#if anything Skyrim is just average on this

[elbiotipo]

Perhaps the worst game design choice in Skyrim is when you are told to go kill nameless bandits who you can't talk to and just exist as random enemies, and then when you're fighting one they yell "I yield" and you're okay, that's fair, I'm just here to get some random sword I don't actually want to kill you and after all, the game tips say that if they yell "I yield" you can sheathe your sword and they'll stop fighting

Then you find out that's COMPLETELY FALSE, the game does NOT allow you to do that, the nameless bandits like all enemies in the game are programmed to fight to the death, and that's what you do, you fight them to death, because they have no names no lives or anything, they are there to keep attacking you and fight to the death for a chest with 124 gold and boots with a bonus to enchantment.

Or what's worse, the game makes them yell "PLEASE NO MORE" or "I YIELD" JUST as you deliver the killing blow. It would be an interesting comment on violence in videogames if it wasn't just a fakeout because the nameless bandits aren't actually coded to do anything but to fight you to death.

Okay, that's a bunch of poor game design choices, not just one.

[leftmysoulbythesideoftheroad]

i want to play skyrim so bad but my brother moved out so i don’t even have access to it, and i have literally no idea what this means. i wish it was like. slightly simpler to use a laptop. i used to play on my brother’s but mine is a lot cheaper, but also some of the search results say it can run on average laptops because it’s so old. along with more numbers and acronyms that mean nothing to me.

[holocene-sims]

oc questionnaire tag

here i am, trying my best to catch up on tag games 😭😭 i have no idea who tagged me in this one anymore because this went around so long ago, and after scrolling through three months worth of notifications, i don't know if i found everyone who tagged me, but i do 100% remember @stargazer-sims @dandylion240 & @jonquilyst tagging me!

BASICALLY thank you so much to everyone who tagged me, and i'm so sorry if i missed acknowledging you here because i am pretty sure i did miss folks! but anyway, i'll tag in return:

@windermeresimblr @slightly-ludic @nikatyler @swallowprettybird @changingplumbob @vercosims @sertrallne @nectar-cellar @sparkiekong @papermint-airplane

NAME: bae yunha (배윤하)

NICKNAMES: yun, yunie, princess pear (배공주) 🍐

bonus fact: princess pear is spoofing off her name and the translation of princess peach (피치공주), who is yunha's main/ favorite character in mario kart! as for the name thing, yunha's last name doesn't mean pear, but the word for pear is pronounced and spelled the same exact way as her last name (배). so,,, the nickname is kind of princess bae, as in princess bae yunha, but it's also princess pear at the same time lol

GENDER: cis female

STAR SIGN: pisces ♓

HEIGHT: 5'5"

ORIENTATION: bisexual

NATIONALITY/ETHNICITY: korean 🇰🇷

FAVORITE FRUIT: peach 🍑

FAVORITE SEASON: winter 🎄

FAVORITE FLOWER: orchids 💜

FAVORITE SCENT: oddly specific but miss dior blooming bouquet perfume (it's her favorite perfume but she rations it out in the tiniest of portions because it's $$$$$) 💟

COFFEE, TEA, or HOT CHOCOLATE: all of the above! yunha doesn't discriminate against liquids, she just likes them in different contexts. she drinks coffee out of the house at coffee shops, tea at home (unless it's boba, at which point she'll buy it at a boba shop), and hot chocolate during winter, mostly if it's snowing ☕

AVERAGE HOURS OF SLEEP: 10 😴 she likes her beauty sleep!

