In collaboration with the Bard's College, the College of Winterhold, the Companions, and the Imperial Geographical Society
Note: This is a work of transformative fan fiction based on the copyrighted works of a really cool video game development company that shall remain nameless. Feel free to correct typos.
Tirdas, early morning, 17th of Last Seed, 4E 201
he rain was still falling. Jarl Balgruuf the Greater of Whiterun slouched in his throne, bemused by how, though much of the world had changed since he went to bed the night before, the rain remained constant. Scouting reports suggested that both sides in the war were moving large amounts of troops through his lands, and he'd gotten word that the Empire was trying to buy war materials from his merchants, threatening the neutrality of Whiterun. Vampire sightings were on the rise. His son Nelkir seemed to be going mad. There was even a company of Redguards snooping about for some reason, and the Battle-Borns and Gray-Manes could bring chaos to the streets any day. And now, there was, apparently, a dragon circling around in the skies above his hold, Helgen had been destroyed, and his steward was saying he could do nothing about it. He rubbed his eyes, still trying to wake up.
"Please. You have to listen. I only counsel caution," his steward Proventus Avenicci continued to implore. The Imperial was always worried about Balgruuf's temper. "We cannot afford to act rashly in times like these. If the news from Helgen is true… well, there's no telling what it means."
"What would you have me do, then? Nothing?" Balgruuf responded irritably. The Jarl, for his part, just wished his steward would stick to bookkeeping.
"My lord. Please. This is no time for rash action. I just think we need more information before we act."
"Jarl Balgruuf?" Irileth asked, drawing his attention.
He knew his old Dunmer friend and housecarl would not disturb him at a time like this without good reason. He lifted his head to look at her, and the man standing behind her. "Who's this, then?"
"A messenger, from Helgen," she replied. "He has details on the attack that took place there."
The Jarl beckoned the messenger forward. He dressed in the robes and hood of a mage, though he certainly didn't look like one. The blonde-haired Nord had the beard of Ysgramor and the frame of a blacksmith. He carried a mace at his waist and a bow slung across his back. One of his green eyes was nearly swollen shut from bruising; he'd obviously been through a fight or two recently.
"So, you were in Helgen?" the Jarl said, leaning forward. "You saw the dragon with your own eyes?"
"Yes," came the unexpectedly pleasant reply. "I had a great view while the Imperials were trying to chop off my head."
"Really?" the Jarl mused. "You're certainly… forthright about your criminal past."
"Criminal? I could be," the messenger shrugged. "I'm having a bit of a memory problem, you see. But I remember everything from Helgen."
"Yes… Well, it's none of my concern who the Imperials want to execute." replied the Jarl, leaning back again as he tried to place the Nord's accent. "Especially now. What I want to know is what exactly happened at Helgen." It was not a question.
"Let's see… I woke up on the back of a carriage with a muffled High King and a thief who denied reality. A silver woman decided to kill me because I can't remember my name. She's dead now. A dragon came and talked the sky into dropping fire. It was really quite beautiful, until they landed; that part was a little gruesome-"
"Describe the creature you saw," the Jarl insisted.
"… Black death. Legs, tail, arms with wings, spikes all over… a head like that one, but way bigger," the Nord elaborated, pointing to the skull over the Jarl's throne. "He landed on the tower while my head was on the chopping block, and just… studied us for a moment. There was a sort of… mirth in his eyes, I guess. Then he cackled, and those fireballs I mentioned came out of a giant funnel in the clouds. Fire also came out of his mouth, and possibly other orifices. He had very bad breath; I told him so while he got frisky with a tower."
"And what happened next?" the Jarl persisted.
"I went underground," the Nord shrugged. "Didn't see much after that. The general gave me a pardon, I think. But the dragon was wiping out anything that moved. Nothing could harm it. Last I saw, it was heading this way."
"By Ysmir, Irileth was right!" the Jarl declared over the whispered conversations which had been picking up around the hall. The Nord might be a little addled, but Balgruuf believed he was being sincere. He looked at the bald Imperial to his right. "What do you say now, Proventus? Shall we continue to trust in the strength of our walls? Against a dragon?"
Irileth spoke before Proventus could. "My lord, we should send troops to Riverwood at once. It's in the most immediate danger, if that dragon is lurking in the mountains…"
Now, Proventus did speak up as the conversations in the hall got louder. "The Jarl of Falkreath will view that as a provocation! He'll assume we're preparing to join Ulfric's side and attack him. We should-"
"Enough!" the Jarl yelled. Dead silence fell. He stared down his steward and growled, "I'll not stand idly by while a dragon burns my hold and slaughters my people!" Turning to his housecarl, he added, "Irileth, send a detachment to Riverwood at once."
"Yes, my Jarl," she said, saluting him.
The Jarl gave a hand signal to the steward. "If you'll excuse me, I'll return to my duties," Proventus said meekly.
"That would be best," the Jarl replied, settling into his throne. He sighed and took stock of the messenger, pleased that the strange Nord had given him reason to act. "Well done. You sought me out, on your own initiative. You've done Whiterun a service, and I won't forget it."
The Nord was about to say he had been asked to inform the Jarl, but Balgruuf continued, "Here, take this as a small token of my esteem." Proventus stepped back into the room with a set of high-quality studded armor. The Nord shut his mouth, smiled, and accepted the gift with a nod.
"… There is another thing you could do for me. Suitable for someone of your… particular talents, perhaps," Balgruuf said, rising from his throne. "Come, let's go find Farengar, my court wizard. He's been looking into a matter related to these dragons and … rumors of dragons."
arengar was an odd man. A distant relative of Balgruuf, his parents gave him a naming ceremony when he was four. The soothsayer said that the boy had a hidden flame which would ignite an inferno, and they gave him the name Secret-Fire. His interest in magic and general social incompetence alienated him from the other Nord children of Whiterun, and even his family.
Balgruuf, at least, got along well with Farengar, though he was a few years older. The heir to Whiterun enjoyed all the rare stories his scholarly third cousin could tell him, like the full Forbidden Legend of Gauldur and the myth of the Eye of Argonia. But it was Farengar's integrity that set him apart: he was far from dumb, but it was like doing something immoral simply didn't occur to the black-haired lad. He had no ambitions for power, wealth or glory. He didn't fear shame or invest in pride. The boy merely liked solving puzzles. Balgruuf, who grew up with far too much politics, valued honesty, and made a point of keeping his cousin as a close friend.
