Chapter 6
Simple Things
"The longer I live and the more evil I see, the more I appreciate the simple things in life."- Savlian Matius, Captain of the Kvatch city guard. Later, Count of Kvatch Quote Circa 3E 433
It was the morning light streaming through the window that woke Clobnak gro-Grogork. He rubbed his eyes groggily, still much mead and not enough sleep proved a poor combination for any mage. He would need the legendary Orcish discipline to move forward this day.
What would Uncle Garborz say about this stupor?
Shaking his head in hopes of clearing the night's grogginess, Clob reached for his journal. Sure enough, it was still resting on the nightstand where he'd left it. Perhaps it was paranoid of him to fear it missing after only a single night, but caution never hurt. If he lost that journal not only would his notes be gone, so would his maps. Without those maps he would never succeed on his quest.
The safety of his journal assured, Clob went to the next task on the morning routine, prayer. Leaving his bed clad only in a pair of rough breeches, he knelt next to the bedside. "Lord Malacath, father of the Orcs," he whispered, rubbing a thumb against the small totem he wore around his neck. " Witness me as I conquer my enemies this day. I will prove my strength in today's tasks that I might be worthy to be called Orc." He bowed his head lower, whispering intently his declarations to Lord Malacath, Daedric prince of the Spurned and the God-ancestor of his people. "In all my actions, I will gain honour, gain strength, and heap glory on my tribe."
Rising to his feet, Clob retrieved a small silver bowl and a packet of troll fat from his travel sack. Opening the window to his room ever so slightly, the Orc placed the bowl on the ledge and filled it with a small portion of fat. "Accept my sacrifice Lord Malacath, that I might draw upon your strength in the day to come."
With a quick spell, Clob sent a burst of flames from his hand, instantly setting the offering alight. The fat sizzled away, the putrid stench of burning troll filling the room as the black smoke drifted into the sky.
Turning his back on the sacrifice, Clob began his mental exercises. Sitting crossed-legged on the room's carpet, he closed his eyes, imagining each of his spells working, conjuring the sounds and smells into his mind. His breathing slowed. A bead of sweat dripped from his forehead onto his chest, casually tracing its way down Clob's body before hitting the floor with a tiny splash. He was the very picture of calm.
Almost unaware of his actions Clob smiled. It was these simple morning rituals that helped prepare him for anything in this strange land. He wasn't sure how he'd survive without them.
Clob wasn't aware of the passage of time. Ten seconds or ten minutes could have passed, it made no difference. What mattered was the magicka flowing through his veins and coursing through his body. He was ready.
Standing, Clob fetched his boots and robes, dressing for the day's exertions. With a trip to the Jarl planned, he intended to look presentable, even if Balgruuf wasn't who Clob was hoping to meet at Dragonsreach. There was someone else he needed to see, someone he hoped could point him in the right direction. With luck, he'd be courteous to his fellow mage and aid him, without too many questions.
Packing away his journal and sacrificial bowl, Clob picked up his staff and headed downstairs. Whistling as he went, Clob was quite pleased with himself. With each step one closer to his goal. Today was looking to be a highly profitable day.
Hammel wasn't in nearly so fine a mood.
He splashed water on his face, confirming he was awake. Gripping the wooden dresser tightly, he gazed into the mirror with blood-shot eyes. He'd had that nightmare again, the one in the Dwemer ruin. Ever since the other Legonaries had pulled him from the ruin more dead than alive, he dreamed about it once a week. It wouldn't let him go.
It haunts my dreams but I can't remember what it's called. Damn Dwemer, may Azura take them all!
Yet this time it was different. He couldn't place his finger on it, but something about the dream was off. Variables in his dreams disturbed him far more than he cared to admit.
What was it mother said? Dreams are warnings of the future or memories of the past, so which one was this?
She'd told him that Lady Azura, Daedric mistress of twilight, ruled over his dreams and kept his memories safe. To her faithful, she would sometimes provide clues to the future in their dreams, warning of dangers to come.
Whatever Azura was warning him about, Hammel knew he wasn't ready. Rarely did the Daedra become involved with mortal affairs and rarely were those involvements pleasant. Not even Lady Azura, benevolent as she was, sent a fraction of her power to a worshipper without the expectation of suffering and trouble. Hammel wasn't sure he could handle it. Extra prayers to Talos for strength and Azura for protection would be needed.