DOGS or CATS: cats! she likes both, but she prefers cats 🤍

DREAM TRIP: paris and/or france more generally! she's aware it's not, like, the romanticized place it's portrayed as in media, but she wants to go to see the museums and architecture, check out the cafes, and walk around the parks and whatnot

NUMBER OF BLANKETS: just one! she's always slept on the floor on a futon, and in her opinion, it's a bit much to have too many blankets when you're doing that because the blankets aren't really anchored onto anything, so if you have more than one, they start getting tangled and crawling off the mattress in multiple directions

RANDOM FACT: she has an uncanny ability to solve puzzles! she's the girlie you give the "solve the maze without lifting your pen off the paper" challenges, and she's proud to say she has never looked up a walkthrough for games like portal or the stone matching mini-games in skyrim 👑 part of the magic is definitely stubbornness btw. she will stare at the puzzle until it's either solved or the universe decays into oblivion, one or the other! she is otherwise not competitive, though; that attitude is quite literally reserved only for puzzles

[sharffffff]

Anarnyrel Emeratu

Wow this lady is ✨old✨

How old, exactly? Well, not the "this is the oldest mortal character in TES" old, but not that far behind either. Being born into one of the first generations of Falmer living under Dwemer rule, in 1e487, Anarnyrel would be just over 3000 years during the Planemeld.

You might be wondering, however, that she doesn't look like a Falmer at all, and fair, she doesn't - her grandfather was a Dwemer and (in my headcanons) snow-white skin tone of Falmer is extremely recessive (as in, multiple different skin tone genes rely on being recessive to achieve that tone), so getting back to being snow-white after initial hybridization takes a lot of generations. Anarnyrel is still significantly paler than your average Dwemer, who have almost bronze skin tones, and much more desaturated as well.

Now, what is there to know about her? Let me get into my "it's time to actually write seriously" mood and get started.

Although a lot of Dwemer in recorded texts had thought themselves superior to other races, especially their downtrodden brethren Falmer, it was far from the case in reality, even though "kind souls" of Dwemer society were less likely to be in positions of power and have any written texts about them survive through both their disappearance and thousands of years since then. But they existed, in quite the significant numbers, and Anarnyrel's grandfather, Nathranas, was one of them. He has always been interested in cultures of other races, and has spent a lot of time among Falmer in particular, after the Night of Tears but long before the fall of Snow Prince and complete collapse of the Falmer kingdom. He has travelled a lot, but always kept coming back to Skyrim, especially with things getting more and more heated.

But in particular, he kept coming back to Vantari, a Falmer who he has grown attached to, who always made snide remarks about his kind of work, and to whom he always fired back to. They had this sort of friendly rivalry that was on the verge of growing to something else, but Nathranas never took the first step in the fear of being too imposing, and knowing that Vantari had more things to worry about. After all, she was in charge of an entire Falmeri town, and with the war in Skyrim getting worse and worse, she surely had more important things than love. So, Nathranas held off from the confessions and just offered her and her people whatever help he could, while in the background working on securing them the place to live in case Falmer were driven off the surface after all.

The rumors he heard about the plans of other Dwemeri houses weren't too promising, and he didn't hold enough political power to get anything done about it. Who would listen to the last remaining member of a house that's been down on its luck for the last five centuries, after all? Only someone who already held views similar to his, and it wasn't the powerful majority. Yes, he had convinced some other minor nobles to also prepare the safe space for the Falmer in case the inevitable happens, but he was afraid that it wouldn't last. The plans of larger clans and houses... they were horrifying. And what's worse, they were likely to succeed.

And then it happened. Snow Prince fell in one of the battles against the Nedes, and the last hope for Falmer to stay on the surface was gone. They were hunted like animals, driven off the surface of the world, driven right into the trap of larger clans. Some settlements were able to evade the deal with those clans and instead find safe haven with some of Nathranas' allies, and Vantari and her town was welcome in the old fortress of Narthranas' house, which he had been restoring in case this did happen. They were welcome in, no strings attached, with the exception of having to help growing the food for the town, as he alone could not feed nearly a hundred people all by himself. Yes, there were some constructs to help with gathering the crops, but he didn't have time to fully repair them as of yet - it was one of the first things on his list, however. And, to be fair, this deal was significantly better than some other refugees have gotten, which Narthranas was utterly disgusted by. He was hoping that the rumors weren't true, but, sadly, they were, and as much as he hoped he could've helped every single Falmer, it just wasn't possible.

