Chapter 14

Re-knitting Bones

"Those damn broken bones never heal quite right."- Vegnar, Nord mercenary. While original stated circa 1E 1206 the saying has since become a common utterance among injured soldiers of both king and coin.

Ulfric Stormcloak wasn't pleased with Galmar's suggestion. His brow was furled and chin propped upon a strong fist. Earning the ire of the future High King of Skyrim would have terrified most men.

But Galmar Stone-Fist was not most men.

"Galmar," Ulfric rumbled, tone verging on disappointment. "I trust your wisdom in all things. However this..." the words faded away as Ulfric searched for the way to properly explain his feelings, "Foolish quest, is so unlike you, old friend. It's reckless and foolish, and I won't sanction it. Especially not when it involves my very best warriors." At this point, those few remaining men who'd mustered the courage to continue their challenge would have backed down, apologising profusely for their foolishness.

Galmar Stone-Fist was not those men.

"My Jarl," he began, his gravelly voice containing a level of tact reserved for Ulfric alone. "I respect your wisdom. However, I assure you, the Jagged Crown is very real, and recovering it will help win this war."

"I don't need some ancient headpiece to convince the other Jarls to support me. My claim is legitimate. Furthermore, I do not want to risk the lives of my people in the pursuit of vanity." Ulfric paused, gazing out a nearby window. "I will not throw away lives sworn into my care for a babble."

"The support of Lelia Law-Giver, Korir, and Skald the Elder is a good start," Galmar continued undeterred by Ulfric's continued refusal, "However three Jarls aren't enough. You will need more. The people know of the Crown and with it on your head they will support their true king."

Ulfric pushed himself upright with a sigh. Without speaking he began pacing the length of the room. Galmar knew that meant he was deep in thought. Ulfric asked without looking at him, "What have you learned?"

Galmar responded, "According to both tradition and the ancient verses, the last king to wear the Jagged Crown was Borgas, centuries ago."

"Don't lecture me on Skyrim's history," Ulfric responded tersely. "I know of Borgas' defeat and subsequent entombment. I know how he was buried with the Jagged Crown on his head." Ulfric finally turned to face Galmar, unamused. "I'm also aware of what the tales say of Korvanjund Barrow."

Galmar waved, dismissing that concern. "The tales say Korvanjund was buried beneath the snow, vanishing from the surface of Skyrim. The king's final resting place was kept a secret to prevent grave robberies and desecration." Galmar chuckled. "Then, all who knew the Barrow's location were killed in battle. And so Korvanjund, and all its treasures, were lost forever."

"And the purpose of recounting this tale was?" Ulfric's words hung menacingly in the air, demanding a response.

Galmar smiled proudly. "I found it."

Ulfric's eyes widened ever so slightly. Only Galmar knew him well enough to catch it. "What?"

"A team of my scouts stumbled across it while searching for Imperials north of Whiterun. One fell into a snowbank that turned out to be a staircase. I had several of our scholars confirm the findings. This is the lost Barrow. My Jarl, all I need is your word."

Ulfric turned away sharply, his fur cloak billowing. Gazing out a window, Ulfric lost himself in thought. Galmar did not speak, respecting the unspoken request for silence. The only sound was Galmar's breathing, low and heavy.

"I want minimum casualties, Galmar." The words rumbled across the chamber, Ulfric's tone heavy. "I want this crown, if it does exist, returned with as little blood on it as possible. You will lead the expedition personally."

Galmar slammed his chest in salute. "It will be my absolute pleasure."

"One other thing," Ulfric mentioned, not turning his gaze from the window, "You may take the Helgen survivors. I pray to the Nine that this is a worthy use of them."

"It will be, that I promise you." Galmar turned and walked away. He had his orders, he had his forces, and soon his Jarl would have his crown. Being a king's housecarl was challenging, but Galmar would have it no other way. "Now," he murmured as the palace doors closed behind him, "to find that worm Ralof."

"It was the most foolish thing I've ever seen, and damn near the bravest." Skjor muttered to Kodlak around the stem of his pipe. The two Companions sat by Jorrvaskr's blazing fire in comfortable armchairs, each with a pipe in hand.