That, and more ale, for nothing helped prepare a warrior like alcohol. The details of the dream continued to elude him, frustrating Hammel to no end. There hardly seemed any point to receiving a warning if he couldn't act on it.
Drying his face with a towel left on the oaken dresser, he packed up and exited the rented room. His armor fit comfortably and his helmet remained attached to the bundle with several strips of leather. He looked like any other travelling warrior ready for the challenges of Skyrim.
Descending the stairs, Hammel took in everyone present. Aside from Clob and Lianna, only Hulda, the tavern wench, a sultry Redguard he knew as Saadia, and the bard, were still present. Mikael looked far healthier than he had the night previous, his bruises faded to almost nothing, no doubt thanks to a healing potion. Making a mental note to get to know Saadia much better when he had the chance, Hammel sat down and looked Hulda in the eye. "What should a man who's about to see a Jarl eat for breakfast?"
She raised a solitary eyebrow. "If that man is you, I'd recommend two fried eggs, a leg of roast goat, some hard cheese, fresh bread and plenty of mead." She looked across the tavern, yelling in her thick Nordic accent. "Saadia! Get on it girl!"
"Yes Hulda," Saadia responded, swaying back to the kitchen gracefully.
Hammel watched her go, "You don't see many Redguards in Skyrim," he observed while paying for his breakfast and giving Saadia's retreating backside far too much attention. "Where'd she come from?"
Saadia was petite, light on her feet, and attractive. Her black hair was cut around her shoulders and her skin shone like polished mahogany. She fiddled around the kitchen, frying the eggs for his breakfast.
"Not sure," Hulda admitted. "She just showed up in Whiterun one day, from Hammerfell I believe. Poor girl didn't have a coin to her name." Hulda gave a dry smile, "Just because she had no worldly possessions didn't mean she was useless. Girl has a strong work ethic, I hope the Mare's next owner treats her right."
Hammel nodded absent-mindedly, looking kindly at the arriving platter. Saadia had returned from the kitchens, and she'd brought breakfast. He thanked her and swore his thanks were returned with a particularly flirtatious "you're welcome."
"So tell me," Hammel asked Hulda as Saadia left, while wolfing down the fresh bread with the speed of a hungry slaughterfish. His dream left him famished. "How is the Jarl? Is he even-tempered?"
"Balgruuf?" Hulda asked, looking at him for a fraction of a second. "Is he even-tempered? Aye. He's a good ruler and a good man. Some folk have embellished his temper to legendary status, but he really only wants to take care of his people. So long as you don't waste his time and don't endanger Whiterun, he'll be civil enough." She took his now empty tankard and refilled it, waiting on the plate currently losing its battle with the hungry Nord. The goat was roasted to perfection. Seasoned with a few handfuls of some smokey-flavoured spices and a touch of honey-sauce, a delicious combination. The eggs, while less flavoured, were cooked with equal care.
"I'll be brief then." Hammel decided, taking the mug back from Hulda, now filled to the brim with foaming mead. "Wouldn't want to give him any reason to think poorer of me or Riverwood." Draining the tankard, he slammed it back down on the bar before standing casually. "Alright, let's do this."
Turning across to the others, each with finished breakfasts before them, Hammel asked, "I assume you're coming with me to see the Jarl?"
Lianna simply nodded but Clob spoke, "I'm heading up to Dragonsreach with you, however, I wish to speak with someone else at the castle after the report to the Jarl."
"Let me guess," Lianna said witheringly, "No names?" Her words dripped with sarcasm and bristled with aggression.
The Orc shook his head, one hand resting casually on his quarterstaff, though Hammel doubted he'd use it in a fight. "My business is private."
"Not to me."
"Enough," Hammel said civilly, retrieving his knapsack from its position on the floor. "I'm leaving now. Anyone who wants to come with me is welcome." Fitting both arms through the straps on his pack, he walked towards the door, a determined expression written across his face. He'd crossed the room before Clob joined him, pulling up the hood on his robes as he walked. It wasn't until Hammel's hand actually rested on the door-handle that Lianna followed suit.
Pushing the door open gently, Hammel stepped out to greet the new day.