When Balgruuf's elderly father needed a new court wizard, the heir apparent Balgruuf recommended Farengar, who left the College of Winterhold to serve his home. Upon taking the throne, Balgruuf quickly made it clear that he wanted far more than the occasional potion. Proventus was a cowardly bureaucrat, Irileth was a de facto war general, and despite his love for his younger brother Hrongar, politics kept the Jarl from fully trusting the man who would inherit his throne if he should die.
Farengar was the real brain trust of Whiterun, the neutral voice who often guided Balgruuf through his more intense decisions. The wizard was given extraordinary authority and discretion, as well as access to the ample Whiterun treasury to complete his projects. Those who realized Farengar's sway with Balgruuf found that the reclusive wizard was seemingly impervious to bribery or threats of any sort. An assassin a few years after Balgruuf became jarl discovered Farengar was more than capable of defending himself with his magic. Since then, no one had made the mistake of getting in Farengar's way, though like any force of nature, they tried to find ways to use the court wizard for their own ends.
The average person, however, might have assumed Balgruuf didn't even know Farengar's name. Court wizards were considered a necessary evil and generally disliked by Nords throughout Skyrim, and all jarls avoided being seen with them as a political necessity. On any given day, the only people who came to see Farengar were couriers and guards. So he was more than a little surprised when Balgruuf came into his study just outside of the main hall on this gloomy Tirdas morning.
"Farengar, I think I've found someone who can help you with your dragon project. Go ahead and fill him in on all the details," Balgruuf announced. "This is the priority now. Anything we can use to fight this dragon. We need it, quickly. Before it's too late." He then quickly departed.
"Of course, Jarl Balgruuf," Farengar said to Balgruuf's retreating back. He turned to his new asset. "So the Jarl thinks you can be of use to me? Oh yes, he must be referring to my research into the dragons."
"What gave you that idea? That he just said so?"
Farengar didn't seem to hear the comment, too busy rifling through his papers. "Yes, I could use someone to fetch something for me. Well, when I say fetch, I really mean delve into a dangerous ruin in search of an ancient stone tablet that may or may not actually be there."
"Now you're speaking my language. Where am I going and what am I fetching?"
"Straight to the point, eh? No need for tedious hows and whys. I like that. Leave those details to your betters, am I right?"
"Well, the more well-informed, at least," the Nord replied.
"I, ah, learned of a certain stone tablet said to be housed in Bleak Falls Barrow - a 'Dragonstone,' said to contain a map of dragon burial sites. Go to Bleak Falls Barrow, find this tablet - no doubt interred in the main chamber - and bring it to me. Simplicity itself," Farengar finished, clasping his hands in front of him.
"Bleak Falls Barrow! I know that place! What can you tell me about it?" The Nord began dabbling with the wizard's alchemy laboratory while he listened.
Farengar, a little confused at the Nord's excitement about being familiar with a barrow, shrugged. "An old tomb, built by the ancient Nords, perhaps dating back to the Dragon War itself."
"And how did you learn of this?" The Nord began trying to make a potion, mixing together some of the herbs he'd collected to see if they produced anything.
"Well…" Farengar replied, getting evasive. He watched with concern as the Nord meddled with ingredients he knew couldn't be mixed. "Must preserve some professional secrets, mustn't we? I have my sources... reliable sources."
Seeing that the wizard would not reveal this information, the Nord dropped the subject, as well as the useless mixture he'd made. "You mentioned a Dragon War?"
"I'm not surprised you never heard of it. Even I used to think it was just a myth. But not anymore," Farengar replied. "The Dragon War was a real event, although only the barest glimmer of the actual events has come down to us. Far back in the Mythic Era, the dragons were worshipped as gods in Skyrim. Many of the monumental ruins that still dot the landscape were, in fact, built as temples to the dragons. The details are lost, but at some point the Nords rebelled. After a long and terrible war, the Nords overthrew their dragon overlords." The wizard clearly enjoyed getting a chance to tell a good story.
"And that was the last of the dragons?" the Nord asked as he tried to make another potion.
"Oh, no. Many were killed, of course. But many survived into historical times. Why, this very palace was built by one of Balgruuf's ancestors to hold a captive dragon. Hence its name - Dragonsreach. This palace extends the reach of justice even to dragons, the most powerful creatures Tamriel has every known."
"Ever seen one?" the Nord inquired, pouring some grounded-up flower into his stew of ingredients.
"Sadly, no. My work affords me few opportunities for such an adventure," Farengar sighed. "Perhaps some hero will bring one to Dragonsreach, like old Olaf One-Eye once did. What a fascinating conversation that would be!"
"Perhaps …" The calcinator on the alchemy lab suddenly began exuding a vapor accompanied by a hideous smell. "Well, that barrow's not going to raid itself…" the Nord choked out as he fled the room.
"By Talos!" Farengar cried, covering his nose and running to his beloved equipment.
errible and powerful Talos!" Heimskr yelled. "We, your unworthy servants, give praise!" He stood in the rain, preaching to the empty town square of Whiterun in the early morning. But he would pontificate here whether there was a crowd or not, because he believed there was always someone listening.
"Excuse me?"
"For only through your grace and benevolence may we truly reach enlightenment!" Heimskr intoned, ignoring the man in robes. He hated having his morning ritual interrupted.
"Please, if I could just-"
"And deserve our praise you do, for we are one!" Heimskr bellowed.
"That's all well and good, but-"
"Ere you ascended and the Eight became Nine, you walked among us, great Talos, not as god, but as man!"
The heckler looked around. "Who are you even talking to?"
"But you were once man! Aye!"
"It's raining; you and I are the only ones out h-"
"And as man you said, 'Let me show you the power of Talos, Stormcrown, born of the North, where my breath is long winter. I breathe now in royalty and reshape this land which is mine.'"
"That's a good line, but-"
"'I do this for you, Red Legions, for I love you!'"
"Really? Well, to each his own-"
"WHAT?!" Heimskr finally looked down at the person badgering him. The bearded Nord gave Heimskr a friendly wave.
