad yanked the cloth away and slid the lid off the box. Greymist got a good look at its contents and, much to Ri'saad's delight, Hammel's eyes gleamed with surprise.
Sitting inside the box, on a strip of green cloth, was a dagger. It was clearly a Dwemer creation, the edges straight and burnished metal gleaming. Like most Dwarven weapons, it was covered in various runes. The dagger gleamed in the light of the setting sun, its edges still razor sharp.
"It belonged to a friend, long ago buried in the sands." Ri'saad explained sadly, looking down at the dagger in the box. "He would have wanted you to have it. This one should mention, the dagger comes with a sheath that attaches under the arm of Greymist's choice for ease of carry. Best of all, it holds a powerful enchantment that steals the life of your enemies to heal your own wounds. My friend called her, "The Kiss of Death," or just "The Kiss." May it serve you well."
Hammel placed the Dwemer weapon into its sheath, attaching it to his left underarm. "Thanks Ri'saad. For everything." Ri'saad knew Hammel's words were sincere. He was, after all, an honourable man.
"May your road lead you to warm sands," He said, giving his friend the traditional Khajiit farewell blessing. He steepled his hands and bowed respectfully.
"And may the twin moons guide your every footstep," Hammel responded, matching the gesture. Clapping the caravan leader on the shoulder, Hammel smiled, "Don't go fighting any more bandits now."
The Khajiit gave a broad smile. "Don't worry. This one has no plans for any trouble, not for the rest of his days."
Lianna sat on one of the Bannered Mare's rugged stools, both hands wrapped around a full mug of Honningbrew mead. She hated to admit it but she was brooding. Brooding because she missed Ralof, brooding because she'd rather be fighting the damned Empire alongside her Jarl, brooding because she was stuck with Hammel Greymist and an Orc who seemed fascinated by every floor tile.
She drank a mouthful of her favourite mead with a sad sigh.
Life is sometimes as appetising as goat piss.
Standing behind the bar, wiping grime from its surface with a soiled cloth, was Hulda. The older Nord woman with the kindly face owned the bar. Her hair was greying- brown and tied back in a business bun, eyes green, and face lined from years of hard living. Yet her eyes maintained the sparkle of someone truly happy. She spoke pleasantly to everyone who paid their tab, though if a beggar came mooching she had her regulars toss him out. It was a typical Nordic mindset.
"Would you like another?" She asked, wiping out the inside of a mug with the same cloth.
"I'm fine for now thanks," Lianna muttered, gazing down at her reflection in the mug. Clob was across the room, frantically jotting notes into a small journal while gazing at the inn's ceiling.
"Your friend is a lot younger than he looks." Hulda observed, returning the mug to its place under the bar.
Lianna looked at Hulda, raising a solitary dark eyebrow. "Oh?" Was all she said, draining the mead. "I was wrong about being finished. Hand me a bottle please."
"Twenty Septims dear," Hulda responded casually, sliding the bottle over. "I've gotten pretty good at reading people," she explained. "It comes from years of listening to folk complaining while pretending to care." Her thick Nordic accent gave her harsh words a lighter feel, more good natured jest than jaded barb. "Believe me, that Orc hasn't seen thirty winters. Don't let the beard fool you." Hulda leaned down behind the bar while rummaging for more mugs.
Lianna had come to that conclusion on her own. The Orc was far too excitable for an ancient veteran. Despite laughing at Hammel's earlier comments about Orc culture, she knew the Orsimer were far from simple folk. While she didn't know everything about them, she assumed things like carved pillars weren't unknown to them.
She was raising the bottle to her lips again when the bard began singing.
"We drink to our youth, to the days come and gone! For the age of aggression is just about done!"
Lianna hated that song. How dare her Jarl be slandered! How dare they make light of Skyrim's truest son! The High Elf wanted to leap to her feet and beat the bard until he changed his tune. However, she couldn't simply thrash a man for belting out a song she didn't like. It would be a bad look for the future High King and his supporters if Stormcloaks just assaulted whomever they pleased. She needed legitimate cause.