The marketplace was already bustling with activity even though it was early morning. The smell of fresh cuts of meat and the whistling of the Bosmer meat vendor gave a story-book quality to the market. Several buyers were already present, a posh looking Redguard, an attractive young female Nord and, Hammel noticed with a shudder, Olfina Gray-Mane. Apparently she hadn't spotted him yet and he intended to keep it that way.
The trio made it halfway across the market square before the produce vendor shouted at them. "It's you! Thank you so much!"
Hammel spun around, bewildered at the undeserved praise. However it wasn't directed at him. Instead, the Imperial woman looked at Lianna, scrambling out from behind her stall to greet her.
She was attractive, with long dark hair, olive coloured skin and soft features. She was young, no older than mid-thirties, though her face bore the lines of rough living. She'd certainly experienced trouble in her life.
"Mikeal came to me last night when I was in the tavern. I was prepping for another come-on, when he apologised for all his flirtations and told me he'd never bother me again!" Carlotta grabbed Lianna's right hand with both of hers and shook it vigorously. "Thank you! Thank you so much!"
The Altmer looked petrified. "Um, you're welcome Carlotta," she replied slowly, "It wasn't any trouble."
"Here! I have something for you!" Carlotta reached into her belt pouch, withdrawing a small bag. "Some coin for your trouble. It isn't much, but it's the least I could do."
Lianna was starting to shake her head, trying to refuse the money, but the Imperial forced the bag into her hand. "I insist. Please take it, Divines bless you."
Carlotta seemed to age backward instantaneously, a smile growing across her face. Whistling a tune, she practically skipped back towards her produce stand. "Come on, baby!" She called to the twelve-year old girl across the street, likely her daughter. "Today's going to be a good day."
Lianna stared after her a moment, then, very carefully, put the bag into her pouch. The trio left the market in silence, the Stormcloak brooding over what had just happened.
Walking up the stone stairs that separated the Wind District of the city from the Cloud District, the most distinguished part of town, the travellers took in the splendour before them.
The Cloud District was home to Dragonsreach and Jorrvaskr, as well as the city's finest buildings, clearly separated from the other two Districts. Each building they could see was carved from the finest wood, had proper stone foundations, and were covered with intricate designs. Each building in the Cloud District was shiny and clean, almost gleaming in the light. A beautiful view of the surrounding mountains, like a living canvas, could be seen from any spot in the District. It was built in a wheel shape around a massive, though slowly withering, tree. Straight on from where they entered were the stone steps leading up to Dragonsreach. To their right, the mead hall Jorrvaskr dominated a small rolling hill, the mighty stone Skyforge visible behind it, and other fine buildings filled the left. There was only one exception to the architectural layout. In a small area between the paths to Dragonsreach and Jorrvaskr was a massive shrine of Talos.
It was a perfect representation of the greatest hero of man, he who had become a god. Carved from solid rock and chiselled with loving devotion, the image of Talos captured every detail of what made Talos Lord of the Skies. His holy armor, magnificently trimmed beard and exalted features all preserved forever in unrelenting stone. The image was leaning confidently on his great sword, the blade impaled in the chest of a fallen dragon. Talos' expression was firm but not unkind, like a father who might never say, "I love you," but would rush headfirst into danger without hesitation to protect his children.
At the sight of Lord Talos, Hammel almost dropped to his knees instinctively, awe filling his soul. Lianna inclined her head respectfully, and even Clob, who clearly didn't venerate man's greatest king and champion, nodded respectfully.
"Whoever created this deserves all the coin I can give them," Hammel whispered under his breath, bowing his head and folding his hands in reverence.
Because of the awe caused by the statue's presence, Hammel missed the man standing in front of the shrine. He was dressed in the robes of a priest of Talos, the typical dark-blue color resembling the night sky during a storm. The robes had a patch of bright white stitched across them, bolts of lighting cleaving those night skies in two. His hands were held up above his head in exhortation, the hood obscuring his face, though from the sound of his voice he was clearly middle-aged.
"We are but maggots! Rotting in the filth of our own corruption!" He screamed at the air around him. He pumped his hands dramatically. "Talos demands your obedience and your loyalty! Rise up and fight, Nords!"