"Hello," said the heckler pleasantly. "I was just saying that what you love is nobody's business, I don't-"
"WHAT DO YOU WANT?!" Heimskr yelled.
"Could you tell me where to find Jorrvaskr, perhaps?"
Heimskr could hardly believe his ears. "It's there, right there!" he said, pointing to the distinctive building on the hill near Dragonsreach. "It's right in front of you!"
"Ah, thanks. By the way, this Talos fellow, did he suffer from Ticklebritch?"
"What?! No!"
"Well, it's just that you said he loved red lesions, and-"
"Get away from me, you … you HEATHEN!"
"You know, people are still trying to sleep-"
"NOW!"
hat was not amusing," Farkas growled. Inside Jorrvaskr, Ria was demonstrating for the Companions at breakfast how Farkas had been sent sprawling by the giant the night before, much to their delight. The ancient mead hall was first built from the Jorrvaskr, one of the ships of the Five Hundred Companions. Its captain, Jeek of the River, had vowed to die in his ship. So, when they decided to settle, he had his crew carry it to the top of the hill, turn it over, and build their new home out of its hull. This morning, like most mornings, the Companions sat at the long tables around the central fire pit in the cavernous main hall as they ate breakfast.
Ria, her impression done, took a bow, then punched Farkas' arm as she returned to her seat. "That's what you get for going on a contract drunk, ya big oaf!"
An elderly bearded Nord, Vignar Gray-Mane, chuckled. He was a pillar of the community, and far too old to go out on contracts, but he nevertheless spent a lot of his time at Jorrvaskr, keeping an eye on the younger generations. "If Farkas had been sober, that giant's kick may have broken his back," Vignar interjected. "A few pints can keep the body limber and heart honest." Farkas raised his pint to the old man.
Njada Stonearm, one of the younger Companions, gruffly asked, "How slow do you have to be to get kicked by a giant? Maybe if Farkas skipped a few meals, Eorlund wouldn't be taking a heel print out of his armor right now."
Next to her, the Dunmer Athis laughed around his eggs. "Oh, please; at least he can take a hit from a giant. If that thing coughed at you, Stonearm, you'd never get up!" At the other end of the table, Aela groaned.
Sure enough, Njada slammed her fists on the table before Athis could even finish, knocking over several mugs. In a flash, she stood and back-handed Athis, sending him sprawling to the floor. All around the table, the Companions grabbed quick bites and drinks as they stood and cleared the area for this impromptu brawl. Athis stood and raised his fists, shouting angrily, "You damned n'wah! You broke my nose!"
"Just getting started, you Dark Elf bastard!" The two began pummeling each other mercilessly. Njada had speed, but Athis had reach, power, and an extra century of experience.
Skjor, still rubbing sleep from his eyes, came up the stairs and approached Aela, who was leaning against a pillar, calmly observing the fight. "Are those two at it again?" he asked wearily.
"Njada's still too hot-headed, and Athis can't keep his mouth shut," Aela remarked. "When we're all dead, they'll still be fighting in Sovngarde." She glanced at Skjor. "I don't know who to root for. They both could use a good beating."
"When in doubt, Aela, fight for the young." Skjor walked forward and began yelling advice to Njada. "Strike when the shoulder turns. He's giving you openings! Come on now, watch the footwork. Keep your balance." Athis, still dizzy from the first hit and losing blood from his nose, took a swing that went a little too wild. Njada dodged, and with a series of punches to the stomach and finally the face, she brought Athis to his knees as the Companions cheered.
She reared back to hit him again when Skjor grabbed her wrist. "Fight's done, Stonearm. Remember the rules. Now, clean up this blood."
"But I won! Athis or Tilma can-"
"Athis needs to go to the healer, and Tilma shouldn't have to clean up blood because you can't take a damned joke!" Skjor yelled. "Go get a water bucket," he ordered more quietly. "Now."
Njada, still breathing heavily, didn't reply, but trudged off to the water closet, and Skjor descended the stairs in Jorrvaskr's basement.
Seeing no more punches would be thrown, the Companions began turning back to the table - only to find that a robed stranger had come in during the fight and started to eat their food. He was circling the tables, nibbling off plates here and there.
Noticing the silence, the stranger stopped and looked at the group of heavily armed, angry-looking mercenaries glaring back at him. Waving cheerfully, he mumbled greetings around a mouthful of cheese and bread. He kept smiling even as several of them drew daggers and moved closer while others blocked the exits.
"Hold, Companions," Aela declared, striding forward. "This one was invited."
"Oh, yeah. He's the one who helped us with the giant last night," Farkas added.
"Him?" the Nord Torvar asked incredulously. "Looks like a dimwit to me."
"Really? I have got to find a mirror…" the strange Nord commented, looking around. He tried to check his reflection in a pint, but when it proved too dull to give a reflection, he shrugged and quaffed the contents.
The Companions muttered amongst themselves, confused by the new arrival. Several were noticeably displeased that they couldn't stab him and keep their honor. It wasn't clear to anyone, however, whether the Nord failed to notice their threatening glares or whether he simply didn't care. After a moment, Aela nodded towards the stairwell. "Kodlak is down the stairs, stranger."
"Much obliged, Aela," the Nord smiled, setting down the mug. As he maneuvered through the miffed mercenaries, he noticed the shards of metal arranged on the wall above it. He rapped his knuckles on the wall underneath it as he passed, calling out, "Your axe is broken. Might want to fix that."
f course I'd like to fix it," Vilkas grumbled. "But there's no way to do that. Too many of our people have left to fight in the war, and we can't afford to lose those who have stayed. So why not use our power?"
"Because it shames us. Because a Companion should not need an advantage," Kodlak replied patiently. The two sat eating breakfast in private at a small table in Kodlak's study. The Companions nicknamed the basement room of Jorrvaskr the Hall of Valor, as the elderly Kodlak kept many old relics from his adventures on display.
"But I still hear the call of the blood," Vilkas despaired, sounding a bit like a skooma addict.
"We all do. It is our burden to bear. But we can overcome."
Vilkas settled back in his chair, displeased, but he nodded his assent. "You have my brother and I, obviously. But I don't know if the rest will go along quite so easily."