Then the Elf remembered Carlotta Valentia.
When Lianna and Clob entered the city they both headed directly for the tavern. Directly before the tavern's entrance was a market square consisting of two legitimate buildings and a handful of stalls. Each vendor hawked their wares loudly, shouting about fresh meats, shiny baubles, and home-grown vegetables. Sick of dried rations, Lianna was more than happy for some fresh fruit.
The woman behind the stand was an Imperial, introducing herself as Carlotta Valentia. As Lianna selected a carrot, a pair of potatoes and a green apple, the merchant babbled on about how she was a widow and how no man would come between her and her daughter, despite the numerous attempts to woo her. She mentioned one man in particular, the Bannered Mare's bard Mikael.
Lianna told Carlotta she'd talk to him, simply to get the woman to shut up. Honestly, she had no intention of helping this milk-drinker. If Carlotta wasn't strong enough to deal with something as simple as an unwanted admirer she was a lost cause. Lianna wouldn't prop up anyone weak, particularly Imperials.
However, the fruit vendor's grievance provided Lianna with the excuse she needed to beat some sense into Mikael. Taking a purposeful swig from the bottle of mead, she pushed her stool away and stood with furious purpose. Leaving her fur gauntlets on the bar, Lianna approached the bard, hands already curled into fists.
Standing next to the fire, Mikael looked every inch the overconfident, puffed-up fool Carlotta described. His blonde hair hung shoulder-length, his body just muscular enough to avoid being called gangly. He had a handsome face but his pompous attitude made Lianna sick.
"Down with Ulfric! The killer of kings!" The bard sang, strumming his lute in an admittedly pleasing fashion. Stopping abruptly mid word as Lianna approached, Mikael gawked at her. "Excuse me?" He said in a less than pleased tone, "I'm in the middle of a song."
"Leave Carlotta alone." Lianna's tone was as solid as Skyforge steel. "Or it'll hurt."
Mikael laughed, he actually laughed right in her face. Despite the fact that she was wearing armor and armed with a blade, the bard laughed like he'd never heard a funnier joke. "Leave her alone? Sorry friend, but that fiery widow is mine. She just doesn't know it yet." He leered at her, "Why? Are you jealous?"
That's when Lianna hit him. Her fist struck the bard's nose with a bone shattering crack, her ring of matrimony leaving a righteous imprint on his face.
Mikael staggered back, dropping his lute to clutch his injured nose with both hands. The tavern went silent as people watched the ensuing brawl. "I'll kill you for that!" Mikael snarled, rushing her with a shout he'd consider intimidating but only served to amuse Lianna. Swinging both fists with all his might, Mikael aimed for her abdomen. She sidestepped his clumsy blow, launching a sharp uppercut at the bard's chin.
Head snapping back, Mikael staggered a few steps backwards, bleeding and swearing. A heavily-armoured, middle-aged Nord woman sitting in the corner raised her mug. "Five septims on the Elf!"
"I'd be a fool to take that bet, Uthgerd!" An equally armoured Nord man around the same age answered from behind his mug, "I can't afford to pay you any more gold!"
"You're such a downer, Sinmir," the woman chuckled, finishing her drink with gusto.
Mikael, perhaps spurred on by the less than encouraging remarks, charged Lianna again, throwing a hay-maker. The punch grazed her temple, irritating her. It was time to end this farce.
When Mikael swung again, Lianna lashed out, snagging his arm. With a snarl she yanked down on the limb, hard. The bard collapsed to his knees with a yelp, gazing up with a pain-filled expression of shock. Kicking down furiously, Lianna's boot impacted with the bard's chin, snapping his head back and driving him onto the floor.
"Told you." Sinmer said casually, emptying his mug.
Mikael groaned, not bothering to rise from the floor after the vicious beating. "Leave Carlotta alone or this gets worse." Lianna told him loud enough for the others to hear. Then she leaned down, whispering in the bard's ear. "Oh, and when you start singing again, choose a different song."