Hammel listened to the priest for a moment before turning towards his companions, "We don't have time for the sermon." His moment of awe now passed, Hammel pressed on, leaving the priest to his ranting.
Not bothering to see if the others were actually following him, Hammel began his ascent up the steep, protruding steps to Dragonsreach. Each movement was infused with purpose, each stride took him closer to the goal.
He didn't notice the waterfalls next to the stairs, didn't see the effort taken to carve these steps out of the hillside, or notice that his feet had moved from stone steps to wooden drawbridge. Crossing that drawbridge without hesitation, Hammel passed the guards standing next to Dragonsreach's entrance. The doors reminded him of the Bannered Mare, like these doors were the elder brother of the ones at the tavern. They were carved in a similar manner, with wooden horses dancing across the entire surface. The great brass door-handles were moulded to resemble proud stallions, their front legs outstretched defiantly.
Hammel didn't spend much time on these details as he grabbed the handles, pulling with all his might. Both doors swung open revealing the great hall in all its glory. A roaring fire blazed in the centre of the ancient room while two long tables, groaning under the weight of food and furnishings, flanked walls and floors were made from the finest oak and pine, best seen in the proud supporting pillars, giving the whole hall a pleasant smell. At the opposite end of the chamber was the Jarl's throne. It sat beneath the mounted skull of a long dead dragon of impressive size. Hammel found himself in a small, carpeted foyer, separated from the main chamber by another flight of steps.
The sound of doors opening and closing behind him, mixed with ragged breathing, informed him that Clob and Lianna had caught up, shoving past an old woman sweeping dust in the process. She swore at them, shaking her fist angrily and cursing their ancestry before returning to work.
Glancing backwards, Hammel saw Lianna smooth out her Stormcloak tunic, proudly displaying her allegiance to any who might be watching.
Political manoeuvring achieved.
With the mage on his left and the Stormcloak on his right, Hammel took the wooden steps two at a time. Reaching the main chamber proper, he got a good look at the Jarl and his court. Balgruuf reclined on his throne while several others spoke at varying levels of intensity and volume.
Hammel advanced on the Jarl with purpose in each step. He would have crashed the meeting of the Jarl and his advisers without warning if it weren't for the Dunmer.
She advanced on him with grim determination in her eyes. The light reflected with a gleam off the razor sharp point of the naked steel sword she was pointing at him. Her hair was dull red, almost the color of blood, and drawn back in a ponytail. Her features were harsh and lined, several scars intermingled with the war-paint decorating well-defined cheekbones. She was wiry, almost whip thin, with each limb corded with muscle. The Dark Elf was protected by a full suit of chitin armor, similar to the kind worn by Dunmer back in Morrowind, though she wasn't wearing a helmet. Her knuckles bore numerous scars and nicks, a sure sign she wasn't afraid to get her hands dirty.
Pointing her longsword directly at Hammel's throat, the Dunmer spoke in a firm voice. "Halt. Take another step closer and you'll regret it. Now, who are you? Why do you approach Jarl Balgruuf during this critical session of court?" Her words came out in a crisp no-nonsense fashion. There was no malice, but also no pity in her voice. She'd run that sword through his throat without hesitation if she felt it necessary.
In response to the pointed blade, Hammel's fingers tightened around the handle of his own swords. He knew he'd come to Dragonsreach to secure aid for Riverwood, but the fighter in his mind refused to be silent. If it came to swords, he sure as Oblivion wouldn't be the last person to draw.
Disguising his drop to combat stance with a nod of the head, Hammel addressed the Dunmer. "I'm Hammel Greymist. These are my travelling companions, Clobnak gro-Grogork and Lianna of Riverwood. We've come with information for the Jarl."
"Jarl Balgruuf couldn't possibly be interested in anything you have to say..."
"It's about the dragons," Lianna butted in, cutting off the other Mer mid-sentence.
The Dunmer went silent for a moment, her mouth closing until it was little more than an angry line. Gazing at them for a moment, the Dark Elf's eyes roamed over their faces, as if trying to pull any lies from their minds. Apparently satisfied, she sheathed her blade in one fluid motion. "Go ahead, bring your news to the Jarl. But I've got my eyes on you lot."