"Leave that to me," Kodlak replied, taking a drink. He noticed a Nord waiting in the doorway, his brown robes still dripping a little from the rain outside. With his large frame, long hair, and full beard, he looked a little like a young Kodlak, though how much younger was hard to say.
"… A stranger comes to our hall," Kodlak said warmly, gesturing for the Nord to approach.
"You are Kodlak Whitemane?" the stranger asked.
"I am," Kodlak nodded, smiling slightly. "And who are you?"
"Dunno."
"You don't know?" Vilkas asked incredulously. "How can a man not know his own name?"
"Dunno. But the huntress said the old man can see the worth in people, and I'd like to know what he sees in me."
Vilkas stood. "You're obviously a criminal; probably mad, too. Get o-"
Kodlak held up a hand. "Vilkas." Vilkas sat down, but did not relax. Kodlak was silent for a moment. "I don't know what you expect of me, newcomer. I believe you speak in earnest, but I've never laid my eyes on you before this moment. Then again, the Companions have always been a place for new beginnings. Have a seat." Much to Vilkas' displeasure, the Nord brought a chair over to their corner table and had a seat between him and Kodlak.
"What do you wish to know?" Kodlak asked, settling back in his chair.
"Well, let's start with the basics. Who are the Companions?"
Kodlak laughed. "Your question carries more weight than you may know, newcomer. The sort of thing some of us spend our lives pondering." He took a sip of water. "The difference between a noble band of warriors and a ragged bunch of assassins is as thin as a blade's edge," he said with a shrug. "I try to hold us to the right path."
"And where do you stand on the war?"
With a glance at Vilkas, Kodlak answered, "Politics are something best avoided. I prefer more personal confrontations, myself."
"As do I," the Nord said with slight nod. "How did you join the Companions?"
Kodlak sighed. "Like most of our band, I found this family after losing my own. I traveled the length and breadth of this land, learning all I could of the sword and the axe. I was just a boy, but I had the fire of a man in my heart. Eventually, my body caught up to my spirit." Kodlak paused for a drink. "My predecessor, Askar, found me in Hammerfell. I was serving as bodyguard for some weak-necked lord out there. He brought me back here, and I realized... that I was actually coming home. I work to bring honor to this family, and to the family that I lost. For my mother, my father, and my grandfather. For all my Shield-Siblings." He rapped his knuckles on the table for emphasis. "Family and honor. That's what it means to be one of us, boy."
The trio sat in silence for many long moments after Kodlak's story. Vilkas remained poised to strike, Kodlak slowly ate his breakfast, and the Nord studied the old man intently. Finally, the Nord stood and said, "I would like to join."
Kodlak smiled. "Would you now? Here, let me have a look at you." Though Kodlak studied the newcomer, Vilkas knew Kodlak well enough to know when the older Nord had already made up his mind. "Hm. Yes, perhaps. A certain strength of spirit."
Vilkas stood and broke his silence. "Master, you can't be serious. You're not truly considering accepting him?"
"I am nobody's master, Vilkas," Kodlak replied wearily. Shooting his companion a recriminating glance, he added, "And last time I checked, we had some empty beds in Jorrvaskr for those with a fire burning in their hearts."
After a moment, Vilkas muttered, "Apologies." More forcefully, he said, "But perhaps this isn't the time. I've never even heard of this outsider."
Kodlak shrugged, undeterred, as he turned his attention back to his breakfast. "Sometimes the famous come to us. Sometimes men and women come to us to seek their fame. It makes no difference. What matters is their heart."
"And their arm," Vilkas retorted.
"Of course." Kodlak replied around a mouthful of eggs. Looking back up at the Nord, he asked, "How are you in battle, boy?"
"I have much to learn," the Nord admitted.
"That's the spirit. Vilkas, here, will get you started on that." Before Vilkas could object, Kodlak ordered, "Vilkas, take him out to the yard and see what he can do."
Vilkas held his tongue, saying simply, "Aye." Privately, though, he vowed to show this nameless fool what a real Companion could do.
The Nord saluted the old man. "It was very nice to meet you, Kodlak."
"The same, newcomer. But a word of warning: you cannot become a Companion without a name. You best find one if you wish to be one of us."
orlund Gray-Mane was indifferent to the rain, much like the great Skyforge he sat under. Rain or shine, the coals of the Skyforge ran redder and hotter than any other forge in Tamriel, so Eorlund could not count on a storm to give him the day off of work. No one knew who built the ancient relic, or who carved the giant eagle into the living rock above it, but working with it was the greatest honor any Nord blacksmith could have. For decades, that honor had fallen to Eorlund, and because of it, he was treated with a respect usually reserved to royalty. But Eorlund was a humble man, and not prone to aggrandizing himself. He lived more like a hermit than a king. He kept his clothing plain, his prices fair, and his life simple.
Eorlund sat staring out at the beautiful tundra of Whiterun Hold as a stranger climbed the great staircase up to the Skyforge, which rose higher than any other part of Whiterun besides the palace of Dragonsreach. Even in the dreadful weather, the view was gorgeous, and the old Nord looked away from it reluctantly to greet the stranger, who he studied calmly. A blond-haired Nord drenched from the rain, the newcomer appeared to have just come from a fight. His robes were torn at places, and it looked he'd taken a punch or two. Eorlund assumed he was one of the combatants he had heard fighting in the Jorrvaskr training yard below.
"What brings you here?" Eorlund asked, though he already knew. The stranger carried Vilkas' blade; Eorlund instantly recognized his own work. Vilkas would only trust his weapon with a fellow Companion, meaning this one must be a pledge seeking to join the group.
"Vilkas sent me with his sword." The Nord offered the blade to the blacksmith.
"I'm guessing you're the newcomer, then?"
The Nord nodded, rubbing his arm as he ducked under the stone eagle to escape the rain. "Does Vilkas always send newcomers on errands?"
"Oh, don't worry too much about it," Eorlund chuckled. He gestured at Jorrvaskr. "They were all whelps once. They just might not like to talk about it." He took the blade as he continued. "And don't always just do what you're told. Nobody rules anybody in the Companions."
"Are you a Companion?" the Nord asked as he took off his hood and wrung it out.