Over time, however, the old fortress has started seeing new life, both with many constructs being repaired to help with growing crops, looking after kwama and other things around the underground citadel, and with Falmer who have retreated here seeing that unlike many other Dwemer, Nathranas wasn't going to stab them in the back. They were still wary, of course, but this deal was better than some others they could've gotten. In the meantime, Narthranas started teaching some of the younger Falmer how to repair the constructs and how to build new ones, how the magotech worked, how to charge the soul gems to power both the constructs and some of the automated systems in the fortress itself, and many other things that were usually forbidden to relay to the outsiders. But then again, Narthranas has already "betrayed the Dwemer" from what he heard said about him, so why not betray them some more?

To return to the topic at hand, Anarnyrel - for her to come to exist, something must happen. And, surprising nobody, it did - it was Vantari who approached Narthranas, however, as he was too afraid to even think about it with all the news about how other Dwemer treated their Falmer brethren. She told him how she loved to see him squirm, unable to admit his feelings, but thought that he has stewed in his guilt for far too long. He wasn't responsible for the actions of his people, and it didn't mean he wasn't deserving of love. How Narthranas didn't just die on the spot is still unknown, but the relief he felt from being accepted by the woman he had loved for the past 264 years was immense. It would be more than another century before they would get a daughter of their own, with two generations of Falmer having grown up in the fortress without ever seeing the light of day.

Well, this wasn't entirely correct, as the exit to the surface wasn't locked, and some experienced hunters would go out now and again to bring back fresh meat, and with some youngsters sneaking out despite the looming threat of Nedes still hunting down the last remnants of Falmer, but sunlight was still a rare encounter for most of the younger generations. The artificial sunlight was good enough for the cave crops and to not go completely insane from constant darkness, and Dwemer have lived like this for thousands of years, but for normally surface-dwelling Falmer it was difficult to get used to.

Autarielle - that was the name that Vantari has given their daughter, "Beaty of the Clouds", to remind of what was lost. When she was just born, she was surprisingly pale, looking almost like full-blood Falmer, but as she aged, her skin tone grew darker, ending up being almost darker than that of Narthranas. To the unknowing eye, she looked almost more Dwemeri than her own father! Autarielle was loved among the entire city, with people living there hoping that she was the blessing from the gods, a sign that things would be okay, that the city was safe from the rest of the world. And for the time, it was true. The fortress was thriving, more hunting parties were going onto the surface, still with immense care not to lead the Nedes to the entrance of the caverns, and more and more Falmeri children, Autarielle included, were being taught the crafts of both Dwemer and Falmer, in case they ever needed to take care of the citadel after Narthranas was gone.

And then, Narthranas got his first threat. His city was doing too well, and the important people have taken notice. The letter didn't look like a threat to an untrained eye, but the phrasing made it all far too clear. They were "interested in the progress of [his] little project, and recommended to not let it grow too big to handle". This was bad. The city has grown significantly, with four generations of Falmer having grown up here already, almost doubling the population, and this letter has just become a confirmation that they kept their eyes on him. This almost drew Narthranas to the panic, and then something happened that made it all even worse.

With things going well up to this point, even slightly less experienced hunters were allowed to join the hunts on the surface, and so, with all this traffic up and down, it became easier for some mischievous younger Falmer to sneak up to the surface to watch the animals, and sky, and trees, and clouds. Autarielle might have had it a bit more difficult than others, as her sneaking out would be much more noticeable, with her looking nowhere near like other Falmer, but it didn't stop her. She and her partner, Seravin, became great at sneaking out to spend time alone together, as it has become quite difficult to find empty spaces back in the citadel, and they weren't ready to make their relationship public just yet. Seravin felt that they might be a little too "unimportant" for Autarielle's parents to allow her to be with them, with her being the daughter of the leader of the city and the one who gave them this safe haven, and with Seravin just being a child of a hunter and a kwama miner. Autarielle always called them silly for that fear, but never forced them to become public. They would do it when they were ready.