The fall of the dragon was not even a day old but the story was spreading across Whiterun like wildfire. The word around the taverns and marketplace was that not only had a dragon appeared but it had been slain and that wasn't the only one. Rumours of a Dragonborn continued to circulate, each bolder and more embellished than the last. Until the man himself spoke, they would remain rumours.

"I didn't think you cared much for Hammel," Kodlak observed, squinting slightly behind his beard, "Or for reckless acts of bravado."

"I don't," Skjor ground out with a voice sharp as flint. "But there wasn't much choice. The dragon was roasting those poor bastards."

Kodlak gestured with his pipe. "The Khajiit send their regards, and payment, for a job done well." He placed the pipe back in his mouth, blowing a smoke ring, "Pity you couldn't get a good look at the battle."

"I saw enough." Skjor gazed into the fire, momentarily lost in thought. "I saw him leap from the tower onto the dragon's back, and then the beast fell. I went to the battlefield and saw the bones myself." He shook his head, "That doesn't mean I have to agree with you. I don't."

Kodlak's beard danced as the old man shook his head, "My opinion remains unchanged, I want Greymist among the inner circle. He is not an old man but he is also no unshaven youth. Whether or not the Dragonborn rumblings are true, I believe he is a man of honour and would gain just as much from us as we would from him."

"You like this young man," Skjor noted, stating the observation as fact, rather than opinion.

"Yes."

"He reminds you of Brogan."

Kodlak's tone became icy. "Any resemblance to my son, imagined or actual, has no bearing on his worthiness, or my opinion. Is that clear?"

Skjor didn't take offence to the harshness of his old friend's response, nor did it alter his thoughts. "Completely," he answered. Dumping the burned tobacco into the fireplace, Skjor returned to the business. "I've arranged a trial for Hammel. If he is up for the challenge, and responsibility, he can make an attempt." Skjor paused for a moment, leaning back in his chair. "I wonder," he mused, "What he will think of our...condition."

Kodlak didn't respond at first. The weathered Harbinger's eyes lost focus, as if gazing into the very past itself. "I wonder about it myself."

Skjor snorted, "I know full well the strength of our blessing, and you should be more grateful for it. The glory we've won because of that boon is almost beyond counting. We are fortunate men." The two friends sat silently for a moment, "Aela has agreed to lend her aid by providing certain materials after she returns from her trip to Falkreath. She's leaving this afternoon in case you want to wish her well."

Kodlak shook his head. "Unnecessary. Aela knows what she is doing, I trust she'll sort this matter out in good time. Whatever is occurring in Falkreath must be important to her."

Skjor grumbled, "Well, whatever it was, she wouldn't tell me. I hope your assessment is truer than mine. Lass is headstrong."

"But not foolish; very much like her mother."

Skjor snorted, "Remember how that tale ended, old man." His tone was full of black humor, his scarred hands fiddling with the empty pipe. Its bowl was still warm to the touch even though the clay cooled rapidly.

"Fear not, brother," Kodlak encouraged, clasping his dear friend on the shoulder. "Aela also has her father's sense. She won't do anything too rash."

"I certainly hope so."

Hammel wasn't expecting to see Farengar's face when he awoke. In fact, if given a choice, Farengar would be near the very bottom of his list of faces to see. Somewhere above Hermaeus Mora but below Mehrunes Dagon. Unfortunately, when Hammel finally snapped his eyes open, there he was. The gangly mage was muttering indignantly under his breath while furiously mashing some kind of fine paste with mortar and pestle.

Hammel was unbelievably thirsty. "Water," he croaked with a voice like sandpaper. His head hammered with the force of a dozen hangovers, his vision was blurry, and his whole body hurt. He was in a bed in a room he didn't recognize, with a wool blanket pulled up to his chin.

"Welcome back to the land of the living," Farengar responded unpleasantly. He squinted, taking in the other man's condition. "Might I say, you look frightfully atrocious."

"Water," Hammel growled again, breaking into a fit of coughing. His lungs felt like they were burning and each heave of his chest caused more pain.

Farengar snatched up the pewter mug resting on a nearby end table and filled it with water from a small cask. "Calm down," Farengar responded tersely, passing Hammel the water. "Do you think you're the only one recovering here?"

