In the heart of Riften, the Bannered Mare tavern was abuzz with a mix of patrons, both regulars and newcomers. The atmosphere was filled with the scent of roasted meats, the clink of tankards, and the hum of conversation.

A Bard was playing a favourite, and very familiar tune within the wooden confines of the Tavern:

"Our hero, our hero, claims a warrior's heart

I tell you, I tell you, the Dragonborn comes.

With a voice wielding power of the ancient Nord art,

Believe, believe, the Dragonborn comes.

It's an end to the evil of all Skyrim's foes.

Beware, beware, the Dragonborn comes.

For the darkness has passed, and the legend yet grows.

You'll know, you'll know, the Dragonborn's come"

Cura and her companions entered the Bannered Mare tavern, the lively atmosphere enveloping them as they stepped inside. As soon as Cura and her companions entered, heads turned to gaze upon the storied group. The Bard's tune filled the air, a familiar melody that seemed to have been written just for them. Cura couldn't help but smile as she heard the words, a sense of pride swelling in her chest.

Sabrina elbowed her in the ribs. "I don't believe it, Cura..."

Inigo leaned in close, his voice low and conspiratorial. "I must say, I do enjoy the sound of my best friend's own legend."

Cura surveyed the tavern, her golden armor glinting in the firelight as she strode through the doorway. The familiar tune of the Bard's song washed over her, a melody that had become as much a part of her identity as the amulet around her neck. She couldn't help but feel a sense of pride, knowing that her deeds had become the stuff of legend. Or, rather, that her deeds had become entwined with tales of old. Or, perhaps, knowing the capricious nature of Destiny, the Legends foretold her deeds that were yet to come, and have passed, both at once.

As Cura and her companions settled into the tavern, the atmosphere shifted noticeably. Patrons who recognized them quickly cleared a space near the hearth, their faces reflecting awe and curiosity.

As soon as the Bard saw Cura, his eyes widened, and he cleared his throat. "This is a New song, an inspirational tune, in fact, dedicated to our very popular local heroine:

"Her verdant eyes look out to the skies,

her voice a mighty storm,

a mace she wields, a cudgel of justice,

a gavel to break upon the wyrm.

Saint Cura, the Dragon of Stendarr,

Saint Cura, the Crier of Windcaller's Horn.

Saint Cura, the great Arbiter,

resplendent, great Dragonborn.

The Vampires did stalk the night, you see,

the powers of darkness they held,

Saint Cura, with blazing sword in hand,

inspired them to burst and melt.

O Vigilant, O Vigilant, hear the sound of the Horn,

O Vigilant, O Vigilant, the call of the great Dragonborn."

The bard's song continued, now taking on a more epic quality as he weaved tales of the Dragonborn's exploits.

Inigo snorted. "My friend, I could write a better song than that!"

"Be nice, Inigo." Cura admonished her friend, though she was unable to hide the rosiness in her cheeks. "I thought it was quite nice."

As the bard's song reached its crescendo, a man seated at the bar raised his glass, a wide grin splitting his face. "To Saint Cura! To the Dragonborn! To Skyrim!" he exclaimed, his voice booming with enthusiasm. Several other Revelers followed suit, raising their mugs and shouting praises to the Dragonborn.

Cura, taken aback by the sudden outpouring of adoration, felt a blush creep up her cheeks.

Inigo, ever the opportunist, quickly grabbed the chance to milk the situation for what it was worth. "Yes, yes, to Saint Cura! And may I add, to her equally talented and handsome friend, Inigo!" he interjected, bowing dramatically and eliciting a chuckle from those around him, including Cura and her companions.

Sabrina leaned over to Cura, speaking quietly. "I have to admit, I thought your tales were tall before, but I guess you actually sold yourself short. Brag a little, for Stendarr's sake."

Cura shook her head at Sabrina's teasing words. "You'll have to look to Inigo for the embellishment then. He's the greater wordsmith between us."

"My friend, you flatter me! I turn a phrase upon its back like a helpless tortoise!" Inigo chuckled. "And besides, nobody can make a mountain out of a molehill like I can!"

Their attention was soon diverted, however, by a group of people pushing their way into the tavern - a man dressed in Imperial heavy armour, his eyes darting warily about him, followed closely by three other individuals clad in various shades of brown and grey.

One of them stepped forward and announced in a commanding voice. "Where is she? The Dragonborn."

The man in Imperial heavy armour scanned the tavern, his eyes landing on Cura. He marched over, the floorboards creaking under his weight, and came to a halt before her. "You're the Dragonborn, aren't you?" he demanded, his voice gruff and stern.

Cura eyed him warily, sensing the tension emanating from him and his companions. "I am. Who are you?" she asked, her hand resting casually on the hilt of Dawnbreaker. "I am Captain Valbrand of the Imperial Legion," the man replied, his gaze flicking briefly to the weapon at her side. "We've heard rumours of your sighting... I can scarcely believe it..." his words trailed off as he continued to stare at the figure before him; once known to be dead, but now stood before them, Human, and of the minor soldiers, a lanky Breton with dark, matted hair and a scar bisecting his right eyebrow, leaned closer to the Captain.

"She looks pretty damn fierce to me," he murmured. "Those stories about her fighting vampires... you reckon they're true?"

Varla, who had sat silently at the table nearby, propped his tankard down on the table and stood up. "She has lain waste to Molag Bal and walked the plains of Coldharbour. And yet you set the bar so low."

Captain Valbrand's brow furrowed at Varla's remark. He glanced at the disheveled warrior before turning back to Cura, a newfound respect in his eyes. "Aye... that was foolish of him. And yet... you are not the simple legend I was expecting. I beg your forgiveness for doubting you."

Varla snorted. "You beg forgiveness? And you call yourself an Imperial Captain?"