Eorlund shook his head as he set down the blade. "Not actually a Companion myself, but none of them know how to work a forge properly, and I'm honored to serve them." He held out his hand. "My name Eorlund Gray-Mane. I work the Skyforge. Best steel in all of Skyrim. All of Tamriel."
The Nord grasped his hand firmly. "Pleasure to meet you." He glanced up at the stone eagle. "Nice bird."
Eorlund smiled, turning back to the grindstone. "And you are?"
"Wet."
He chuckled. "Don't you have a name, newcomer? Are you mad?"
"I don't know; is that a common name?"
Eorlund laughed as he sharpened the blade. "You would be the first, I think."
bsolutely mad," Skjor grumbled.
"They are," Aela agreed. "But they could still cause troubles for us." The two sat in Skjor's room in the basement of Jorrvaskr, where they usually held planning sessions.
Then the newcomer suddenly barged in. "Aela? I have your shield from Eorlund."
"Ah, yes. Thank you." Aela accepted the shield and felt its grip. It conformed perfectly to her arm, and felt practically weightless.
"You know this one?" Skjor asked. "I saw him training in the yard with Vilkas."
"Ah, yes. I heard you gave him quite a thrashing," Aela remarked, studying the Nord.
The newcomer just shrugged. "He got his shots in."
"Don't let Vilkas catch you saying that," Skjor retorted. "But yes; your friend here had him on his back in a few seconds." He laughed. "It looked like Vilkas really wanted to teach him a lesson, too."
"Really? Do you think you could handle Vilkas in a real fight?" Aela queried.
"I don't care for boasting…," the Nord replied carefully. He rocked back and forth like a skooma addict, clearly desperate to leave.
"Ah, a man of action," Aela mused. "Here, let's have Farkas show you where you'll be resting your head."
"Well, I'm not actually a Companion yet. Kodlak said I need a name first … "
"A formality," Skjor interjected, waving dismissively. "Farkas!"
The enormous Nord appeared in the doorway. "Did you call me?"
"Of course we did, icebrain," Aela sighed. "Show this new blood where the rest of the whelps sleep."
"New blood?" Farkas asked slowly, looking at the Nord. "Oh, I remember you. Come on, follow me."
The Nord nodded to the two Companions. As they walked, Farkas asked, "You got a name yet?"
"Nope. Just gonna have to pick one, I suppose," the Nord muttered, following the large Companion into the dormitory.
"Huh," Farkas' eyebrows furrowed in confusion as he motioned at the available cot. "So, you just get to pick? Wish I got to pick. My pa named me and my brother after his dogs …. you got anything in mind?"
"Eorlund called me 'Mad,'" he replied. "How does that sound?"
Farkas paused, then shook his head. "No, he meant- well, that's not good," Farkas stuttered. "If you're gonna pick, it should be like a name in one of those epics. How about Ragnar?"
"Uh, no thanks. I think there's a bard at the inn in love with a Ragnar."
Farkas laughed and moved to leave. "I'm going to lunch. You can join me as long as you eat off your own plate."
"Thanks, but I have an errand to run." The Nord, now alone, stood in front of the washbowl. In the torchlight, he finally got a good glimpse of himself in the washbowl's reflection. "Just who are you?" he whispered.
Tirdas, afternoon, 17th of Last Seed
ou're a gods-damned cheat!" Crendal yelled, upending the chest and wrecking the game with it. His shouting echoed around the dark structures of Bleak Falls Barrow. His companion's response was to punch Crendal in the stomach.
"Quiet!" ordered Tobias, the sentry on duty. The trio were huddled around a small campsite on a stone landing near the entrance to the great Nordic ruin, trying to keep dry in the cold, incessant rain. "Who's there! Show yourself!" he yelled, drawing his sword. Crendal did the same.
"Hello," came the pleasant reply. "I'm here looking for a Dragonsto-" The stranger walking up the ancient steps didn't get a chance to finish as Tobias and Crendal rushed forward, yelling, while their companion drew his bow.
"Okay, then." The Nord launched flames at the archer, setting him ablaze, as he blocked a blow from Tobias with his shield.
"Just to be clear." As Crendal reared up to take a swing, the stranger jumped backgrounds, dodging the blow, and set his stream of fire upon the swordsmen.
"I wanted to be friends." His mace came loose and was quickly buried in Tobias' face.
"But we make choices … " He slapped Crendal backwards onto the ground with his shield, finished off Tobias, and rushed forward to attack the archer, who had put himself out and was preparing to fire.
"And we live with them." The stranger closed the distance before the archer could fire and shoved him backwards, screaming, off the landing into the brush far below. Crendal was just starting up the stairs when the stranger landed upon him, snapping the bandit's neck and killing him instantly.
"Or not." He rose from Crendil's crumpled body and looked around. "Wish someone was around to hear that."
nside Bleak Falls Barrow, the rain drowned out the sound of everything else for the three bandits in the atrium. Similar to their friends outside, two of them sat talking around a fire while a third picked over the corpses of colleagues who had been killed by skeevers. "So we're just supposed to sit here while Arvel runs off with that Golden Claw?" one of them asked as he poked at the skeever on the spit over the fire.
"That dark elf wants to go on ahead, let him. Better than us risking our necks," his companion replied.
"What if Arvel doesn't come back? I want my share from that claw!"
"Just shut it and keep an eye out for trouble."
"Yeah, yeah, I think we would have- hey, Rigmor! Where's Rigmor? Hey! Who-" The bandit couldn't say another word before an arrow sprouted from his throat. The final bandit had barely pulled out his dagger before a Nord in studded armor appeared in the circle of firelight, mace and shield at the ready.
"Do you want to simply leave, or do I have to kill you?" the Nord asked. "You're not even wearing armor." The bandit's only reply was to lunge forward. The Nord easily blocked his attack and quickly finished him off. He silently moved among the bodies, picking up potions, food, and books, then prepared a torch and proceeded further into the dark ruin.