While Lianna was busy introducing a bard to her fists, Hammel was attempting to enter the city.
"I want to see the Jarl," he told the guards. They wore orange tunics, emblazoned with the Hold's symbol, the white horse head, over a chain shirt. Their shields also bore the same symbol and color scheme, adding to their uniform appearance.
Even though their expressions were hidden behind fully closed helmets, the duo obviously weren't amused. "Look kinsman," one guard said condescendingly, "We don't always get what we want."
"Yah," the other agreed. "I want a magic flagon of ever-flowing mead, and Adrianne Avenicci in my bed!" The guard looked at the ground and grumbled, "Damn that War-Bear."
"All I'm saying," the first continued, ignoring the ramblings of his partner, "Is that we can't open these gates to just anyone. We don't care who you are. Turn around and go back to Riverwood. The city is closed."
Hammel really didn't want to play his last card but it was obvious he had no choice. He wasn't sure how the guards would react, by Oblivion, he wasn't sure how anyone would. With a small sigh, Hammel spoke two short sentences. "I have information about the dragons. I was at Helgen when it attacked."
That silenced them. "By the gods..." one guard whispered. "Is it true? You saw the dragon?"
"Rumours have been flying in every direction about what happened. The Jarl needs to know the truth." The guard moved towards the gate, fiddling with the lock as he did. "You may enter Whiterun traveller. However, the Jarl is finished with court. You can see him first thing in the morning." The guard held his hand up, "No exceptions, not even for this. Sorry, but you understand. Go to the tavern, get a drink, and rent a room for the night. Eight O'clock, the doors to Dragonsreach open. See the Jarl then."
Hammel simply nodded. As much as he wanted to march up to the Jarl's palace, kick in the doors and demand a hearing, he knew better. He needed to convince Balgruuf to send aid to Riverwood. Disrupting the man's routine was not the fastest way to his good side.
The gates swung open, revealing the city in all its splendour. Large wooden homes and stores dominated the pathways. The city sloped upward, the path splitting in several directions. Even from his location at the entrance, Hammel could see the keep, Dragonsreach, rising in the distance. It stood proudly atop the hill Whiterun was built on, like the spike on the peak of a helmet.
To his right, after entering the city was the smithy. A blond Nord wearing Imperial Legion armor, with a long braided beard, was speaking loudly with a dark-skinned Imperial woman, the smith judging by her garb. Her arms were folded across her chest casually, but it was clear she had no intention of backing down. She was leaning against one of the wooden posts outside the smithy, her back towards Hammel.
"The Legion needs those swords right now, Adrianne!" The Nord argued, waving his arms around. "The Stormcloaks have some of the finest smiths in Skyrim churning out weapons day and night! We need to even the odds!" The woman maintained her position against the post, unflinching in the face of the furious Nord.
So this is Adrianne? Damn. That guard was right.
Hammel dismissed such thoughts. She clearly wore a ring of matrimony, and therefore was off the table.
"I'm working as fast as I can," she told the Nord softly, remaining against the post. Out of curiosity, Hammel followed it up with his gaze. It connected to an awning, built against the shop's roof. The open area sheltered a grindstone, workbench, tanning rack and burning hot forge. Hammel could almost taste the flames. The pristine condition of the workspace reminded Hammel of a quarter-master he once knew.
"Work faster." The Nord responded agitatedly, hand not quite on his sword handle. "The Battle-Born's are paying you good money for this steel."
"Maybe you should get Eorlund Gray-Mane to help me then?" Adrianne said casually, shifting one foot into a fighting stance. "Ulfberth and I can only make so many blades by ourselves."
"I'd rather bend a knee to Ulfric Stormcloak," the Nord spat.
"Well then, Idolaf," Adrianne responded, "You'll have to make do with what I can give you." Turning towards the workbench, hammer in hand, she went to work, pounding out a scrap of metal.