After taking a long drink of the deliciously cold water, Hammel glanced about. Sure enough there were other beds, each occupied by a Whiterun guard. Many had suffered horrifying burns and few were conscious.

"Where... where am I?" He mumbled, taking another greedy drink from the mug, letting the water dribble down his goatee onto his chest.

"Dragonsreach infirmary," Farengar responded nonchalantly. "You've been here since you passed out following that scrap with the dragon." He retrieved his notebook and a small hunk of bone, before sitting down next to the bed. "I understand congratulations are in order, Dragonborn."

Hammel nearly choked on his water. "Dragonborn? I doubt it." The very notion of being Dragonborn seemed preposterous. No matter what had happened, or how he'd felt, or what he'd seen, there was no way he was Dovahkiin.

"Well you're certainly no Martin Septim," Farengar agreed, "But you do seem to have dragon blood." Tossing the chunk of bone onto the bed, he continued. "I saw the skeleton myself. Flesh doesn't rot away that quickly. However, my research suggests that ripping a dragon's soul out of its body causes catastrophic destruction to all non-skeletal materials." He nodded at the bone hunk, "That particular specimen came from our late friend, most of which is still sitting near the tower while the rest remains in my study. Fascinating material, dragon bone…"

"How can I be Dragonborn?" Hammel asked again, hoping the mage would somehow have the answer.

Farengar shrugged his scrawny shoulders. "I've read several theories. One suggests that the power is in the blood inherited from your father and mother. Another says all Dragonborn are touched by Akatosh himself when the need for one is dire enough." He snorted, chuckling to himself, "I also heard a philosopher once state that all men are Dragonborn, and we just have to believe in our inner dragon soul." His derisive laughter continued, "I don't put much stock in that particular theory." He held up his hands in a "stop talking" gesture before Hammel could butt in. "Look, before you ask for further proof you are Dragonborn, I'll just say this. You Shouted, without training. Everyone saw it, the effects were felt and, moreover, you know it's true." He paused, letting the words sink in. "You are Dragonborn."

Hammel looked down at the empty mug in his hands. A thousand questions raced through his mind, about past, present, future. "What do I do now?" He asked quietly, not sure why he even bothered.

"Do I look like an oracle to you?" Farengar responded derisively, "Figure it out." He turned away and moved towards the door. "The Jarl wished to be informed when you woke up, I'll tell him you're awake." He hadn't finished speaking as a woman entered. She was middle-aged and clearly Imperial, with wrinkled olive skin and stringy hair. In her hands was a large wooden bowl, from which rose a horrifying smell.

She looked Hammel up and down, "Glad to see you're awake," she approached his bedside, hands fiddling with the paste inside her bowl. Without a word, she reached under his blanket and grabbed his right leg where the tear was.

Hissing in pain, Hammel attempted to smack her hand away. He winced as the sudden movement sent a burst of agony throughout his chest. "Stop your fretting," she ordered, slapping his hand aside, "I'm checking to see if my poultice held."

"I don't normally let a woman grab me under the sheets without giving me her name," he joked through gritted teeth, trying to let the healer work.

She snorted, "Is that supposed to amuse me?" She went back to examining his leg before clicking her teeth. "My name is Arcadia, I run the Caldron here in Whiterun. I'm pleased to see you didn't rub my concoction away while sleeping."

"I thought Farengar…"

"You thought he did this?" She raised a solitary eyebrow. "My dear lad, Farengar is absolutely useless at healing magic, and unwilling to learn. You'll have to settle for a lowly herbalist." Dipping a small brush into her bowl, she began lathering it with the herbal remedy. "Now," she commanded, moving the brush towards his leg, "Hold still, this will sting."

That proved an understatement.

A hiss rattled his lungs, once again filling his chest with pain. "My chest hurts," he growled, trying not to sound like a whiny child.