Stalking back to her position at the Jarl's right hand, the Dunmer let them pass. Taking a deep breath to calm his nerves, Hammel approached the throne. He'd been in plenty of life or death situations before and had the scars to prove it, but now he was out of his element because he knew nothing of politics. He wasn't a politician, he was merely a soldier, old beyond his mid-thirty odd years, with an unhealthy fondness for women.
"All I'm saying, my Jarl," a balding, well-dressed man said while rubbing his hands together, "is that the rumours may not be true. We should wait and see." He had a little black beard covering his rather bland features and wore purple finery that probably cost more than every Septim the three travellers had combined. He clearly wasn't a Nord and he was obviously no warrior. This man was a bureaucrat, an advisor, and no son of Skyrim.
He was the polar opposite of the man standing across from him, a burly Nord. His head was shaved, the self-imposed baldness complimented nicely by a thick brown beard, knotted in a warrior's style. His face was coated in blue stripes of war-paint. Tree-trunk-like arms were crossed across a chainmail shirt, constructed from shining metal and bone. The rest of the warrior was covered in fur and steel, and the greatsword on his back was easily the size of a small child, looking far more impressive than the advisor's elven dagger.
"What would you have us do, Proventus? Wait until Riverwood is burnt to the ground and send our men over to pick the bones?" The massive Nord snarled, glaring across at the bureaucrat and jabbing a meaty finger at him.
"It isn't that simple, Hrongar!" Proventus argued, holding his uncalloused hands up like a ward. "If General Tullius thinks we're even dreaming of joining Ulfric's rebellion, he'll march into Whiterun and occupy the city with Legion forces. Is that what you want?"
"Those people out there are my kin, Imperial! And with a dragon on the loose..."
"We don't know that there even is a dragon."
"Silence!"
The new voice was firm, male and Nordic. Jarl Balgruuf the Greater stood to his full six and a half feet. The Jarl had long golden hair and a full drooping beard. His features weren't unpleasant though they were firm, with an aquiline nose and proud brown eyes. The robes of a Jarl covered him, made of fur and linen, complimented by a circlet of solid gold with inlaid moonstones. While Balgruuf lacked Hrongar's pure bulk he was clearly strong, his body laced with the scars won in many battles. The sinewy muscle of his arms was clearly visible, making it obvious Balgruuf knew his way around a blade.
"Hrongar," the Jarl of Whiterun began, his voice calmer than either courtier. "I will not stand by while my people are in danger, but I haven't kept out of this damn war by being rash. I'll move the men if the need arises."
"The Jarl is right in this regard," Proventus sneered, looking down his hawk-like nose at his much larger opponent. "Even your mighty sword wouldn't be enough to turn the tide against the entire might of the Empire, which I assure you, would fall on this city the moment we take one wrong step." The steward puffed out his chest, relishing his victory, "Why, I imagine the story about the dragons is little more than an elaborate trick, intended to frighten the Stormcloaks into submission."
"The dragons are real."
Hammel wasn't sure why he'd taken that moment to speak. He'd been silent, standing quietly before Balgruuf's throne, his back to the fire. However, it seemed clear that a little drama would be needed to get his point across.
Proventus didn't seem pleased by the interruption. "And who are you?" He took a deep breath through his nose, expression souring, as if Hammel had dragged a mighty stench into the throneroom.
"My Jarl," Hammel addressed Balgruuf directly, dropping to one knee and bowing his head. "I come before you on behalf of the people of Riverwood. The village cries out for aid, they seek your protection."
Balgruuf didn't speak. Instead, the Jarl of Whiterun sat back in his throne. Resting his chin in one hand, the Jarl gazed directly at Hammel. "So, are the rumours true? Was it really a dragon at Helgen?"
"It was." Lianna stated firmly, her voice almost flinty. "We three barely escaped with our lives."
"My lord," Proventus began again, waving a hand at the trio. "This woman is both an Altmer and a Stormcloak. Her political stance casts her words under an unpleasant light."
"It's true." Hammel added his words to the mix, not bothering to rise from the floor. The warmth from the fire tickled his neck but brought no mirth to his soul. The Jarl had to be made to see the threat. "The Imperials were in the middle of an execution, preparing to remove the heads of several Stormcloaks, including Ulfric himself. Before the headsman could claim his second pair of boots, the ground shook and the sky shattered beneath a furious roar. A dragon, spewing fire and death." Hammel let his words hang in the air a moment, the mental image clear. "My Jarl, the dragon razed Helgen to the ground."