Idolaf turned away, grumbling about Imperials and Stormcloaks. The man walked away, his large shoulders pressed out and hands clenched into fists, shoving past a villager who had the simple misfortune of being in his way. Hammel watched him stalk away without approaching. Hammel had, admittedly, very little contact with the great clan Battle-Born, but from what he'd heard that wasn't a bad thing.
"Hello there," he greeted Adrianne cordially, waving his free hand while removing his iron helmet. The wind ruffled his hair, while a few pigeons cooed from the awning overhead.
She looked up from her work with her hammer in hand, turning to face Hammel. "Welcome to Whiterun." She told him pleasantly enough, giving a half smile. "I suppose I'm your unofficial welcoming party. Warmaiden's isn't closed yet if you want some work done."
"I'm fine, thank you," Hammel responded appreciatively. "But if I need my swords looked at, I'll come back."
"That's all I ask."
Hammel glanced around the city approvingly. "I haven't been back here in a long time. Is the Bannered Mare still standing?" He could taste the Mare's sweet mead and ale in his mind's eye. Resisting the urge to lick his parched lips at the memory, Hammel cleared his throat. "They always had the finest mead."
"The Mare still stands," Adrianna told him, jabbing down the street with her hammer. "Hulda runs it alone now, Roggar went to his ancestors some dozen odd years ago." She turned back to her work, hammering away at the steel. Sparks flew with each blow as she put her shoulder into each strike.
Her steel looks excellent, clearly, she trained somewhere.
"So, why did you come to Whiterun?" She probed, "Seeking your fortune, or looking for work?"
I'm here because I have no purpose. I'm here helping people I don't really know.
"Maybe I came seeking the legendary steel of Adrianna Avinccii," Hammel mused with a smile, holding his helmet under one hand.
She gave a deep belly laugh, chuckling as she worked. "Very smooth. Pity, you already said you don't need any smithing. Besides, Whiterun is home to Eorlund Gray-Mane, that man's steel is truly legendary."
"I'm sure you're easier on the eyes than him."
"Watch it," she said, her tone the equivalent of a verbal smirk. "I'm a married woman."
"My apologies."
"Accepted." The air whistled for a moment as she pounded the steel, Hammel standing there quietly. "Enjoy your stay in Whiterun, hopefully success will find you in your ventures."
Hammel raised his free hand in farewell. "I hope you have plenty of customers." He strolled towards the marketplace without awaiting a response, breathing deeply through his nose. The air was rich with roasted meat and fine cheese. The vendors were still shouting about quality goods and fine merchandise even as the sun set.
The Bannered Mare dominated the little square of stalls and shops. To Hammel's left, the path left the Plains District behind, continuing towards the Wind and finally Cloud District. From the centre of the market stalls, Hammel could easily see Dragonsreach, home of Jarl Balgruuf, dominating the Cloud District and, mostly hidden from his vision, the mead hall Jorrvaskr itself.
The thought of those legendary warriors brought back memories of his earlier encounter with Aela. He was feeling pulled towards Jorrvaskr and The Companions. Maybe, within those hallowed walls, he would find his purpose.
It wouldn't be that evening. He was exhausted from travelling for most of the day, and sprinting to rescue Ria from the giant. He fully intended to take the guard's advice, rent a bed in the inn and collapse. He was halfway across the market square when he bumped into the woman. He hadn't been paying attention and now he was suffering for it.
He hadn't managed to get a good look at her before she began speaking, disgust evident in her voice. "What's the matter? Can't stand a strong Nord woman? Looking to take a swing at me?"
He finally saw clearly the woman he'd collided with. Her arms were folded across her chest in a defiant posture, staring at him with as much disdain as she could muster. She was tall and attractive, with long, curly grey hair dancing down her back. The color seemed more at home in old men's beards than the head of the proud woman before him, but it certainly made her distinct.
Hammel's apology died in his mouth and, in his confusion, said the only thing he could think of, "What?"
This response seemed to anger her. "You rammed into me on purpose!" She snapped, stamping her foot angrily. "You did it because you looked down on me! You can't stand a Nord woman doing fine without you!"