Arcadia snorted. "That's to be expected when one breaks half a dozen ribs, now hold still!" He was trying not to squirm as the poultice burned away the multitude of infections already festering in the wound. "We force-fed you a potion, don't worry," she drawled on, slathering her brush with more of the disgusting mixture. "Those ribs are knitting back together but it'll take time, so avoid fighting, walking and other physical activities." She tapped his injured leg gently with the brush, "That leg won't take much more punishment." She jerked her head in the direction of a sturdily constructed and comfortable looking pair of crutches. "Unfortunately, knowing you fighter types, you'll want to be up right away. If you insist on walking, please use the crutches." She had begun muttering under her breath about his stupid recklessness, the swabbing of her brush growing fiercer with each word.

Fortunately for him, Balgruuf chose that moment to arrive, reducing Hammel from another lecture. The Jarl walked into the room, royal furs billowing dramatically, crown freshly polished and beard braided. He was accompanied by a quartet of royal guards and Irileth, who looked perfectly healthy despite her brush with the dragon. The leftmost guard was holding a lumpy object hidden beneath a cloth. Hammel struggled to sit upright, wheezing as pain rattled his recently shattered ribs.

Balgruuf waved the formality away. "Please lie still, Champion of Whiterun, there's no need to stand on ceremony." The Jarl smiled, warming up the entire room. "The impossible was done. A dragon was slain, in my own hold! Honour has been done to all parties." Before Hammel could respond to the Jarl's statement, Balgruuf held up his hands, "And please, spare me the false modesty. Yes, the others helped, yes, you were lucky, but I did not hear of any other man leaping onto the back of a dragon to save my city." He paused, turning to look at the other guards lying unconscious on their cots. "That kind of courage..."

"Or foolishness," Irileth muttered under her breath humorlessly.

"...does not go unrewarded in my hold." Balgruuf continued, ignoring Irileth's comments. Waving the guard carrying the covered object forward, he said, "Therefore, I present you with the Axe of Whiterun." The guard yanked the cloth free, revealing a meticulously crafted hand axe. The weapon was forged from pure steel and its handle was bound with fresh leather, the head was carved to resemble the stallion of Whiterun, snarling in triumph. It looked magnificently balanced and razor sharp. "I understand you prefer a dual-weapon style of fighting, and after losing both of your blades defending my city I felt a weapon was in order. It will prove a fine tool for the off-hand." He smiled again, before saying, "Congratulations, Thane of Whiterun."

That caught Hammel completely off guard. Images flashed through his mind. His childhood on the streets, hunting for scraps of food, constantly being told he was a whoreson, a guttersnipe, and would never be anything but. Being a grunt in the Legion, fighting on the frontlines, loving and losing, a prisoner with nothing but the rags on his back. The feeling of utter worthlessness. Now, here he was, Thane.

"Thane?" The word squeaked out from his cracked lips, lingering in the air fragile as glass.

"Indeed," Balgruuf smiled again, "Your housecarl is fixing up your new dwelling while we speak. Please visit her shortly, because I imagine she has questions for you." As he turned to leave, Balgruuf paused before throwing something small at Hammel. It was the fang he'd taken from the dragon. A small hole had been drilled into it and a thick strip of leather ran through. "I took the liberty of having the dragon's tooth threaded. It should fit around your neck or wherever you choose to hang it. Have a good day, Thane."

The Jarl strode from the room as briskly as he'd entered. The conversation had taken maybe three minutes. In three minutes Hammel's life had changed completely. His self-reflection was shattered as Arcadia spread more of her poultice along his leg, sending a jolt of pain along his body. "Thane or not, this leg needs more work. Now, grit your teeth!"

Hammel did just that.

Clob didn't like Belethor much. The Breton was, in a single word, untrustworthy. He was lanky and pale, with eyes resembling flint, and oily hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. His skin was even less scarred than Clob's, and he smelled faintly like rotting fish. He was a businessman, an untrustworthy businessman.

However, Clob needed basic supplies that Lucan Valerius didn't have, and he still had some loot acquired during his flight from Helgen and subsequent adventuring through Bleak Falls. Belethor was the only one in town who would buy these things, and sell him what he needed without too many questions.

I still haven't found a companion for my journey deep into Skyrim's wilds. Still, I'll burn that bridge when I come to it.

"I was wondering," Belethor asked Clob while fetching the winter blanket and jerky he'd requested. "You're a mage, and, I'm guessing, a powerful one." Belethor's words became muffled as he dropped below the counter. "Why didn't you fight the dragon?"