The soldier stepped forward, resting his hand on his sword's pommel casually. "Yes." his gaze softened upon Cura. "Vigilant Saint Cura Stormcloak; Dragonborn, Stendarr's Dragon. It is my honour to finally meet you. I've come up from Cyrodiil on emergency, summoned by General Tullius a month ago. I admit; your tale inspires us all." Varla scoffed audibly, crossing his arms over his chest. "Emergency? You mean you've been summoned to do what? Bow and scrape before a woman who's already done more for this land than your entire legion combined?" He turned to Cura, his bitterness evident. "I hope you're not going to waste your time with these fools, Saint."

Cura sighed, her attention shifting between Varla and the Captain. "Varla, please."

"Oh, stop with the theatrics." Varla began, "If you've come to enlist her-"

Captain Valbrand held up a hand, silencing any further outburst from Varla. "I understand your skepticism. But I assure you, we are here to aid and support Cura in any way we can. The Legion recognizes her as a vital asset in the fight against the Daedric threat."

The Breton soldier leaned in closer to Cura, his eyes wide with awe. "So it's true then?" He spoke in a hushed manner. "You really did... you really walked through the gates of Oblivion and returned? And you brought others back with you?"

Cura's face hardened, her gaze fixed on the Captain. "It is true. But I won't discuss it here." She glanced around the tavern, noting the curious eyes of the patrons. "Right now, I intend to celebrate with my friends. It's been... quite an ordeal." Cura's voice was firm yet gentle, a testament to her resolved spirit and unyielding kindness. She looked around the tavern, her eyes meeting those of her companions.

Inigo grinned, raising his mug of mead, "To Cura, our world's brightest Firecracker!" he declared, his voice echoing through the tavern. The patrons cheered, their mugs clinking together in a chorus of celebration.

Sir Amiel, who stood against the wall, raised his tankard, "To the Dragonborn, the one who gave us another chance at life."

Sir Henrik followed suit, "Mmm-hmm! And to Honningbrew, for their Mead is true."

Sir Ralvas raised a tankard, "To the Dragonborn, and to her magnanimity."

Sabrina chuckled, shaking her head at Inigo's antics. "Always the charmer, aren't you, Inigo? Though I have to admit, you're not wrong. Our girl here is a true force of nature."

Cura felt a flush of emotion, touched by the sincerity in their words. She raised her own mug, the amber liquid glinting in the tavern's dim light. "To all of you." Her voice carried, strong and clear. "You've stood by me through it all. I couldn't have done any of this without you."

The Captain watched the scene unfold, his expression a mix of admiration and calculation. He stepped closer to Cura, speaking in a low, measured tone. "Perhaps we could speak privately later? There are... matters of great importance that require your attention."

Cura nodded, "Certainly, Captain Valbrand. I will need a good debriefing, I'm sure of it." She turned back to her companions, her face lighting up with a warm smile. "But for now, let's enjoy this moment. We've earned it."

Captain Valbrand nodded respectfully and led his companions out with him.

The tavern's atmosphere buzzed with the clinking of tankards and the murmur of conversation as patrons celebrated the living legend among them. Inigo, never one to miss an opportunity for theatrics, dramatically raised his mug again. "To the one who should have been my arch-nemesis, but became my dearest friend!"

"Inigo, why do you say that?" Cura sounded almost disappointed.

"Well... if I had successfully joined the Thieves' Guild like I originally wanted to, you would have likely tossed me into the river to reclaim your Amulet of Stendarr." Inigo said with a laugh.

Sabrina leaned forward, "Hold on, you wanted to join the Thieves' Guild?"

The tavern erupted in laughter and good-natured ribbing at Inigo's confession. Cura rolled her eyes, a smile tugging at her lips. "Well, I suppose that would have made for an interesting first meeting. Not that ours wasn't interesting to begin with."

Varla snorted, "Not if you had tried to rob the Dragonborn. I'd wager she would have knocked you out cold before you could even blink."

Inigo shrugged, grinning, "Perhaps."

Vilja, who had been washing her face upstairs, came down the stairs. "What's this about knocking people out? We're not going to have a brawl in here, are we? I don't think Keerava would appreciate that very much."

Inigo gestured to her, "And no dancing on the tables either, Vilja."

Vilja scoffed in response and placed her hands on her hips in a huff. "People in Skyrim just don't know how to have fun like we do on Solstheim."

The tavern's atmosphere remains warm and welcoming as the evening continues. Patrons continue to celebrate, their voices carrying a lively air through the establishment. The smell of roasted meats and hearty ale mingles with the smoke from hearth fires.

As the hours pass, more revelers filter in, adding to the already festive ambiance.

Vulvulf Snow-Shod, a staunch supporter of the Stormcloaks, and the patriarch of Clan Snow-Shod, entered the tavern with his wife, Nura. As soon as his eyes fell upon Cura, a gleam in his eye shone like a star.

"There she is!" he outstretched his arms. "The hero of Skyrim, the daughter of the Rightful High King!"

Vulvulf strode over to Cura's table, his wife Nura trailing behind him. He clapped a hand on Cura's shoulder, his eyes shining with admiration. "Dragonborn! I've heard the tales of your exploits. You've done more for Skyrim than anyone in recent memory."

Nura smiled warmly at Cura. "It's an honor to meet you, my lady. Your deeds have inspired many of us. Talos be with you." she whispered.

Vulvulf nodded vigorously.

Cura waved a hand, "Talos be with you, as well." she responded with a smile, which caused Nura to nearly swoon.

"Spoken like a true Daughter of Skyrim." Vulwulf beamed with pride.

Vulvulf's hand remained on Cura's shoulder as he continued, his voice rising with enthusiasm. "I've been a staunch supporter of Ulfric and the Stormcloaks for years now. Seeing you here, it's like a dream come true! The Rightful High King's daughter, fighting for Skyrim's freedom. And the Dragonborn, to boot! It's what Talos would have wanted!"

Nura nodded in agreement, her eyes shining with admiration for Cura. "Indeed, my lady."