A murmur went through the court, low and whispered, as various minor nobles and servants asked each other in hushed tones if it was possible. If Helgen really could be destroyed. And a dragon? Could dragons have really returned to Skyrim? It wasn't possible was it?
Holding up a hand for silence, Balgruuf the Greater ended those hurried whispers. "Look at me." Hammel raised his head from its previously bowed position, locking gazes with the Jarl. "You saw this dragon with your own eyes, then?"
"I did, Jarl Balgruuf."
"That settles the matter." The Jarl turned on his throne, one hand now curled into a fist and the other resting on the pommel of an ornate sword. "Irileth," he addressed the Dunmer who'd stopped Hammel earlier. She turned from her position at his side to look directly at him. "Send a detachment of my finest troops to Riverwood immediately. If that dragon shows its face again, we'll be ready."
Slamming her fist against her chest piece in salute, Irileth nodded, "It shall be down at once, my Jarl."
Even as Irileth was moving to complete her task, Balgruuf was motioning to Hrongar. "Hrongar, see to it that the walls are properly reinforced, then start recruiting more guards. With a dragon on the loose we'll need every sword and bow we can get should it attack."
"I'll see to it personally, brother." Hrogar bowed, then spun on his heel, moving out of the hall at a jog, determined to complete the assignment.
"My lord," Proventus began the argument, "Is this wise? Surely one dragon cannot inflict too much harm; it's not worth jeopardising our neutrality over, is it?"
"I'll not sit idly by while a dragon terrorises my land and slaughters my people!" This time the renowned temper of Jarl Balgruuf the Greater erupted with all the force of a volcano. "I will do right by them and keep them safe!" His words became quiet again, the next few seeming more dangerous because of it. "Now, you will return to your duties as steward and not question this decision again. Do I make myself clear?"
Perhaps knowing that further debate was pointless, the steward bowed low, mumbled something about "living to serve," and retreated down a side passage.
"Please stand!" Balgruuf told the still kneeling trio in an almost embarrassed tone, "You've done a great service for Riverwood, you don't owe me anything." Gesturing down the corridor after the retreating form of Proventus, the Jarl continued, "After my steward is finished sulking I can arrange a more material display of gratitude."
Scrambling to his feet, followed suit by the others, Hammel inclined his head respectfully, "Thank you my Jarl. My name is Hammel Greymist."
"Greymist... that's not a clan I recognize." Jarl Balgruuf stroked his honey-coloured beard casually. "But it matters little. You did the task honourably." He looked at Clob next, "I'm not sure how to extend hospitality to an Orc, but you have it. If there is anything you want, do not hesitate to ask. As for you," he looked directly at the Altmer, gazing intently at the Stormcloak blue she wore. "Well, you no doubt helped deliver this warning and I know several of Ulfric's rebels call Riverwood home. So I will extend Nordic hospitality, provided you don't preach the glories of Ulfric to anyone within earshot. Understood?" Balgruuf's tone broke no room for debate. His voice returned to a more pleasant tone. "You've come a great deal and suffered much for my people. Dragonsreach is at your disposal today. Eat, drink, amuse yourselves. You can be on your way once you've received your payment. I trust you all find that satisfactory?"
Everyone did.
Clob had scampered off as soon as Balgruuf had finished offering them hospitality. He'd been caught up in the moment, wasting time listening to the unfolding drama. He'd come to Skyrim with a very specific purpose, one he'd yet to take another step towards completing. Time was a precious commodity and he was squandering it.
When he arrived in the north, Clob had only a title to go on. He needed to talk to the Court Wizard, any Court Wizard would do. Hopefully the mage would be able to help him find what he needed.
Farengar Secret-Fire was a strange and somewhat obnoxious man. He was a Nord, though physically he looked Breton. He was tall and thin, resembling a scarecrow standing watch over a wheatfield. His skin was the color of raw dough, though most of it was hidden beneath dull blue mage robes. He constantly kept his hood up, even indoors, likely trying to hide the scraggly little patch of brown-blonde hair on his chain, or his equally dull brown eyes.