Clob shrugged his muscled shoulders, "I was not asked." The words rumbled from his maw like a bear awakening from hibernation. He folded his arms across his quarterstaff, making it obvious he wasn't interested in pointless questions.

"Fair enough." Belethor put a small sack on the counter before filling it with the requested items. "Let's see," he said, slowly dropping the items one by one into the bag. "A wheel of cheese, three pounds of jerky, a winter blanket, two pounds of dried fruit, half a pound of tea leaves." He paused, rubbing badly tattered gloves across a barely shaved chin. "Planning a long trip?"

"Yes." Clob responded tersely, pulling his sack towards him and placing it across his shoulder. He reached into his coin purse and placed the required Septims on the counter one by one, not oblivious to the look of pure greed crossing Belethor's face at the sight.

"If you plan on heading out of the city you'll need help," he added, faux concern not quite hiding naked avarice. "Even a mage as powerful as you could be vulnerable if travelling alone."

Clob turned rather abruptly, normally cheerful nature finally exasperated by the man. Without another word, he walked away, flinging the door open as he did. It banged shut behind him, cutting off Belethor's further attempts to engage him in conversation. He hadn't wanted anyone asking questions. He hadn't even intended to tell anyone he was leaving, except for the Nord, Greymist. Clob figured he owed him.

The setting sun beat down on the Whiterun market as various vendors offered their wares and exchanged coins. Carlotta seemed particularly pleased with herself, humming an ancient ditty. After the thrashing Lianna gave Mikael, the widow seemed to have been left alone, and clearly appreciated the solitude.

Clob looked around, sizing up each person in turn. The greasy Breton hadn't been wrong, he did need a travelling companion. But who could he take? Certainly not Greymist, the Nord was too attached to his new-found home and besides, if the rumours were true, he'd be very occupied in the coming days. He could ask Farengar, but the Court Wizard had duties he couldn't possibly put off, especially now with a dragon's corpse to study. But who else did he know? Who else did he trust? He couldn't afford to hire a Companion, and he wasn't close enough to Ria to ask her to do it for free.

Pondering the decision, Clob crossed the street and entered the Bannered Mare. Saadia was serving the few patrons present, balancing a platter of drinks while moving elegantly from person to person. Hulda remained behind the bar, wiping the counter down with an old rag.

Clob sat at the bar. Mikael was still playing, face looking much improved. The Nord in the iron armor, Sinmir, Clob believed his name was, continued to complain bitterly about the city guard while downing bottle after bottle of mead. Clob considered asking him for a moment, then discarded the notion. Any warrior worth his time wouldn't be that drunk at this hour. An angry looking woman wearing plate armor was similarly dismissed, she seemed too bitter to be trusted. No other obvious warriors were visible in the tavern. The other patrons were all farmers or citizens. He'd wait until night, hoping a mercenary or adventurer that seemed trustworthy enough would appear.

"Good evening, Clob." Hulda greeted him warmly enough, placing a mug of cheap beer in front of him. "I took the liberty of pouring the same drink you ordered last night." It didn't look horrific and he'd been too wrapped up studying and re-studying his map to remember the taste.

He smiled, his tusks framing his face, "Thank you," he picked up the mug in one hand and drained it. "Another," he requested, gently returning it to the countertop.

"Coming right up." Hulda moved gracefully to the kegs behind her while Clob produced several coins. "I'll miss you when you leave," she told him while putting down the refill. The foam bubbled happily over the side of the mug, frothy and white. "You've been a good patron, and fine company." She swept his coins off the counter into her money pouch with a practised hand, counting them as she did. "And you always paid your tab." She shot Sinmir a dirty glare, "Which is more than can be said for some."

At first, Clob was going to ask how she knew he was travelling, but decided against it. Aside from mages who could read minds, no one understood emotions better than bartenders. Either she'd noticed him studying maps or simply read his expression. Regardless, denying it would be pointless.

"I will return, if I can." He responded, taking his second beer much slower than the first, his beard now damp with foam. "However, duty takes precedence. I must make my journey, or die trying."