The Nord crept forward carefully, taking his time, as more bandits lurked within. He picked them off easily, and the sounds of their bodies hitting the floor and dying screams seemed to be absorbed by the ruins, as each time, the Nord caught the latest bandit unawares. He pondered briefly on an ancient puzzle he came across, but was really left wondering why the puzzle was so easy. He aligned some pedestals correctly, and the gate in his path creaked open. The Nord cut through some webs with one of the swords he had picked up, and heard a voice in the distance.
"Is... is someone coming? Is that you Harknir? Bjorn? Soling? I know I ran ahead with the claw, but I need help!"
The Nord rounded a corner and entered a large, web-strewn hall. Across the way, he could make out a struggling figure in the webs. "Arvel, I presume?"
Before the Dunmer could answer, the Nord heard a noise and looked up to see a gargantuan shape dropping down upon him from the blackness. The Nord yelled and rolled away, and his torch revealed it to be a giant frostbite spider. It was enormous, far bigger than anything he had seen with Ralof. The length of one of its legs was roughly as tall as the Nord. He unleashed a gout of flames at the monster as Arvel screamed incoherently. Flames kept spewing from the Nord's hands for a few moments, engulfing the spider, before they finally sputtered out. He lunged forward and struck the spider with his mace, but it merely screeched and swung a leg at him.
The Nord was knocked backwards, but he lurched forward and struck the spider again, then careened off to the side and ran towards Arvel. The dazed spider took a moment to turn around, and while it did, the Nord threw one of his spare swords at it, which stabbed deeply into its side. It screeched again and retreated back into its hole in the ceiling.
"You did it," the Dunmer said thankfully as the blood-covered Nord approached. "You killed it. Now cut me down before anything else shows up."
The Nord didn’t move. "Where's the Golden Claw?"
"Yes, the claw," Arvel said furtively. "I know how it works. The claw, the markings, the door in the Hall of Stories. I know how they all fit together. Help me down, and I'll show you. You won't believe the power the Nords have hidden away."
"Fine," the Nord replied. "Let me see if I can cut you down." He liked the idea of having a travelling companion; he didn't much like cutting through this ruin on his own.
"Sweet breath of Arkay, thank you," Arvel breathed as the Nord began slicing. "It's coming loose. I can feel it." However, as soon as Arvel hit the ground, he was racing off farther into the ruins. "You fool, why should I share the treasure with anyone?"
The Nord sighed and walked forward. It wasn't long before he heard inhuman snarls and Arvel's screams, which were quickly cut short. Mace at the ready, the undeterred Nord crept into the dark passage. Ahead, he could just make out three forms huddled over Arvel's motionless body. Figuring they wouldn't grant him any warmer of a reception, the Nord prepared an arrow and let it loose. However, unlike the bandits, the figure he targeted was merely staggered for a moment by his arrow. All three turned in his direction, and even from this distance he could see the red pinpricks of their eyes.
"Okay…" The Nord dropped the bow and summoned his magical energies again, unleashing another stream of fire at the attackers. In the light of the flames, he saw their faces - their rotting, dead faces. The stench of burning, rotting flesh filled the air, and the Nord backpedaled as quickly as he could back into the passage. He could do little but hold up his shield and fall back as the flaming zombies struck at him and howled. They were just decayed echoes of the warriors they had once been, but in life they were honored warriors, not the dregs who had been trying to rob the barrow. In a brief lull, he managed to drop one with his mace, and then broke and ran while the other two clamored over their fallen ally.
The Nord ran through the open chamber where he met Arvel, and his pursuers followed. He stopped, breathing hard, as the two undead flanked him. He kept up his guard, trying to keep an eye on both, when suddenly one of them disappeared. He looked up and saw that the wounded spider had grabbed new prey; the creature was already wrapping up the struggling undead and retreating back to its hole. The other, meanwhile, stabbed at the Nord, and he was barely able to block. The last creature was head and shoulders taller than him and wielded a blade long enough to be a lance. The Nord was remarkably free of injury, but both his arms were numb with fatigue and his mind was clouded from his magical exertions. He tried to keep his distance from the creature, but it kept charging forward, not caring about the weaknesses of his living opponent. The Nord tried to parry a blow with his mace, but his arm crumpled under the strength of the creature's swing, and he cried out as the sword opened up a gash in his shoulder.
"You know … " the Nord huffed as he blocked another heavy blow with his shield. "I do feel bad about this. This is your home and all … but I need that stone." As the creature swung his sword again, the Nord threw everything he had behind a mace swing, knocking the sword away, and then charged the undead warrior, knocking him back into the webbing that had held Arvel. The creature's arms quickly became entangled, and the Nord swung his mace again, braining it. All was silent again except for the Nord's heavy breathing. He drank a potion and tried to recover his strength a moment, then came to an important conclusion.
"I don't wanna do this alone."
Middas, morning, 18th of Last Seed
ell, you're gonna do it alone now," Lucan yelled at Camilla. "Because I quit. I've had it, you cold-hearted bitch! You-" He stopped as the door to Riverwood Trader opened for the first time that morning. After a moment, he recognized the warrior in the mismatched armor who had come in two nights before, though he now wore mostly studded trappings. "Hello! Welcome back, er- … uh, hey you okay?"
The Nord, drenched from the rain outside, was favoring his right arm, his armor had blackened stains all over it, and his face had the pallid color of someone who had just walked through Oblivion. He slumped into a chair by the door, shutting his eyes. One hand signaled weakly that he needed a moment.
Lucan brought him a cup of water and took a seat across the table. "You make it over to the barrow, then? You look a fright."
The Nord took a sip of water and finally said, "Bandits. Then spiders. Big spiders. Then the dead rising from the catacombs. Sunken, red eyes."
"Sounds like you found some draugr down there," Lucan said, awe in his voice.
"Draugr. Yes, thank you. Been looking for that word all night," the Nord paused for another sip. "Made it to the Sanctum. But what I found there was … well, anyways, here you are." He pulled the Golden Claw out of his bag, wrapped in a piece of cloth, and offered it to the shopkeeper.
"You found it? Ha ha ha!" Lucan laughed. "There it is. Strange... it seems smaller than I remember. Funny thing, huh? I wonder why they took such a little thing."
The Nord slipped a small journal out of his bag and gave it to Lucan. "It seems the claw was actually a key. To Bleak Falls Barrow."
"No!" Lucan exclaimed, shocked.