Cura nodded slowly. "When this Daedric threat is over, and the time is nigh, I promise that you won't have to hide your Talos worship any longer. I will see to it that his name is restored to the Pantheon."

Vulvulf's eyes widened with excitement, his grip tightening on Cura's shoulder. "Truly? By Shor, that's a promise I'd follow you to the ends of the Aurbis to see fulfilled! Talos has blessed Skyrim by sending you to us in our time of need. Mark my words, Cura Stormcloak, the people will rise up and rally behind you! You're destined for greatness!"

Vulvulf's enthusiastic proclamation drew the attention of the other patrons in the tavern. Conversations hushed as curious eyes turned towards the small gathering by the fireplace. Nura leaned in closer to Cura, her voice low and urgent. "You must be careful, my lady. The Thalmor have spies everywhere, even here in Skyrim. They would stop at nothing to prevent Talos' return to the pantheon."

Cura's eyes hardened. "I don't fear the Thalmor. They're just modern Ayleids."

Vulwulf laughed victoriously. "Your courage is as legendary as your mace! They think they've won? Hah! They think we don't see them, poking around our homes, looking for signs of Talos. Mark my words, when this Daedric threat is over, the Thalmor are gonna turn on us all. Mark my words." He crossed his arms, "But, it comforts my heart to know where the Dragonborn stands, here with us, in Skyrim." Vulwulf raised his tankard high. "To Cura Stormcloak! The savior of Skyrim!"

The tavern patrons cheered, raising their drinks in a hearty chorus. The music resumed, and the celebration continued as if to drown out any concerns about Thalmor interference. Nura gently tugged on Vulwulf's sleeve, trying to redirect the conversation, but her husband was in his element now, surrounded by like-minded supporters of Talos.

While Cura did not worship Talos personally, she understood his love for Skyrim, and the injustice of his removal; an injustice that she would correct when the time was right.

Vulwulf's hearty proclamation continued to echo through the tavern, drawing the attention of every patron. Nura, sensing the growing enthusiasm, tugged gently at Vulwulf's sleeve. "My love, perhaps we should temper our celebration. The Thalmor-" she began, but was interrupted by a loud crash from the tavern's entrance.

A group of five Thalmor agents burst into the room, their black and gold hooded robes stark against the dim lighting. They scanned the tavern's patrons, and their eyes fell upon Cura, and they were shocked.

"So, it's true!" one of the Thalmor Wizards exclaimed when his eyes met Cura. "The Dragonborn has returned, in the flesh!" The Thalmor agents strode purposefully towards Cura's table, their robes swishing with each step. The tavern patrons, sensing the impending confrontation, fell silent, their eyes darting between the Dragonborn and the approaching elves.

The lead Thalmor, a tall and slender Altmer with piercing blue eyes, addressed Cura directly. "Dragonborn, we meet at last. I am Zephyrion, a Consulate of the Thalmor. I work under First Emissary Elenwen."

Cura nodded and smiled lightly. "Elenwen..." her tone drifted. Her biological mother, who had kept it secret for so long.

Zephyrion's eyes narrowed as he took in Cura's nonchalant demeanor. "You do not seem surprised to see us, Dragonborn. Perhaps you were expecting our arrival?" He glanced around the tavern, noting the tense atmosphere. The other Thalmor agents fanned out, their hands resting on the hilts of their swords.

Cura leaned back in her chair, her eyes never leaving Zephyrion's. "I'm no stranger to the Alliance, and I have been met with members of all factions. It was only a matter of time until the Thalmor would hear of my return and wish to speak with me."

Zephyrion's lips curved into a subtle smirk, though his eyes remained cold and calculating. "Wise of you to anticipate our arrival. But tell me, Dragonborn, what exactly brings the hero of the Eight to this humble establishment?" He swept his gaze around the tavern once more, clearly assessing both the potential threat level and the layout for escape routes.

"Because she's one of us!" Vulwulf snarled at the Thalmor agent. "She can have a drink if she damn well pleases, Elf."

Vulwulf's outburst drew the attention of the other Thalmor agents, who tensed visibly at the Stormcloak supporter's aggressive tone. Zephyrion, however, remained composed, his gaze flicking briefly to Vulwulf before returning to Cura.

"And who might you be, my good man?" Zephyrion inquired, his voice dripping with false pleasantry. "A Stormcloak sympathizer, I presume? How... quaint."

Cura raised a hand, "Everybody, settle down. We're just having a conversation. There's no need for any of us to be hostile."

The tavern patrons continued to eye the Thalmor agents warily, but the immediate tension seemed to dissipate at Cura's calming words. Zephyrion's smirk widened slightly, though his eyes remained guarded.

"So, the Dragonborn wishes to converse? How... intriguing. Very well, I am more than willing to engage in a civil discourse, provided it is productive and not merely a stalling tactic." He gestured to the empty chair across from Cura. "May I?"

Cura nodded, "Certainly. Have a seat." She reached for the pitcher of Alto Wine on her table and she filled his tankard.

Zephyrion gracefully lowered himself into the offered chair, his movements precise and controlled. He accepted the tankard of Alto Wine with a nod of thanks, though his eyes never left Cura's face.

"I must say, I am quite surprised to find the illustrious Dragonborn in such humble surroundings," Zephyrion remarked, taking a sip from the tankard. "One would think that someone of your... stature would have more pressing matters to attend to."

"Mehrunes Dagon is... doing something right now." Cura shrugged. "As long as nothing is happening just yet, I will take some time to rest for the chaos that no doubt awaits us all in the near future."

Zephyrion leaned back in his chair, swirling the dark wine in his tankard as he studied Cura's face intently. "Indeed, the path of the Dragonborn is never a quiet one," he mused, his voice a low murmur. "Still, I cannot help but wonder at your motivations. The Dragonborn who single-handedly saved the world from Alduin, only to side with the Stormcloaks? It is... unconventional, to say the least."