For the most part, Farengar was happy to have Clob around, saying how "we mages need to stick together," something Clob himself believed. Nords were notoriously suspicious of magic and outsiders and considering he was both, Clob was happy to listen to Farengar complain about his kin's shortsightedness in exchange for the man's friendship.
Farengar had shared his library willingly and even brewed them tea. So Clob found himself sitting in a slightly overstuffed, though still comfortable, armchair in the mage's study. It was a small room, stuffed with bookcases, tables and various other conveniences. An arcane enchanter and alchemy station sat against the far wall, behind a table littered with scrolls and soul gems. His host hunched over the alchemy table, grinding several ingredients into a paste for a potion he was making.
"Tell me, brother mage," he asked, furiously pulping the ingredients Clob couldn't see. "Do you believe the dragons have vulnerabilities similar to Argonians? Based on the shared appearance, I mean."
Putting aside the book he'd been reading, Clob shrugged, "I'm not sure. It seems logical." He continued digging through the bookshelf, "Do you have any other books?" While the Orsimer was treating each volume with the respect it deserved, handling them with care, he was also moving through the collection with as much speed as possible. After all, he certainly didn't need to look at "Mixed Unit Tactics," or "Troll Slaying." He was searching for a very specific topic.
"Just the ones on the desk." Farengar looked away from his potion for a moment, pointing his mortar at a desk groaning beneath the weight of ink-pots, parchment, and empty potion bottles. A pile of books was stacked haphazardly on one side, buried beneath empty tea cups and scrap paper. "If I don't have it, I'm afraid you won't be able to find it, at least, not in this city." Farengar shook his head sadly. "These louts have no respect for the arcane arts, I assure you. It sickens me; you'll find a greater sense of logic in a graveyard." He turned back to his potion with a low sigh. "It's horrible. You might want to try the College of Winterhold, if you can get there. They have the largest library in Skyrim."
"Thank you, I'll keep that in mind," Clob agreed halfheartedly. He wasn't sure how much of what Farengar said was true, but he needed the man's library, so he agreed. Farengar seemed very condescending to anything not related to the arcane arts or his research. Still, he seemed to respect Balgruuf, which might explain his presence within Whiterun.
None of the volumes on the shelf included what he needed, so, with his heart sinking in his chest, Clob turned to the stack on the table. If none of these books helped, he'd have to visit the College of Winterhold. It was a long journey and he knew it would be impossible to convince his new companions to go there with him.
Malacath, I pray I find what I seek.
Moving aside the empty teacups resting on the books, Clob got to work looking at the titles. "On the Black Arts," "A Hypothetical Treachery," "A Gentleman's Guide to Whiterun," among others. While all sounded particularly fascinating, none could help him. Clob had almost given up hope when a slim, leather-bound, volume caught his eye. The book's cover was completely blank. Undoing the small binding, Clob looked at the simple title page.
In plain, dark strokes were seven simple words, the book's title, " A History of The Orsimer of Skyrim." While Farengar finally turned away from his potion to write several notes, Clob began reading the text.
"The Orsimer are a proud race of warriors who've dwelt in Skyrim for untold generations, possibly predating Ysgramor's arrival. Perhaps the harsh climate appeals to their inner spirit of conquest, challenging them to greatness, or perhaps it is the richness of the game that draws them. Whatever reason the Orsimer choose, many tribes survive in the wilderness, living in small, walled cities, hunting and fishing just as their ancestors did.
Yet not all Orcs choose to live alone, the most powerful tribes grow quite large in size. A mighty chief can have several wives, children, and various hangers on. Not unlike the courts of several Jarls I've known. Within this volume I discuss the great Orcish strongholds in Skyrim, everything you need to know about their culture, and finding them for yourself."
Clob sat back with a contented sigh. This was exactly what he needed. He flipped through the pages absently, humming to himself. He was well on his way, Malacath be praised! This day was turning around after all.
Lianna sat in one of the many chairs in Dragonsreach's hall, rubbing her amulet of Talos between her thumb and forefinger. She couldn't get the image of the grateful Carlotta out of her head. Lianna's actions had been less than nothing and done for all the wrong reasons, yet Carlotta had treated her like some kind of hero.