"Yes. One of the bandits recognized it and snuck off with it, then betrayed his companions and tried to make it through the ruin by himself. But he wasn't prepared to deal with the residents."
"Well, I'm going to put this back where it belongs," Lucan said, setting the claw and the journal on the counter. Turning back to the Nord, he declared, "I'll never forget this. You've done a great thing for me and my sister." He opened a small safe behind the counter and withdrew a large coinpurse with hundreds of septims inside.
The Nord stood and accepted the purse with a smile and a nod. "No, thank you. I'll put this money to good use."
The two traded some smaller items, shook hands, and the Nord walked back out into the storm and decided to grab a drink at the Sleeping Giant Inn. He nodded to the new Whiterun guards on the porch and ordered an ale at the bar.
Orgnar made a face. "You know what time it is?"
"Yeah, but I've been up all night anyways," the Nord replied. He certainly looked like it.
Orgnar turned away to fill a glass and remarked, "Inn's closed. Bar's still open, though. Feel free to sit and put your head down on the table for as long as you like. I won't bother you."
"Can't. Got to get back to Whiterun." As the Nord sipped on his pint, his face went sour. "Say, Orgnar, where's your taskmaster?"
"Who, Delphine? Went to Whiterun to get a new batch of ale," he said. After a pause, he added, "That one's on the house."
"Hmm, can't argue with that," the Nord responded, taking another swig of the aging ale. "So, heard any new rumors lately?"
"You wouldn't believe the things I've heard lately," Orgnar muttered dismissively.
"Try me."
Orgnar stopped cleaning out a mug and leaned against the counter. "Okay … word is Ulfric Stormcloak escaped from the Imperials. War's only going to get worse, now."
The Nord snorted. "Tell me something I don't know."
Orgnar, like most barkeeps, prided himself on knowing more than most, so he thought of the biggest rumor he had heard. "They say a dragon attacked Helgen," he declared. Of course, he also prided himself on being skeptical. "Sounds like hogwash to me."
"I said new rumors, Orgnar."
Orgnar leaned in close and said quietly, "Okay, how about this: there have been whispers. A boy, up in Windhelm, name of Aventus Aretino. Been trying to contact... the Dark Brotherhood."
The Nord's brow furrowed. "The ones who killed Pelagius the First? They're still around? The boy's tried to contact them, and people know this and they do nothing? Why is he doing it?"
Orgnar shrugged, clearly happy to have won the little game. "I'm just the cook, lad."
The Nord laughed and finished his ale. He dropped 10 gold pieces on the counter as he stood. "For your trouble."
"Pfft." Orgnar slid back all but one. "Pay me in kind. Who are you, stranger? What have you been doing? And just what in Oblivion is going on out there?"
The Nord leaned on the counter. "Okay, Orgnar. Truth is, I don't have any idea what's going on," he sighed. "I woke up in back of a carriage next to Ulfric Stormcloak and had my head on a chopping block in Helgen before a dragon with foul breath destroyed the place. Now I'm just running errands so others can figure out what's happening. But if you're asking me, Orgnar, should you be afraid? Yes, yes you should. Because it wasn't hogwash when that dragon called balls of fire from the skies to rain down on Helgen. Those guards on your porch can do nothing to stop that dragon from wiping out this whole town, or any other place. We are all on borrowed time." He slid the gold back across the table. "Enjoy yourself."
Middas, noon, 18th of Last Seed
don't see how you can enjoy this," Delphine remarked.
"What do you mean? This is fascinating! You see?" Farengar exclaimed, gesturing at the parchment on the table in front of them. The ancient property record in front of them included the names of various settlements following by what appeared to be a series of scratches and dots. "The terminology is clearly First Era or even earlier. I'm convinced this is a copy of a much older text. Perhaps dating to just after the Dragon War. If so, I could use this to cross-reference the names with other later texts."
"Good," Delphine replied simply. "I'm glad you're making progress. My employers are anxious to have some tangible answers."
"Oh, have no fear," Farengar dismissed, waving his hand. "The Jarl himself has finally taken an interest, so I'm now able to devote most of my time to this research."
"Time is running, Farengar, don't forget," came the ominous reply. "This isn't some theoretical question. Dragons have come back."
"Yes, yes. Don't worry," Farengar whined. "Although the chance to see a living dragon up close would be tremendously valuable... Now, let me show you something else I found... very intriguing... I think your employers may be interested as well..."
As Farengar rummaged through other papers, Delphine straightened up and took a half-step into the shadows. "You have a visitor."
"Hmm?" Farengar looked up to see the Nord. His face, though no longer covered in black soot, was dirty and strained. "Ah, yes, the Jarl's protege! Back from Bleak Falls Barrow? You didn't die, it seems."
"Not yet." He reached into his bag, withdrew a large, chipped stone, and laid it on the table on top of some papers. "Your Dragonstone."
"Ah! The Dragonstone of Bleak Falls Barrow!" Farengar exclaimed, running his hands over the runes. For the first time, Farengar took a good look at the Nord. He had changed his armor since Farengar saw him last, now wearing studded light garb with Imperial trappings and boots that the court wizard gleaned were enchanted. He had traded in his iron mace for a well-honed steel one which also glimmered in the torchlight. "Seems you are a cut above the usual brutes the Jarl sends my way."
The Nord, who was struggling to stay on his feet, was glad the ruse that he wasn't exhausted was working. His thoughts focused on the cot at Jorrvaskr, he muttered, "I got you the Dragonstone. What next?"
"That is where your job ends and mine begins. The work of the mind, sadly undervalued in Skyrim. My … associate here will be pleased to see your handiwork. She discovered its location, by means she has so far declined to share with me," Farengar said, gesturing at the woman in the shadow. "So, your information was correct after all. And we have our friend here to thank for recovering it for us," Farengar boasted to Delphine, clearly too smug about winning some argument to notice Delphine's glare.
"You went into Bleak Falls Barrow and got that? Nice work," Delphine said casually to the Nord as she moved for the door - but she stayed in the shadows as she did so. "Just send me a copy when you've deciphered it," she called back to Farengar.
"Before you go," Farengar said to the Nord, who was about to follow Delphine. "Were there any others markings in Bleak Falls like these?"