Cura crossed her arms, "I haven't taken any side on Skyrim's Political Front." she corrected him plainly. "In truth, my Allegiance is with the Gods."

Zephyrion arched an eyebrow, a hint of amusement playing at the corners of his mouth. "The Gods? How... intriguing. And which Gods might those be, pray tell? Surely not the ones who have forsaken this land and its people?"

He leaned forward, his eyes glinting with a predatory light. "Or perhaps you refer to the Daedric Princes, those fickle and capricious beings who care little for the plight of mortals?"

Cura smirked. She knew what game he was playing. It was a barely-veiled attempt to have her confess to what she had promised the Snow-Shods not five minutes ago. She raised her tankard of wine to her lips and took a sip, and then set the tankard upon the table. She turned it around with her palm, adjusting the handle to face where Inigo was sitting, the table over.

"I suppose you could say that," she began. "I make no secret of the fact I was aided by Meridia. And Jyggalag." She outstretched her arms, and nodded down towards the Meridian Champion armour she donned, as well as Dawnbreaker on her hip. "But as for the Gods, I mainly serve Stendarr. Anybody who knows my name knows this basic truth."

Zephyrion's eyes narrowed as he caught the subtle hint in Cura's actions, the deliberate positioning of the tankard a not-so-subtle reminder of their shared secrets. He leaned back in his chair, his fingers drumming a contemplative rhythm against the armrest. "Ah, Stendarr," he mused, a wry smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "The God of Mercy and Judgment. It seems fitting that one as..." he paused, choosing his words carefully, "...well-regarded as yourself would choose to serve such a deity. But tell me, Lady Stormcloak, how does one reconcile the tenets of mercy with the often brutal reality of combat? Surely even the most righteous of causes can lead to... unfortunate outcomes."

Cura's eyes narrowed slightly, but she maintained a calm demeanor. "You speak as if you've had firsthand experience with this, Consulate."

Zephyrion's lips twitched into a knowing smirk. "One might say I've had my share of... interesting encounters over the years. But I digress. You were about to elaborate on your, ah, methods of conflict resolution." He leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table, his interest in her response clear.

Cura's fingers drummed against the handle of her tankard as she considered her words. "Mercy isn't about avoiding conflict, Consulate." She laid her Elven Mace on the table. "Sometimes the path to mercy requires a firm hand. To prevent one who would harm innocents from being able to carry out their deeds is to spare the populace great harm."

The patrons of the tavern watched intently as Cura and Zephyrion engaged in their verbal sparring match. The air was thick with tension, the usual jovial atmosphere subdued by the weight of their conversation. Cura's companions, scattered throughout the tavern, kept a watchful eye on the exchange, their hands hovering near their weapons.

"I trust you'll inform Elenwen that I've returned?" Cura asked.

Consulate Zephyrion's eyes flashed with intrigue at Cura's question. "Indeed, Lady Stormcloak. I shall relay the news of your safe return to our esteemed First Emissary." He leaned back in his chair, a sly smile playing across his features. "Though I must admit, I find myself quite curious about your recent... travels. Pray tell, what secrets might you have uncovered in the realm beyond the veil?"

Sabrina interjected, "Sand and bones all over the place, mainly." She spoke plainly, offering Cura a way out.

"You're right, of course." Cura's eyes flashed with a mixture of amusement and relief at Sabrina's intervention. "Though I must say, the architecture was quite... distinctive. A veritable maze of floating fortresses and crumbling ruins."

Zephyrion's interest piqued at this description. "Fascinating. And the denizens? Did you encounter any... interesting specimens during your sojourn in Oblivion?"

"Umm... hello?" Sabrina gestured towards herself, Sir Amiel, Sir Henrik, Sir Ralvas, and Varla.

Sir Amiel stepped forward. "Coldharbour was not the sort of realm one wishes to recount, with all due respect, Consulate. The Dragonborn has come here with the goal to mainly forget what she'd encountered there."

Zephyrion's face darkened, his smile fading as he recognized the gravity of the situation. "Ah, I see. Perhaps it would be best to leave such... unpleasantries in the past." He sipped his wine, his gaze drifting to the other patrons before returning to Cura. "Still, I cannot help but wonder - what drove you to venture into such a place? Surely there were more... pleasant pursuits available to one of your standing?"

Varla stepped forward, his strides aggressive. "You ask too many damned questions. Leave her in peace." The son of Umaril stared down the smaller High Elf with a baleful glare.

Cura's hand rested on Varla's arm, a subtle gesture that signaled him to restrain his growing aggression. "It's alright, Varla," she said, her voice steady and calm. "The Consulate only seeks information, as is his duty. Let's not burn the Inn down." She turned her gaze back to Zephyrion, her eyes holding a hint of both amusement and caution.

Zephyrion chuckled at Varla's aggressive stance, but made no move to provoke further hostility. Instead, he took a long sip of his wine, savoring the flavor before speaking again. "My apologies, Cura Stormcloak. I meant no disrespect by my inquiries. Merely the idle curiosity of a diplomat seeking to understand the motivations of a hero." His eyes gleamed with a calculating light as he studied the Dragonborn.

Cura could smell the lies a mile away, but she instead smiled and went along with it. "Certainly. I will be happy to answer any questions you may have, but at a later time. For now, I just need some time to unwind."

Zephyrion's eyes narrowed slightly at Cura's response, a flicker of suspicion crossing his features before he schooled his expression back into one of polite interest. "Of course, of course. I would not dream of keeping you from your... unwinding." He took another sip of his wine, his gaze never leaving Cura's face.

Varla shifted uncomfortably beside Cura, his hand twitching towards the hilt of his sword.

Consulate Zephyrion slowly stood up from his seat. "Enjoy the rest of the day; and, if you need any assistance from the Thalmor, do not hesitate to call upon me. After all, we are all in this together..." He slowly strode towards the door on the west side of the Inn, and his men followed him out. The tavern door swung shut behind the departing Thalmor, the tension in the room palpable. Vulwulf slammed his tankard down on the bar, his face flushed with anger.