Sadly, that "ready" moment wasn't going to come. During one of their escapades, with both of them sitting in the branches of a great oak and just having some fun, they were ambushed. Nords were some masterful marksmen, and Seravin was dead mere seconds after the arrow hit them straight in the heart. After noticing Autarielle, however, Nords ran, screaming at each other that they should never have attacked the Dwarves and that they would be cursed forever now. Autarielle didn't even have a second to process what happened and had entirely shut off. She was trying desperately to heal Seravin, refusing to believe they were dead, and dragged them back to the fortress on sheet willpower alone, and then lost consciousness. When she regained it, she shut off from everyone around her, including her parents, who quickly realized what was going on between the two. Autarielle couldn't believe it was happening. What she didn't know at the time, either, was that she was carrying Seravin's child.

Narthranas had to put out several centurions near the entrance to the citadel to ward off any potential Nords who may have wanted to follow the bloody trail, to show that this city was still occupied by Dwemer they oh so much feared, and them he broke down himself. He has almost lost his daughter to those Nedic savages, and she has lost the life of her life and the other parent of her child. And he didn't even know she had been seeing someone! He was heartbroken by the thought of her not trusting neither him nor Vantari with this information, but was aware that she had her own troubles to deal with right now. Meanwhile, he ordered to increase security around the elevator and decrease amount of hunts, to make sure no more people are lost. He would've felt responsible for each loss had he not done it.

The day Anarnyrel was born was not a happy one, either. As the world welcomed in one life, it had taken another one instead. Autarielle had died in the child birth, and Narthranas had promised himself to teach Anarnyrel everything he could to make sure she can survive for as long as possible. He raised her as his daughter, spending almost all his time with her, teaching her everything from how to grow crops to how to do complex engineering, including that of limbs and organs. He taught her how to wield both magic and tech to prolong her life, and a variety of other skills that could come useful. He even hired tutors from various cultures to give her better education in magical and other fields, and dedicated the rest of his life to her, especially after Vantari was claimed by her old age. He couldn't allow himself to let Anarnyrel suffer the same fate, he had to protect her no matter what. He couldn't let the last of his loved ones to die. What he inadvertently taught Anarnyrel, however, was that love was dangerous and could drive you to insanity both when gained and when lost.

And then, one day, when Anarnyrel had barely turned 96, Narthranas had sent her away, telling her that it was too dangerous here now, that he would try to evacuate as much of the city as he could, but they were unhappy and they were coming here. After this, she never heard from him again, and in her retreat in Summerset she had news reach her that a "dangerous traitor to Dwemeri society has been eliminated, with all his experiments destroyed". The name of this dangerous traitor? Narthranas Khazdarth. Her grandfather. And the experiments were, most likely, the Falmer who weren't turned into blind slaves, like those of the other clans. He was saving her when he was sending her off to Summerset, and she had to use everything he taught her to make him proud.

1e700 has left Anarnyrel untouched, most likely thanks to her mostly Falmeri blood, and she has seen way too many historic events since. As time passed, some of her body had deteriorated and was replaced by far more reliable mechanical parts, while the rest was sustained on a variety of magical means. She had grown in power over the years as well, but had spent most of her life in her own tower, which she built with a mix of Dwemeri and Falmeri architecture, studying different metaphysical concepts. She was most interested in some myths and legends of different cultures and how true or false they were. Numerous experiments, as well as field trips to measure magicka levels in the places of legends were successful, much more were proven false, but she never published her results - her grandfather had spread the knowledge among the masses and it was one of the causes of his death, and Anarnyrel wasn't going to be so reckless.

But if she ever was to die, she had a failsafe to publish all of her research in as wide of a print as possible, releasing potentially devastating revelations. Good thing it was that she wasn't planning on dying any time soon, and still had much more research to be done.