Hulda had likely heard such grandiose statements before, but still seemed faintly concerned. "Will you be travelling alone on this quest?" She began filling a third mug, already knowing he'd be soon requesting it.

Clob finished his tankard, before slamming it down definitively. "If I must."

Hulda seemed sympathetic. "Many men do difficult things in the name of honour. Performing your quest alone, though admirable, is also foolish. Could you delay another evening?"

Clob paused, mentally reviewing his plans. After a moment's consideration, he nodded. "Yes," he took another long draft of the Nordic beer, "I believe I can."

"Good," Hulda smiled. "I know someone. He's a little unusual, but trustworthy." She looked at Clob, continuing, "He's a Vigilant, and will be stopping here tomorrow. He's orcish like yourself and would be willing to take part in your cause, assuming it's an honourable one."

A Vigilant of Stendarr? Orcish? How strange.

Clob snorted. "We'll see if he thinks so."

Prefect Quintus Decimus was awoken by the rather unpleasant sound of someone being disembowelled just outside his tent. At first he thought he'd imagined it, so rolled over in his cot, pulled Hector closer to his face, and tried to fall back asleep. Then he heard another noise, a scream followed by blood splattering against the left side of his tent.

Sighing heavily, Quintus knew there would be no more sleep that night. Tucking his stuffed elephant underneath the top blanket to ensure his safety while murmuring, "Still safe," he left his little friend and went to investigate. There wasn't time for armor, so Quintus belted his sword over his nightgown and picked up his shield. Tossing his nightcap aside as he went, the Prefect barged out of his tent with only his sleepwear and underclothes for protection.

"Which of you motherless sons is responsible for attacking at this godless hour?" he bellowed, voice easily carrying over the camp. It took a moment for him to realise the severity of this attack. Several of his soldiers were engaged in combat with a variety of figures. The ground was littered with bodies, and a campfire had spilled over, setting some dry grass ablaze. Several horses had broken away from their restraints and dashed about madly whinnying with fear. A few tents and bed rolls were burning, the blazing fire a sharp contrast to the darkness of the night. Even as he took in the carnage, more of the enemy forces swarmed like a horde of goblin looters.

Realising this was now a very dangerous position for his company to be in, Quintus raised his sword high above his head. "Form up on me! All men to me!" he howled with his best parade-ground voice, shattering the din around him. Unfortunately, one of the nearby enemies also heard the command and attacked him.

The Khajiit was dressed head to toe in dark leather, moving with the unnatural grace of his kind. Clutched tightly in each hand was a chakram, razor sharp metal disks intended for throwing. With a hiss, the Khajiit hurled both at him. Despite his soldier's reflex, Quintus only blocked one. The first disk thudded against his shield, embedding itself harmlessly in the sturdy wood, but the second slashed across his cheek, leaving yet another scar. Even as the Khajiit reached back for two more of the damned blades, Quintus charged him.

Dashing across the ground, bare feet slapping packed dirt, he led with his shield. His opponent panicked, hurling two more chakrams without much accuracy. One missed Quintus by several inches, and he batted the other away with his sword. Dropping into an offensive stance, claws extended, the Khajiit pounced. Against a lesser soldier, this attack would have been fatal, the dagger-like claws opening up his neck before he could strike. But Quintus Decimus hadn't earned the position of Prefect by sitting at a desk.

Moving with reflexes honed by years in battle, Quintus threw his shield up, bracing himself for the impact. The enemy slammed against it before rebounding with a yelp and falling to the hardened ground. Without bothering to look down, Quintus stabbed him.

Spinning around, he saw something he'd rather not have. Charging straight at him, helmet-plume flying and saliva flowing, was an Orc. The massive warrior was covered head to toe in Orcish steel with a brutal-looking mace clutched in each hand. Both weapons were liberally coated with fresh gore. The sight of the towering hulk of flesh and metal elicited a small response from Quintus.

"Oh dear."

Then the Orc was on him swinging both maces in a whirlwind of steel and death. Dropping into total defence, Quintus stood his ground. Despite some excellent parrying, he knew he was outmatched. Not only was the Orc easily six inches taller and a hundred pounds heavier, his armor provided far more protection than a nightshirt.