"That pompous elf just waltzed in here and started interrogating people like they were common criminals!" he exclaimed, his voice rising. "And you," he turned to face Cura, his expression a mix of accusation and disbelief, "you're just going to let him get away with it?"

Cura nodded, "For now. There's a time and a place for everything, Vulwulf."

"And what would you have us do, Vulwulf?" Vilja asked, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Storm out of here and pick a fight with the Thalmor in the middle of town? That hardly seems like the wise course of action."

Varla snorted derisively. "Wise? There's nothing wise about letting those arrogant pricks think they can just waltz in here and start throwing their weight around."

Zephyrion strode out of the inn, his Thalmor guards trailing behind him. As he reached the street, he paused, turning to address his men in a low voice. "Keep watch on that Dragonborn and her companions. I want to know their every move. And so, no doubt, will the First Emissary."

The guards nodded in unison, melting into the shadows to observe their targets discreetly.

As Zephyrion and his guards disappeared into the night, the tavern fell silent for a moment. Cura watched them go, her eyes reflecting the flickering torchlight outside. She turned back to the group, her expression serious. "We need to be cautious. The Thalmor are going to be watching us closely."

Vulwulf, still simmering with anger, leaned against the bar. "What do you suggest we do, Dragonborn?"

"Live your life as you were." Cura told him, "Tell noone of the conversations we had here. As for my group and I, we will be fighting alongside the Stormcloaks, the Legion, and the Thalmor for the time being."

"The Thalmor's interest in us is concerning," Cura continued, her voice low and measured. "But we can't let it deter us from our mission. We must continue to build alliances and fight against the greater threats facing Tamriel."

Vilja sighed, running a hand through her hair. "It seems we're always walking a tightrope with the Thalmor. One misstep and..."

"Enough of this gloom and doom." Inigo waved it off, "Let's have some more Sweetrolls."

Cura slowly pulled back her chair. "I've... lost my appetite, Inigo. There've been too many distractions today and I've lost the drive." She stood, her armor clinking softly as she moved. "I need to get some fresh air and clear my head. Will you all be staying here?"

"Yeah," Sabrina said nonchalantly. "I think we'll get to know your friends for a while, share some Coldharbour tales with them."

Varla cleared his throat, "Actually, Cura, I want to go to the Temple of Mara. You must know where it is, right?"

"I... think so." Cura wondered. "It's on the west side of the city, the big building that faces the Marketplace, right?" She turned to Inigo for reassurance. In truth, she'd never been to it before. She'd spent a very short time in Riften the first time she'd set foot in it.

Inigo, who had been listening intently, nodded. "You are right, it is near the marketplace. You cannot miss the Banners on the rock walls. I've been there a few times. It is a lovely place, actually."

Cura sighed, relief evident on her face. "Good. I'll meet you all back here in a couple of hours then." She turned to leave, but paused at the door. "And Inigo... don't do anything I wouldn't do."

"I think I crossed that line when I fired a snowball from a crossbow." Inigo reminisced with a chuckle.

Cura nodded at Inigo's quip, a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips despite the heavy weight on her mind. She turned to Varla, her expression softening slightly. "Of course I'll go with you to the Temple of Mara. I could use some guidance right now, and maybe we can talk more about...everything."

Varla's eyes gleamed with gratitude, though he maintained his gruff demeanor. The pair of them exited through the doors on the west side of the Inn, and they moved out onto the streets.

The city was growing dark under the setting sun, and Cura's eyes scanned the buildings on the west side of the city. She saw rows of wooden houses until she saw what appeared to be two long stone walls with Standards depicting the same symbol as the Amulet of Mara on them.

"Wow, that was easy." she remarked as she pointed towards it.

Varla nodded in agreement as they walked, his hand occasionally brushing against the hilt of his sword as he moved. As they drew nearer to the temple, he turned to Cura. "So, what's been on your mind lately? I can tell you're... troubled." His face softened slightly, and his eyes narrowed in concern.

Cura sighed deeply, her hand absently reaching for her Elven Mace at her hip. "It's... everything. There's so much to grasp. The world feels the same as I've always known it, and yet... everything has changed."

"You're telling me. I come from the First Era." Varla responded with a chuckle.

"You seem more lighthearted than usual, Varla." Cura observed his new openness with a mixture of surprise and mirth.

Cura and Varla approached the stone walls of the Temple of Mara's Courtyard, the banners depicting the symbol of the Goddess of Love fluttering in the breeze. The Temple was a bastion of devotion and purity amidst the chaos that had befallen the world. Cura felt a sense of solace wash over her as they passed through the ornate wooden doors, the warmth and light of the sacred space enveloping them.

They were immediately greeted by rows of pews on either side of a red carpet, which led up to the altar with a Shrine upon it, and beyond it was the famous Statue of Mara, depicting her as a veiled maiden with her arms outstretched as she sorrowfully overlooks a basin containing the world.

The sanctuary was dimly lit by the flickering flames of candles scattered throughout the space, casting dancing shadows on the walls adorned with frescoes of Mara's divine deeds. The air was filled with the scent of incense and the faint hum of prayer. To the left of the altar, Dinya Balu, the Dunmer priestess knelt before the shrine, her hands clasped in supplication.

As Cura and Varla's boots scuffed the wooden floorboards, Dinya snapped out of her trance and turned to face the onlookers. First, her eyes were drawn to Cura. "Can it be...?" Dinya's eyes widened in disbelief as she beheld Cura, her voice barely above a whisper, "Can it be... the Dragonborn? You are alive? The Temple has been praying for your return." She rose swiftly, her brown robes rustling as she moved. "I am Dinya Balu, the priestess of Mara. What brings you to our sanctuary, Cura?"