[nerevar-quote-and-star]

I Didn't Know You Were Keeping Count — Part X: Swan, continued

ao3

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Author's note: Here it is! Please forgive this super long chapter. It's 12.5k but my dear @elder-dragon-reposes assures me none of it's filler (I love her). ✨ So, here's my attempt to fix the Grand Crystal Ball while interweaving Leara's past, anxiety, and unavoidable plot stuff in.

Also! We finally get to my Silmarillion reference! Maglor my beloved

Tag list:

@ravenmind2001 @incorrectskyrimquotes @uwuthrad @dark-brohood @owl-screeches @binaominagata @constantfyre @kurakumi @stormbeyondreality @singleteapot @aardvark-123 @blossom-adventures @argisthebulwark @inkysqueed @average-crazy-fangirl @the-tuzen-chronicles @shivering-isles-cryptid @orangevanillabubbles @cosmermaid

Content Warning: Nothing you need to be worried about right now 🤞🏻

#######

Leara poured over the Prose Edda until the half-hour chimed in the belfry at the Temple of Divines. Marking her place, it was with a weary heart that she placed it in her satchel. Another bag beside it held her armor, compact yet heavy when not on her body. She wrapped the fur stole about her shoulders before lifting her bags. It may yet be high summer in Skyrim, but the evening air was cool and her arms and shoulders, bare save for the thin straps of her dress, were cold.

Honestly, Victoria cinched the gown so tight that the straps could be removed entirely, and it still wouldn’t fall. No, the only thing at risk of falling was Leara’s chest. The cut of the gown, paired with the tightness and lift from the corset, pushed her modest breasts up in an almost obscene display of flushed decolletage. The last time she saw this much skin from a woman in public was when Bishop got into it with that barmaid at The Bannered Mare. Funny, Leara didn’t recall seeing her there before then, and the girl certainly wasn’t there when she and Bishop were last in Whiterun. Perhaps she got a job at one of the other bars in town. Goodness knows she would’ve just to avoid another public scene like that.

Pulling the black fur tighter, Leara made her way from the dressing room back to the showroom where Victoria was fussing over a package. Beside her, a young Nord in a courier’s jacket stood, shifting from foot to foot. At Leara’s entrance, he stopped. “Woah.”

“Hmm?" Victoria hummed. Following the young man’s gaze, she lit up, “Oh! Is it that time already?”

“Yes, I was just going,” Leara said.

Victoria tutted. “Are you quite certain you want to wear your hair down? I have some ornaments that would create an exquisite updo!”

All at the courtesy of Casavir went unspoken. Where did he get this kind of money, Leara wondered. How much were paladins paid, anyway?

Leara’s hair, long and curling at the ends, brushed her shoulders as she shook her head. “Oh, no, thank you.” The courier gaped at her, and Leara made to offer him a reassuring smile before remembering that his nerves were likely tied to her. Her mouth slipped into passive marble. “Thank you for everything, Victoria.”

“Of course!” Victoria fawned. “Have a delightful time at the ball with Sir Casavir! You will definitely be the envy of all the patrons.”

The courier coughed.

Tracing a frost rune on her palm with her thumb, Leara focused on the sting in her nerves. Anything to divert her attention from the rolling nausea and rose flush burning her face.

Without another word, she exited the shop, skirts lifted as she made her way back to the main street. Sunset was still a few hours away, but it was growing late. Perhaps hiding in the dressing room wasn’t the best use of her time, but she needed some time to herself before subjugating herself to the dog and pony show this ball was bound to be. She made a mental note to ask Casavir about it when he came to escort her.

Walking down the street, she couldn’t help but notice people watching her. The urge to duck her head and hide behind her hair ate at her, but she suppressed it. She didn’t know what this ball was about, but she was familiar with the rules. Balls looked like a fairy tale extravaganza, but in all reality, they were political echo chambers where everyone was in costume. The parade began long before the doors to the ballroom opened: Who was attending on whose arm, what were they wearing, who filled out their dance card – endless questions that haunted the days and weeks before a ball like frost heralding bitter winter. Mothers foisted their daughters off on eligible bachelors while rich men cut business deals in dark corners. Ending the evening with an intact reputation and no personal losses took a particular talent, but Leara hadn’t devoted years of her life to espionage and masks to lose her face in this masquerade now. So she walked, head held high, bags ruffling her skirts, down one street and then another, back to The Winking Skeever.