"Oh, yeah. There was a whole wall of it."
"A wall? There's a word wall in Bleak Falls? Amazing!" Farengar exclaimed. "Do you remember any of the markings? Can you write them down?"
The Nord groaned. "Maybe…"
Clapping his hands together, Farengar fetched a roll of paper and a writing kit. "Even if you can only remember just one line or phrase, it would be very helpful."
"I remember, it's just…" The Nord took the quill and looked at it like he'd never seen one before. He scratched it on the paper with no result.
"Ahem…" Farengar pushed forward the inkwell.
"Right…" The Nord dabbed the quill into the ink, pressed it to the paper - and the quill snapped.
"Erm- can you write?" Farengar stuttered.
"Yeah, I think so, I just … haven't had to." The Nord eventually scribbled down what he had seen on the word wall.
"Marvelous!" Farengar exclaimed as he studied the parchment. "There are definitely some words here I haven't seen." His brow furrowed as he realized the etching was like a whole poem. "Did you memorize this before you left? Why?"
The Nord just shrugged. "I wasn't trying to, but they kinda … stood out to me. Can you translate it?"
"Some of it ...," Farengar muttered, leaning close to the parchment. Tapping on the parchment for each word, he translated, "'Dragonstone' … 'and' … 'Force' … 'Rage.'" His lips moved for a moment as he put it all together in his head. "A loose translation is 'Here lies the Vahlok' - whatever that is - 'holder of the Dragonstone, and a force of endless rage' and something else; it looks like 'night.' Darkness, maybe? 'And a force of endless rage and darkness.'"
"Yeah, that sounds like him," the Nord mused, yawning.
"It's a him? You met this Vahlok?" Farengar inquired, looking up.
"Met him? The bastard stabbed me with a sword longer than your table. I'd be dead if he had woken up a bit faster," the Nord said ruefully as he started to walk - well, limp - over to Farengar's laboratory. "In fact, I need more potions."
Noticing this, Farengar pleaded, "Please, I'll give you potions, but I can't afford to buy any more lilac to cover that smell-"
"Farengar!" The Breton and the Nord looked over at the voice and saw the Dunmer Irileth entering the study.
"Farengar, you need to come at once. A dragon's been sighted nearby."
Middas, late evening, 18th of Last Seed
et's hear it for the dragon!" came a shout from a window of Candlehearth Hall. The cheers of the Nords of Windhelm made pebbles on the docks of the city tremble. Mere hours after news spread through the city that their leader, Ulfric Stormcloak, had been captured, the Bear of Markarth himself rode up to main gates on a white horse, and news quickly spread of Helgen. Of course, in accordance with the Nordic custom, someone would occasionally take liberties with the story. Within an hour, some drunk was yelling to everyone in Candlehearth that Ulfric had tamed a dragon which wiped out half the Imperial army to save the High King. Then Ulfric finished off the rest.
Regardless of the version they heard, half of the city thronged the streets leading to the Palace of the Kings and cheered Ulfric Stormcloak as he passed. Ulfric hid his weariness and worries, waving to the people and smiling. The crowd was mainly composed of children and the elderly; most able-bodied Nords of Windhelm had either joined the Stormcloaks or fled to Imperial lands. But those that remained cheered like the liveliest crowd the Imperial Arena had ever seen.
Of course, half the city remained dark that night, and for those residing there, little celebration could be found. In the Grey Quarter, the segregated Dunmer ghetto of the city, few seemed to care that the Jarl of Windhelm had been captured, let alone that he had miraculously escaped. And on the docks, the Argonians, banned from the city proper, just kept fishing and swishing their tails to keep their blood flowing, ignoring the trembling pebbles.
Their leader waved goodbye and entered his palace, and the Nords dispersed for an impromptu night of merriment, talk of an annual holiday already in the air. Ulfric, meanwhile, was immediately greeted with a bear hug by his housecarl, chief general, and closest friend, Galmar Stone-Fist, whose laughter echoed around the throne room. "I knew no Imperial quill-scratcher could hold the High King of Skyrim!" he exclaimed.
Galmar quickly let Ulfric go, coming to his senses, but Ulfric just laughed at his sudden propriety and slapped his old friend on the shoulder. "It's good to see you, too. How goes the war?"
"News of your escape is sure to send the recruitments levels up. The Pale still stands with us, and the Rift's production of weapons and armor is ahead of schedule," Galmar said as they walked to the Jarl's quarters. "Too bad you couldn't complete your mission, but the children of Skyrim need no help from foreigners, anyways."
"If only the children of Skyrim were all on our side, my friend," Ulfric said wearily.
"You're tired, my Jarl," Galmar replied, opening the door to the jarl's bedroom. "Get some sleep; we can discuss plans for the war in the morning. We're only just getting started!"
"Galmar?" Ulfric stopped his housecarl. "Where is Balgruuf?"
"My lord?"
"So goes Whiterun, so goes the war," Ulfric recited, staring out the window. "It's been that way since the moment I raised the banner. I was lucky enough to meet you, my friend, during the Great War, but Balgruuf and I grew up together," Ulfric said as he sat down and took off his boots. "We learned to ride horses together. We hunted together. We went to High Hrothgar together. His wife is my cousin. We've prayed to Talos together over the bodies of those we loved. I thought I had the measure of him. I thought he would stand with me. Why has he stayed in the Empire's pocket?"
"I don't know, my lord. Greed? But … " Galmar trailed off. "It's said there's a shrine to Talos in the public square of Whiterun, and Imperial troops never make it past the front gate. His markets are open and bustling, selling to whomever is buying. By supporting us, he's shutting down everything and inviting war to Whiterun. He has no reason to support us."
"So, we have to give him a reason to do what's right," Ulfric muttered, his despondency finally showing.
"Or get a Jarl of Whiterun who will," Galmar responded grimly. He moved to close the door. "Will there be anything else, my Jarl?"
Ulfric opened his mouth, then paused and stared at his friend. Galmar would die and make others die at his whim. Would journey through Oblivion for him. Would, and had, toppled kingdoms in the name of Ulfric Stormcloak.
"Nothing … that can't wait until morning," Ulfric said softly.
One more night.
The Tale continues in Dragon Rising.