Cura smiled, "Hello, Dinya. It's nice to meet you. I was bringing a friend here." She gestured towards Varla, and Dinya's expression shifted altogether. Her grey skin seemed to pale at the sight of him, and she cleared her throat.

"It's just as Lady Mara foretold... be strong, Dinya... be kind." she whispered to herself. She readjusted her collar, and she took a tentative step forward. "Are you... Varla?"

Varla raised an eyebrow, his rough exterior softening slightly at the priestess's hesitant approach. "That's me," he grunted, "The one and only." He held out a hand towards her, not expecting a warm welcome, but he hoped she'd at least shake it.

Dinya hesitated for a moment, her hand hovering in the air, before she took a deep breath and grasped his hand firmly. "I... I don't know what to say. I fully expected your arrival. Lady Mara told me you would come, but..."

Varla raised an eyebrow. "But what?"

"But what, indeed." Dinya ran a hand through her dark brown hair and she walked around the altar, and laid a hand upon it. "Varla, your... your being here. It changes everything. You do realize that?"

Varla cocked his head to the side. "Changes what, Priestess?"

"Everything we've come to know about Lady Mara." Dinya confessed, her voice quivering. She looked at Varla with an unreadable expression. "Your mere presence here, as a man who... as a man who once..." She faltered, unable to finish the sentence.

Varla nodded solemnly, "Yes, I was an irredeemable monster back in the day." He shifted side to side slightly, attempting to keep his center of gravity stable. "And yes, I was in Coldharbour for thousands of years, and so was a piece of my Mother. And her Wolf Totem."

Each revelation that came out was like a knife to Dinya's heart, each confirmation a stabbing pain. A tear rolled out of her right eye, and dripped to the floor. "I... I don't know what to say." She finally managed to speak, her words quivering. "But... but how can you stand here, so... so..."

"Normal?" Varla finished for her. "I've had a lot of time to reflect on my actions, Priestess. I've seen things no mortal should have to see, done things I can never take back. But I've also found redemption in the most unlikely of places." He placed a hand on Cura's shoulder. "The Dragonborn brought me into the Light. And I set foot in my Mother's home, Aetherius."

Dinya slowly raised her face, her expression growing into one of shock. "You... you went to Aetherius?"

"Yes. And Mara is restored." Varla reassured her. "She no longer lives in torment within Coldharbour; she is whole once more."

Dinya's breath came up short, and she clasped her hands together. "Lady Mara, that's wonderful..." her heart swelled with love for her goddess' triumph in the end. Dinya bowed her head, a profound sense of relief washing over her. "Lady Mara's peace being restored is a blessing beyond measure. I... I scarcely know how to express my gratitude." She looked up at Varla, her eyes shining with unshed tears. "You have done a great service to the Nine, and to all of Tamriel. I cannot fathom the trials you must have endured to achieve such a feat."

Varla shrugged modestly. "The Dragonborn was the one who made it possible." He gestured to Cura, who stood beside him, her hands clasped behind her back. "I was merely a... tool in her hands."

Dinya's gaze shifted to Cura, her expression one of deep respect and curiosity. "You truly are an extraordinary individual, Dragonborn. To bring such a being as Varla into the Light... it is a miracle."

Cura inclined her head slightly, a small, enigmatic smile playing on her lips.

At the doors of the Temple, Gabrielle stood, listening to the conversation as a silent observer. Her face was obscured behind her helmet, but she was shaken with the wonderful news.

Varla cleared his throat, and shifted awkwardly. "Anyways... if my presence here is going to cause you grief, I'll leave." He was about to turn around.

Dinya reached out to him, "No, Varla, no. Please, stay! You are the Son of Mara! This Temple is your Home, on Nirn. I would never drive you from our grounds."

Varla's face softened, his usual gruff demeanor cracking slightly. "I... I suppose I could stay for a while. If you're sure it won't cause trouble."

Dinya smiled warmly, her grey skin seeming to glow with an inner light. "Trouble? You bring hope, Varla. The very fact that you stand here, having found redemption, is a testament to Lady Mara's love and mercy. And, if it's no trouble, we may have some questions to ask you. For the Benevolence of Mara as a whole. Your existence alone reveals so much more about the Handmaiden of Kyne than we've ever imagined."

Gabrielle stepped forward, her armored boots clanking softly against the polished marble floor of the Temple's main hall. The silver helmet gleamed under the soft, luminous glow of the chandelier's emanations.

"Art thou quite sure about this?" Gabrielle's melodic, echoing voice inquired as she approached Varla and Dinya. Her long, graceful arms crossed at her waist as she peers at the pair of them through her visor slit. "Varla... I... apologize for the abruptness of my behaviour earlier. T'was not thee that posed an issue... t'was me. I am not worthy to stand before thee, the son of Mother Mara... For I hath fallen away from her so long ago."

Dinya Balu, the priestess, turned to Gabrielle, her expression soft and understanding.

"Gabrielle, my dear, there are no need for apologies," Dinya said, her voice warm and soothing. "you should take his presence as a sign to rejoice. For if Mara could forgive her son his transgressions, she has surely forgiven yours, as well."

Gabrielle bowed her head, a tear rolling down her cheek. "Thou art kind, Dinya Balu. But I have been a wretched servant to my Lady for so long. I... I fear I may never be worthy of her Benevolence again."

Varla, seeing the anguish in Gabrielle's eyes, stepped forward. "Now, now, that's enough of that nonsense," he said gruffly, but with a gentleness in his tone. "Mara is the goddess of Love, not Hatred; whatever you did, I'm sure she's not holding it against you. Believe me, whatever it is, you sure as hell weren't as screwed up as I was."

Gabrielle raised her head, her ominous eyes meeting Varla's gaze. "Verily, Varla, thy words do warm my heart," she murmured, a faint smile gracing her hidden lips. "Yet, I cannot shake off the shackles of my past transgressions so easily."