Jabbing at the Orc's face, the Prefect tried to blind him in hopes of gaining the upper hand. However his enemy was deceptively fast, smashing the sword aside with frightening speed. Then the Orc struck with his right mace, a blow Quintus only just dodged by hurling himself backward. He was still scarred, the mace head tearing a bloody strip across his chest, staining his formerly pristine nightgown red.

Slashing upward before changing to a downward blow mid-strike, Quintus hoped to slip his blade between the cracks in the Orc's chestplate. Once again his adversary danced away from the strike and responded with a barrage of mace blows. His arm was already numb and each block sent further pain into his shoulder. His breathing came in ragged gasps, chest sore with the scars of battle. His cheek continued to sting, dripping hot blood down his chin onto the ground below.

Where are my men?

There was no time to shout his order again because his entire focus was required to keep himself alive. The Orc only seemed to grow stronger, bashing away with wild abandon. Quintus' arm had long since lost all feeling even as his shield slowly fell to pieces. Every so often he slash with his sword, either striking armor or missing the enemy entirely. Quintus felt himself being driven backward, nearly stumbling over the body of the fallen Khajiit. He prepared himself for Aetherius. Death would not be so bad, it might even be an improvement.

Then he heard it.

"All-Maker take your black soul!" The scream was louder than the roaring chaos. It was rich and held a wind-like quality. The Orc spun towards it, and saw his death.

Storming towards them with a steel greataxe held overhead and heavy armor gleaming in the flickering light was Stragg Long-Runner, Quintus' second-in-command. He was a Skaal, thick as a door but spry as a deer. Though he lacked a moustache, his beard was long and brown, blowing fiercely in the wind.

The combination of Stragg's strength, momentum, and weapon proved too much for the Orc. The blow cleaved his head clean from his shoulders, launching it across the camp. "Prefect Decimus," Stragg greeted him casually, as if the battle wasn't raging around them.

"Captain Long-Runner," Quintus responded with equal tone, "Who are these rotten fellows infesting my camp?"

"Stormcloak mercenaries sir," Stragg answered. "I've identified them as 'The Dogs of War.' Dispatching them should be a simple matter."

Quintus adjusted his nightgown, ignoring the massive pain in his chest, "Right, let's send them off quickly. I'm bleeding something awful and would like to get myself patched up."

"Very good, sir."

Hammel Greymist hobbled towards Breezehome on his new crutches. After bestowing the title and honour of Thane upon his shoulders, and giving him the key to the house, Proventus sent him on his way. While sleeping in Jorrvaskr held a certain appeal, he would certainly enjoy the peace that came from living under one's own roof.

The newly acquired Axe of Whiterun rested on his belt as comfortably as if it had always sat there. The Kiss had been returned to its rightful place under his arm. The dragon's tooth dangled boldly around his neck, a testament to the man who'd brought down the dragon.

The Dragonborn.

That word had bounced around his mind since he'd pulled himself from Arcadia's care. Legends, responsibilities, and wonder each took hold of his thoughts at some point, only to be chased away by anxiety or turmoil. Time would tell what would become of him. Until then, he'd stay close to home and heal his broken bones.

Wincing as his ribs rattled, Hammel continued walking with the crutches. The wind blew pleasantly, bringing a slight chill with it. The city was undamaged, thanks to the dragon's focus on the watchtower and subsequent death, at least for the moment.

Adrianne was hard at work at her forge, pounding hammer on steel. According to Proventus' directions, Breezehome was adjacent to Warmaiden's. While many wouldn't want a home next to the blacksmith, Hammel did. The sound of the hammer on the anvil was a comforting one and readily available tools were a blessing. If Adrianne needed a hand, he would be available to offer it. Hopefully, she'd give him access to the grindstone and armor bench because maintaining his own equipment was something the Legion had drilled into him.

Breezehome was pleasant enough. It was a compact house, sturdily constructed of well cut timber with a roof covered in wooden shingles. Several glass windows dotted its exterior while its foundation was solid stone. A simple oaken door, sealed with a sturdy-looking iron lock waited for him.

Bracing himself against his crutches, Hammel fished around in his pouch for the key, mentally hoping his directions were correct. If his first act as Thane was explaining how he wasn't breaking and entering but simply lost he'd never live it down. Fortunately, the key slipped perfectly into the lock, and clicked warmly after a single twist.