It perturbed the Altmer more than she cared to admit. Her random good deed done for all the wrong reasons had, for Talos only knew, made an impact in this woman's life. An impact so monumental that Carlotta, a woman under tremendous financial strain, had insisted on paying Lianna for it. Now, she felt oddly guilty about using Carlotta's plight to further her own agenda, taking this woman's trouble and twisting it for her own gain.
This new-found guilt was wrestling with old ideals. Don't prop up the weak, don't support the helpless. She'd suffered alone and become stronger for it. She'd gained respect and found a husband because of that strength. Would propping up Carlotta do her more good than ill in the end?
Her amulet was all the comfort she had, as another emotion came into play. When Carlotta had beamed at her, telling her how grateful she was, something grew in Lianna's chest. A feeling she very rarely experienced.
It was hard to describe, almost a glow in the pit of her stomach. Almost like pride, except without the inbound sense of superiority that came alongside it. She felt...well, good.
It unnerved her.
So Lianna just sat there in the great hall, waiting for her coin, mead, and salmon steak. Soon she'd be back on the front lines with Ralof, fighting the Empire and serving her beloved Skyrim. Soon she would be free from doing menial tasks for menial people and menial Jarls in menial towns.
If that is really what I want.
Farengar Secret-Fire was perturbed.
He hated that feeling, it reminded him of failure. He was a mage, by the Nine! He should have the answer to any question asked him! Yet this one eluded him. Granted, there hadn't been any dragons in uncounted years and, therefore, no one knew how to kill them. The obvious solution was to find some missing piece of lore from the ancient Nords that would teach them how to do just that.
It was a simple plan, unfortunately information he sought wasn't very forthcoming.
The candles were burning low in their holders, the Orc had long since departed, leaving Farengar to find what he needed. Hopefully his brother mage had been more successful in his quest for knowledge.
Setting aside yet another useless tome, Farengar's fingers grasped the spine of a rough leather-bound book. He hadn't looked at this particular book in ages. He'd seen it only once before loaning it to Vignar Gray-Mane. As the Companions' historian, old Vignar no doubt found the volume, "On the Tombs of Ancient Heroes," both incredibly dull and highly informative. However, Farengar was running out of ideas and he needed something, anything really, to grasp onto. Dragons could be attacking Whiterun at any moment, this very night, or possibly morning if he'd truly been working that long.
The Jarl's guests had left, their purses heavier with Whiterun's coin. Hammel had been the first early that afternoon, mentioning something about the Companions. Clob had studied in his office until dark, then left for the Bannered Mare. Lianna had slunk away without informing anyone, clearly disturbed about something.
With typical Nordic stoicism, and a lot of tea, Farengar got to work, reading book after book, scroll after scroll. But he'd found nothing useful. All the research he did was meaningless, his efforts wasted.
When his study was interrupted by the knock on his door, Farengar nearly jumped out of his bones. "Who's there?"
Stepping from the shadowy hallway into his office was the same informant who'd always proved reliable in the face. Her face was hidden beneath a hood, a katana strapped to her waist. The armor was unadorned, but clearly reliable. "I thought I'd find you awake." The informant said with an air of jest. "After all, the wind told me about the return of the dragons. That concerns us all."
Farengar didn't meet her hooded gaze, "And I imagine, as someone long interested in dragons, you found that revelation interesting?"
"I did."
"Is there anything useful you can actually tell me?" He asked, irritation boiling over, "Or can I go back to research."
"You know me better than that, Farengar Secret-Fire. I wouldn't have come without something useful."
She handed him an old book, Holdings of Jarl Gjalund. "I think you'll find the highlighted passage particularly interesting."
After flipping to the aforementioned passage, Farengar could hardly believe what he was reading. Could it be true? Could the clue finally be there? Combining through the pages excitedly, Farengar studied the text. Yes, he could certainly translate the stone, if he had it before him.
"Do you know if the Dragonstone is still within the Barrow?" Farengar could hardly bear to hope but he must.
"As far as I'm aware."
"I must tell the Jarl, immediately." Farengar ran from his study at a blistering pace, his robes flapping, the book clenched tightly in his hands.
The Jarl had to see this immediately. Hopefully those adventurers were still in town. He would have use for them…