"Then, let me share with you a secret I've learned about my mother," Varla suggested. "Mara likes action, not mere words. If you truly are sorry about your past, work towards making amends through your actions."

"I understand," Gabrielle said sharply. "but thee does not. In the past, her voice beckoned to me; she was my guiding light... and then, for millennia, nothing. Not a word. Dost thou know what that is like?" The Knight of the Void stood tall in her Daedric armor, her gaze locked with Varla's. Her voice, normally commanding and ominous, held a hint of vulnerability as she spoke.

"No, I do not," Varla admitted, his rough exterior softening for a moment. "I can only imagine the pain of being abandoned by your goddess. But you must understand, Mara has her own trials and burdens to bear."

"So t'was true, that a part of her hath been lost to Oblivion as well?" Gabrielle inquired softly.

Varla's eyes flickered with a blend of compassion and understanding. "Yes." he said, his voice low and gravelly. "The Horrors of Coldharbour left their mark on her, just as they did on all of us who were trapped there. But she's stronger than that, and she's back. Mara's a goddess, remember?"

Gabrielle's hidden features, usually stoic and imposing, softened momentarily, a faint crease appearing as she listened intently to Varla. The Knight of the Void lowered her head, a gesture rarely seen from such an imposing figure, as if trying to process what she'd heard. When she spoke again, her words emerged in a quiet, almost pained whisper, a stark contrast to her usual booming presence: "I... I did not realize the depths of her torment, Varla. And how long hath she been lost to that hellish realm?"

"Since the First Era. Just a short while after Saint Alessia's time." Varla said plainly.

A faint gasp slid from Gabrielle's throat upon the revelation. Her eyes widened with shock and a hint of pain at the realization of Mara's long ordeal. She stood in silence, her mind grappling with the weight of this new information. The weight of her Daedric armor seemed to lessen as a profound sense of empathy washed over her.

"It hath been a long time since I felt a connection to her," Gabrielle admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "perhaps she may yet sympathize with the horrors I've endured in the Deadlands under Dagon. To think... a piece of her hath been stripped from her even long before my own time."

Varla's face relaxed slightly, understanding crossing his features. "You can't be sure of that, but it's possible," he said. "Mara is a god of love and forgiveness, but she's not a pushover. She's had to deal with her own pain and struggles."

Gabrielle's hands clenched at her sides, the sound of her gauntlets creaking softly in the tense silence. "And what of her? Has she... changed?"

Cura placed a reassuring hand on Gabrielle's arm, "No. She's what you would expect her to be like. Though, the Imperials don't portray her perfectly, to be honest." she turns to Dinya Balu and gestures towards the Temple itself.

Varla chuckled, "Indeed. This is supposed to be Skyrim, the one place on Nirn that worshipped Mara as the wolf, and yet there is not a single wolf-like object, nor memorabilia in this Temple. Frankly, I think Korn would be disappointed."

Cura's eyes darted to Varla, a smirk playing on her lips. "You're right. It's a bit... sanitized, isn't it? I wonder if the latercomers of the Alessian Order had anything to do with that." She spoke to Dinya, "Perhaps the Benevolence of Mara should consider re-examining its roots?" she suggested, "A petition to reincorporate the Totemic aspects of the gods? Like Stendarr's Whale, Julianos' Owl, Arkay's Snake, Mara's Wolf, Akatosh was never stripped of his Dragon, after all."

Gabrielle's eyes widened as she listened to Cura's words, a spark of intrigue igniting within them. "An intriguing notion," she mused, her gaze drifting to the altar of Mara. "Mayhaps 'tis time for the Benevolence of Mara to embrace its full potential, in all its aspects."

Varla stroked his beard thoughtfully, "I think I can see where this is going, and I have to say, I like it."

"Korn helped us, too. She deserves to be honoured." Cura said plainly.

Maramal, who had been sitting silently upon a bench on the eastern side of the Temple, was listening intently, his heart heavy with confirmation of dreaded truths, and now finally spoke up. "Who, or what is Korn?" Maramal's voice carried a blend of curiosity and apprehension, his gaze shifting from Cura to Varla, seeking clarification. The Temple, quiet and solemn, seemed to hold its breath, as if the very walls themselves were eager to learn about this mysterious Korn.

Varla spoke with authority. "My Mother's Wolf, of course. Her Wolfen Aspect."

Maramal stood up, "The wolf was a symbol of Mara; a creature handpicked for its love of family and protectiveness over its pack. She was not literally a Wolf..."

Cura nodded in confirmation. "Yes, she was. She is a Wolf, and a Woman."

"Please, exaplain?" Maramal inquired, leaning against a nearby column.

Cura drew upon the Akatosh example, once again. "The Temple of Akatosh insists upon his dual nature - a man, and a Dragon; omitting the Elven aspect, but that's a story for another time." She began to gesture with her hands, "Mara, as you know, originated from Nir. Nir, the wife of Anu. Anu, who later became Anui-El, then Auriel; Akatosh."

Maramal listened patiently, absorbing Cura's words. After all, Cura had been travelling with an Aspect of Mara; perhaps it was more than likely she'd learned much along the way.

Cura continued unabated, "Mara herself, is half of Nir; Divines are different from us - they can fracture themselves into multiple beings, like how Akatosh created the Dragons. She chose to take a mortal form as a woman, but she's also a Wolf. A pristine, white, divine wolf. She was both, at once. As the God of Time is a man and a dragon, so Mara is a woman and a wolf."

Maramal looked at her intently, then at Varla, who gave a subtle nod. "Fascinating. I've never heard it explained quite that way before. So, in a sense, Mara's Wolf form is as much a part of her divine essence as her mortal guise." He gestured towards the statue of the Maiden in the Temple, and then turned to Varla, his expression a mix of curiosity and concern. "And you, Varla, have been in Coldharbour for thousands of years, serving as a guardian of sorts?"