Breezehome was extremely pleasant on the inside. The first thing he noticed was a roaring fire, crackling happily away. Two comfortable looking armchairs sat across from it, waiting to be occupied. Between the chairs was a small side table at the perfect height for beverages. A bookshelf, some chests, and various cupboards stood empty, waiting to be filled with nick-knacks and trophies. A set of stairs led to an upper floor, a small table and dining area was set up towards the rear, and past that some double doors led to a currently empty room.

The first thing Hammel did was sit in one of the chairs. Letting out a groan of relief, he dropped his crutches and got comfortable. The brief solitude was interrupted by the sound of heavy boots descending the stairs behind him. Turning his head slowly to avoid further injury to his body, Hammel saw his new housecarl.

She was tall for a woman, nearly six feet, her frame packed with firm muscle. Long dark hair, the color of midnight, flowed freely over her shoulders like a waterfall. She had a firm jawline, weathered skin, and a rather plump nose. Her ocean-green eyes twinkled with an unruly fire, and she was clad in heavy Nord iron armor. A round, wooden shield was slung across her back, and a long blade was belted to her waist. She was beautiful in that rough Nord warrior maiden way, though she paled in comparison to Aela who had continually haunted his dreams.

She sniffed the air once and said with the faintest hint of superiority, "You reek."

Hammel was taken aback. He knew his housecarl wouldn't sing his praises on the first meeting, but he didn't expect a comment about his odour. "I've just come out of the Jarl's healing room and haven't had a bath since the battle at the Western Watchtower." He placed his hand on the side table, wishing to Talos there was a mug of cold mead there. He snorted a little, "And I look worse than I smell."

The woman smiled very faintly, "That you do." She bowed her head politely. "I am Lydia, and I am sworn to carry your burdens." She grimaced slightly at her own comment. "I will serve you until you deem fit to release me, or death take me. I will be your sword and shield, I will..."

Hammel waved at her, "I know the oath. Please sit." He gestured at the other chair, "Don't tire yourself out giving me the long version."

Lydia nodded gratefully, before dropping onto the other chair with the grace of someone used to wearing heavy armor. The chair creaked but held her weight. She rested her chin on her fist and gazed at Hammel, analysing him. "I hope I won't have to stand on ceremony all the time with you." Lydia said, "When I was being trained they warned me, depending on the man, it could be like that." She gazed into his eyes for a moment, "I hope stuffy titles and putting on airs isn't your mug of mead."

He snorted, "Me? Put on airs? Hardly. I'm a simple man, just trying to do his duty, and I'm damned grateful for the help," he admitted to her. "But I'm no one's master. I respect you and you respect me." Lydia nodded. "Good, now please get me a drink." He requested, "If there is any in the house."

"There is," Lydia responded, pushing herself to her feet. "Black-Briar mead is in the right cabinet, for future reference." She pointed at the cupboard specified. She reached up, opened the cupboard door, and pulled out two bottles, Black-Briar label clearly visible. Before returning to her seat, she passed Hammel his. "Will there be anything else, my Thane?" She asked, seeming almost serious with the title, rather than mocking.

"No." Hammel yanked the cork clear from the bottle with a pleasant popping sound. "I just want to sit here for a moment." Placing the bottle to his lips, he took a long, hearty draft. The mead tumbled down his sore throat, electing a sigh from him.

"I expected the Dragonborn would be taller." His housecarl stated, one eyebrow raised slightly.

Hammel refused to be baited, "Nothing has been proven." Even to him, his denial seemed weak, particularly after Farengar's earlier rebuttals. "We don't know for sure."

"We will when the Greybeards call you." Lydia said, glancing across the fire towards Breezehome's entrance. "They can sense a Dragonborn, you know."

"I know that," Hammel responded somewhat tersely.

Maybe that's why I'm so opposed to this. Like I'm not worthy to be one of them. What am I after all?

"They will come," Lydia insisted.

Hammel wasn't sure if the woman had faith in him, or wanted to see him fall. Still, he found her firmness oddly comforting.

"We'll see..."