Completely befuddled, Hammel struggled for a way out of the conversation. The woman wouldn't let up, determined to get vengeance for some slight he'd committed, seemingly more than the simple collusion. "Listen, miss..."
"Gray-Mane. Olfina Gray-Mane."
Oh boy. A Gray-Mane. I need to be extra diplomatic.
"Listen Miss Gray-Mane." Hammel explained as cautiously as he could, holding his hands in a stop gesture. " I'm sorry I bumped into you and I promise it was an accident. As for Nord women, I've had military experience and served with my fair share of them. The last thing I do is look down on them."
"Good." Olfina spat. She turned on her heel and left, probably to bother someone else. A few of the merchants looked at him sympathetically. Apparently, this Gray-Mane woman had some sort of axe to grind.
Well she's gone now, praise the Divines.
Shaking his head to clear the lingering confusion of his encounter with Olfina, Hammel strolled up to the tavern. The doors were covered with intricate carvings of horses that must have taken years for the craftsman who'd made them. Showing respect for whoever put such effort into something as simple as a set of doors, Hammel opened them carefully. A blanket of warmth greeted him as he entered..
It was a simple tavern, homey and welcoming. A roaring fire, flanked by two long benches, blazed in the centre of the great room. Tables and chairs rested wherever the owner could find space. The right side was dominated by a simple wood bar and several stools. Straight across from the entrance were stairs leading up to a second floor, presumably up to the rental rooms. The left-side door was open, revealing the kitchens.
All in all, it seemed to Hammel like the ideal of a warm home.
Closing the doors behind him, Hammel went straight for the bar. Two of the three stools were occupied, so he took the only available option, noticing some of the other patrons. One man, covered head to toe in armor with a massive steel great axe strapped to his back, sat by the fire. Across the room was a heavily armoured woman, drinking sullenly. A bard played the lute, pointedly ignoring the fresh bruises on his face. The occupants of the other stools were Lianna and Clob, the Elf drinking and the Orc writing notes in his small journal.
"How'd you get past the guards?" Hammel asked incredulously. After the hassle he'd gone through to enter the city, he was beyond annoyed that these two had beat him here.
Lianna smirked a little, "With a fat coin purse." She nodded her head at the mage, "His too." Finishing what remained of her mead, she cocked her head, "How was the cat?"
"Ri'saad?" Hammel answered, "He was fine. Just fine..." He looked across the bar at Hulda, figuring her to be the bartender. "I'll have a Black-Briar, if you've got any."
"One Black-Briar Mead, coming right up." Hulda didn't bother looking up from the tankards she was swabbing. "Flagon or bottle?"
After a moment's thought Hammel answered, "Flagon. If I need more, I can always get a refill."
She gave him a wry smile, "Smart man. I'll see to it that you get extra foam." Hammel watched the woman remove the bottle's cork and fill the flagon with an expert twist of the wrist. Sliding the tankard across the counter, Hulda held out a hand. "Ten septims for the drink." He gave the payment without hesitation. Hulda put the coins in the front pouch of her apron before adding, "I assume you want to spend the night for another 5 septims?" She asked, nodding her head at Lianna, "Your friends already paid for rooms."
Slapping down the required coin with a nod, Hammel took his first sip of Black-Briar mead. He hadn't had one since he'd left Skyrim many years ago. On the front line imports from his homeland were unheard of. Besides, anything that was shipped to the desert was hot as Oblivion anyway, which made drinking anything other than water pointedly awful. Fortunately, the taste of Black-Briar mead was as sweet as his memory suggested.
"Apparently, the mage is younger than he looks." Lianna said out of the blue, looking over at the Orc sitting next to her. Clob was too engrossed in his writing to notice they were talking about him.
"Really?" Hammel asked, raising a single eyebrow. "It's a halfway decent beard." He drained the rest of the mead, signalling Hulda for another. "Same vintage, if you don't mind."