Varla gave a grim nod. "You... could say that." Cura shifted uneasily as she remembered the dark events in Coldharbour. The temple was a place of healing, but discussing the horrors of Oblivion always felt wrong here.

Varla cleared his throat. "I... served the Dark Prince for eons. Until Mara herself gave me a choice - to fight for Cura, or remain His slave. I chose her. Her Wolf, Korn, is unlike any wolf you can find here on Nirn."

Dinya tapped her chin, "Hmm... it reminds me of a tradition held in Skyrim during the Second Era. In those days, the White River Ice Wolves were often associated with Lady Mara, weren't they?"

"The White River?" Varla inquired.

"The longest in Skyrim," Cura explained, "Its source is Lake Ilinalta, north of Falkreath. It flows northeast to join the Sea of Ghosts past Windhelm, the mouth of the river is called Slaughterfish Bay and is part of Winterhold's borders. Along the way, it passes through Riverwood and near Whiterun."

Cura found the location interesting as well, recalling the tale of how Mary and Korn cleansed Lake Ilinalta from the Vampiric Scourge in the First Era. Perhaps the locals there had begun that tradition, even in the face of Alessian perjury?

Maramal listened intently. "Yes, it was a pilgrimage site for devotees of Mara in those days. The wolves that roamed the area were said to be sacred guardians of the goddess. Until the climate slowly changed and the Ice Wolves took to the Northernmost areas of Skyrim."

"What art thou suggesting, Dragonborn?" Gabrielle noticed a gleam in Cura's eye.

Cura walked up to the statue of Mara, and turned back to Maramal. "Beside her, perhaps a statue of a Wolf? In the likeness of a White River Ice Wolf. Unfortunately, I cannot draw for the world, so that is the closest description I can give to Korn's appearance. An Ice Wolf, but purely white, with blue eyes and sleek fur."

Maramal's eyes widened, his fingers unconsciously tracing the edge of the basin. "That... that could be beautiful. A symbol of divine protection and devotion." He turned to Dinya. "And, in broader terms, a symbol of Mara's Rejoicing, for she has become whole again, regained what was taken from her."

Dinya nodded solemnly, her eyes shining with unshed tears. "Yes, a statue of a White Wolf beside the Statue of Mara would be a powerful symbol indeed. It would honour the sacred Wolf of the goddess and remind all who see it of the eternal bond between the divine and the natural world. What did you say this beautiful Wolf's name was, again?"

"Korn." Varla said, the name rolling off his tongue with tenderness.

"Ah, Korn. A fitting name for the Lady of the Harvest." Dinya chuckled softly. She turned to Cura, her expression softening. "I am so very glad to hear that Mara has been restored and is at peace in Aetherius."

Cura nodded, "And she will be even more so when the truth is known."

Maramal bowed his head in agreement. "Indeed, Cura. The world must know of Mara's restoration and the role you played in it. And, of course, though the truth of it is a painful one to bear, the fact of Varla."

Dinya stepped forward, her voice trembling with emotion. "I will personally oversee the construction of the statue." She also began to wonder. "And perhaps... perhaps this restoration of Ancient Tradition may draw back some of the Nords who have fallen away. Perhaps an acknowledgement of the Old Ways may bring them back, and revitalize intrigue in Mara from the faithful themselves."

Gabrielle listened silently. She began to wonder just how much she hadn't known, even back when she was Mara's own Sybil. As she stood there, the weight of her ignorance settled heavily upon her. Her eyes, once bright with faith, and dimmed by eons of suffering and regret, now clouded with confusion and doubt. She had served Mara for countless years, yet how much had she truly understood about the goddess's plight? She felt a pang of guilt, a bitter taste in her mouth, as she realized how little she had done to alleviate Mara's suffering. She'd always relied on Mara to comfort her, on Mara to show her the way, on Mara to guide her actions... And yet, even before she'd fallen from grace, she never once asked Mara how she was doing, or feeling. She worshipped her from the heart, but she never truly knew her.

"Dragonborn, thy return surely changes a lot of things," she said, her voice solemn and shaken. "things I'd not considered hath been brought before me... musings lost to time, returned anew. 'Tis... unsettling, and exciting, both in equal measure." Shebegan to wonder. "I find myself questioning all I once held true, and yet... I cannot help but feel a glimmer of hope. Perhaps... perhaps there is more to this world than I had ever imagined. More to Mara, to the gods, to everything." She walked up to Varla. "Though I cannot hear her voice, perhaps when I behold thee, I see a measure of the Goddess' own visage..."

Varla looked at her with surprise, a rare moment of sincerity breaking through his usually gruff exterior. "The Wolf or the Goddess?" He chuckled, a dry sound, before his eyes took on a softer quality.

Cura began to snort, which quickly devolved into bright laughter. "Oh, you are a rascal, Varla," she said, shaking her head but still smiling. "I wonder if you know how much that glimmer of sincerity means to me. It's rare to see that side of you."

Varla's usual gruff demeanor softened momentarily, a genuine smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "You're not so bad yourself, Stormcloak. For a Vigilant." He sighed, "Now, if nobody else has anything to bombard me with, I came here to speak with my mother in silence, so if you don't mind..." He gestured vaguely towards the chapel's entrance. Cura nodded understandingly, moving to give Varla some privacy. As she turned to leave, she couldn't help but notice the gentle way he cradled the Amulet of Mara in his hands - a clear sign of his deep affection for Mara.

"I'll be at the Bee & Barb if you need anything, Varla," she said softly before stepping out into the cool night air.

After a few moments, Varla turned to see Gabrielle still standing nearby, looking at him, as if for reassurance of some kind. The two exchanged a silent glance before Varla gave her a nod and gestured to the seat beside him on the pew.

The Knight of the Void gently walked through the walkway and took her seat. She removed her helmet, revealing her scarred face and white hair. She lowered her face and clasped her hands together in prayer.

Despite the darkness lurking in all corners, there were indeed glimmers of light to be found.