"Any mage with half a brain and the tiniest amount of Alteration training could craft himself a beard like that." Lianna pointed out coldly, as if talking to a small child. "Look at him. Does he honestly look like a seasoned veteran?"
Hammel took a good look at the mage. He had a massive beard but there were other contrasting things. His skin was smooth and almost free of scars, his eyes maintaining a youthful lustre. His constant note taking, and enthusiasm for mundane elements, didn't suggest experience.
"So?" Hammel said casually as another flagon of mead slid into his grip. "Thanks." Flipping the lip open, he took a long drink of the cold, sweet, mead. "Does that matter?"
"Of course it matters!" Lianna hissed. "He's lying about his age and he won't tell us why he's here. We need to question him and get the truth."
Hammel just shook his head. "Crazy Elves," he muttered, taking another swig of mead. "Look, I've got to think about how I'm going to convince Jarl Balgruuf to send some troops to Riverwood. From what I've seen, he needs all his men here."
Lianna stood furiously. "I'm going to bed. Not that you asked."
Hammel shrugged. He didn't answer. He wasn't sure how long he sat on the stool, staring into the tavern's fire. The bard was singing the old ballad, "The Dragonborn comes," and the mead was cold. For an hour or so, all was well.
Lianna slammed the door to her rented room.
Damn that human fool! Damn him to Oblivion! And I have to watch him. A daughter of Skyrim, alone in a city of cowards and traitors, my only company, a lying pig and obnoxious oaf!
She missed Ralof terribly, his absence left a taste in her heart like sour mead. When she closed her eyes she could see his smiling face. She could hear his sweet words, and see his piercing blue eyes. Yet he was in Windhelm and she was sleeping in a strange bed. Alone.
A combination of mead, sorrow, and rage drove tears to her eyes. They streamed down her face, staining her pillow. Her emotions cracked under the pressure and she wept bitterly. Burying her face in her pillow, Lianna tried to hide the emotional outburst. Sniffling a few times, Lianna got herself back under control.
You've just got to see the Jarl. Just see the Jarl and you can take a carriage to Windhelm. You'll be reunited with your husband and your battle-siblings soon.
Despite the truth of the logic, it was cold comfort. Gradually, Lianna drifted off to fevered sleep. Her anxiety boiled with memories, creating scattered visions of the past…
The trees were so tall! Pines almost as big as giants! It was so dark...
They were moving so fast! Why? She was frightened! Were there monsters? She gripped her ma's hand tighter...
The Altmer had a beautiful sword in his hand. It gleamed in the light, but something was dripping off it.
He was kneeling in front of her now, "Lianna." He whispered, "You have to be brave now, okay?" He didn't have a beard.
"You need to run..."
Where had the man gone? She was all alone! Where was the woman holding her hand?
Her ma? She wasn't sure.
She was running so fast. Voices were behind her in the distance. They were yelling and screaming! Drawing closer to her. She had to get away from the voices? Why?...
She'd fallen! She'd tripped over a root! She was laying face down, her head throbbing.
Different voices drew near, one a man and the other a woman, humans, nor Mer. "She's an Elf!" The female voice said, "We need to put her down!"
"Where's your compassion Olga?" The man asked, bending over her. This man had a beard. It was large and blond. "She's just a child. I doubt she's seen four winters." He scooped her up in his arms. They were muscled and strong. "We're taking her back with us."
"This is a mistake." The woman growled, "They are going to want her head."
The man held Lianna tighter against his chest, wrapping her in his robe and shielding her against the bitter cold. "It's a good thing we Nords don't give up easy..."
"Jarl Elisif," General Tullius said calmly, hand resting casually on the pommel of his sword. "There can be no doubt that the traitor Ulfric perished in the dragon attack." He took a step forward, his armor gleaming. It had been freshly polished before his address to the future High Queen of Skyrim because, as Quintus knew, appearance was an important part of giving a good impression.
Prefect Quintus Decimus stood calmly, his helmet held under his arm, observing the proceedings occurring in the Blue Palace's throne room.
Quintus was beyond proud of his helmet, the full face guard protected him from most blows while the horse-hair plume blew magnificently in the wind. Quintus himself was less impressive than the helmet. He was tall, but not overly so, with a simple black beard and rather plain features. His skin was the same olive tone of every Imperial and his face a mess of scar tissue.
Like most Imperial officers, he wasn't used to Skyrim's political system. They were a province of the Empire after all, and they had Imperial authority. Hypothetically, Tullius could push Elisif aside and run the war effort without her. But, Quintus had been told, he wanted the people's support and the people wanted Elisif. So they maintained the charade that she had any really influence on the war, giving her these little reports as if her input was actually considered.
They called her Elisif the Fair. An apt description. She was young and beautiful, with a radiant smile and hair that flowed like the mead these Nords were so fond of. But her beauty was mingled with grief over the death of her husband, High King Toryyg. This death was one Quintus knew the Empire would be put right.
"Thank you General," Elisif said, standing to address Solitude's Blue Palace court. "While it pains me that the Empire didn't personally deliver the blow, Ulfric's death gives me closure. Without Ulfric the Stormcloaks will give up and most will return home. Then we can deal with this dragon mena..."
The doors to the palace flew open with a bang, cutting Elisif off mid-sentence. Quintus spun, drawing his sword as he did, his only thought was protecting the Jarl. Behind him, Falk Firebeard, Elisf's stewart, put himself between her and the door, drawing his own blade.
"Guards!" Tullius ordered, his own weapon drawn, "Hold the intruder in the foyer!"
"General Tullius sir!" The guards shouted from the foyer below, blocking the stairs that led up to the court proper. "He's Legion sir! From Helgen!"
By the Eight Divines? A survivor?
"Send him up," Tullius ordered crisply. "But I want guards with him."
Falk moved slightly to his Jarl's side so that she could see the soldier with her own eyes though he didn't sheath his blade. While Quintus admired his spirit, he doubted the steward was capable of dealing with an armed assassin.
Two fully armed Legionnaires, one on either side, led the man up. Quintus got a good look at him and couldn't believe what he saw. It was Hadvar, his friend and fellow soldier. He'd believed Hadvar killed at Helgen, but here he was. Quintus thanked the Divines for his survival but, as much as he wanted to rush across and embrace his friend, he held his position. Decorum demanded it.
Hadvar reeked of soot and was covered in burns and ash. His armor was dented and battered with worn boots and left arm was held in a makeshift sling. He looked like he'd taken a stroll through the fires of Oblivion.
By Akatosh. I'm amazed he's alive at all.
"General Tullius," Hadvar bowed his head, slamming his right fist against his tattered breastplate in salute, "Jarl Elisif." He bowed to the Jarl as best he could, wincing in pain.
"Don't strain yourself!" Elisif cried, her eyes watering with compassion. "You've been through enough, please don't strain yourself on my account!"
Hadvar nodded his head in thanks. "My Jarl, I have grave news." His voice was monotone and expression grim, "Ulfric escaped."
Those words sent a ripple through the court. Falk's face paled and the Court Wizard, Sybille Stentor, cursed foully. Elisif seemed to age twenty years in an instant, collapsing backwards in her chair. She managed to get out one word. "What?"
"I saw him, my Jarl, leading a band of rebels out through a broken wall. I tried to stop him but one of the buildings collapsed, trapping my arm beneath the rubble. By the time I got free..." he shook his head sadly. "Ulfric would have been halfway back to Windhelm on a stolen horse."
The court was silent. Though the murmuring picked up again when Hadvar collapsed on the marble floor with a clatter, sheer exhaustion finally getting the better of him.
"Get this man some healing at once," Tullius snapped fiercely.
Quintus knew Tullius would take care of his own first but after he'd seen Hadvar he'd plan the counter attack. When he did, Prefect Quintus Decimus would be there to help.
Beware Ulfric, the hammer of the Legion is coming for you! You won't escape again!