Bishop was seated at a corner table, a half-full pint of ale next time him. She could feel his eyes on her the moment she maneuvered through the door hotter than any other stare in the room. At the counter, Sorex Vinius dropped a mercifully empty cup, eliciting an indignant scoff from his younger sister. The bard’s fingers trilled a succession of chords on her lyre. Leara swore someone wolf-whistled.

If the Dominion didn’t get her, the crowds would.

Head high, she went upstairs to her boardroom and dumped her bags on the bed. On second thought, she moved them to the table. Divines knew she’d be exhausted when she got back. Out of her satchel, she drew a pair of elbow-length gloves, cream in color, and tugged them on. More silk from Summerset, if Victoria was to be believed. Removing her fur, Leara tugged them on, hiding her rings securely in the glove.

The door opened behind her.

“Wow!” Bishop breathed, “You look amazing!”

Beside him, Karnwyr woofed in agreement.

She gave Karnwyr a soft smile before a sigh slipped out. “As long as Casavir likes it, that’s all that matters, isn’t it?” she sneered.

“He’ll like it and he’ll hate it,” Bishop said, “because looking at you will make his blood boil and that’s not something he’s comfortable with.”

“He’ll just have to stomach it.”

Bishop caught her arm as she moved to the door, his calloused hand folding around her elbow. “You’d make any real man’s blood boil,” he murmured, low. His gaze dropped from her face to, well. He whistled. “My, my, that number does wonders for your breasts! If I didn't know better, I'd say you might actually have enough up top to make a man's head comfortable!”

Her sneer blossomed into thorns. “Now Bishop, don’t tell me you’re as put upon as you think Casavir will be.” Leaning closer, she tilted her head counter to his. “I can’t imagine you being flustered.”

Barking a laugh, Bishop dropped her arm. “Flustered? No. Thrilled? Yes. Excited? Yes, without question. Would I lose control? Like Hell I would. Does that satisfy your curiosity, sweetheart?”

“I didn’t realize I was bothering you.”

“Oh, my dear, you can bother me anytime,” Bishop stepped back, brushing her skirts. Karnwyr grunted. “But your knight in shining armor awaits.”

Discontent pooled in the pit of her stomach. “Already?”

“Came in not long after you did. But he’s not man enough to tell you he’s here. I saw him at the bar, guzzling water like a fish right before I came up.”

How attractive. “I’ll see you later,” she said. The black stole was secured around her shoulders, its own kind of armor.

Bishop winked at her.

·•★•·

Casavir spluttered, water bubbling down his chin onto his shirtfront. Leara smiled. “You look exquisite this evening!” he said, standing up so quickly that the barstool teetered. “I fear to gaze at you, that I may lose myself—”

“Shall we be going, then?” Leara asked, saccharine.

“Certainly,” Casavir coughed. His cup clattered on the bar.

Someone scoffed. They probably thought this was as ridiculous as Leara did. They were definitely smarter than her, she mused as she accepted Casavir’s arm and allowed him to lead her from the Skeever into the streets. She was thankful for the protection of the fur stole over her shoulders. The anticipation gave her goosebumps, and not in excitement. She glanced around the street and spied neither a carriage nor any other kind of transport. So, when Casavir said he was picking her up, he meant they were walking clear across the city. How very chivalrous of him!

Silently, she detangled her arm from his and slipped her shoes off.

“What are you doing, my lady?” Casavir asked.

“These shoes weren’t made for walking,” Leara said, tucking them under her left arm. No one would notice she wasn’t wearing them; they’d be hidden by the fur.

“It is not becoming for a lady to walk barefoot through the streets,” Casavir said, watching her.

Now that was cute, given that first, he didn’t really see her as a lady, and secondly, he clearly didn’t care enough to procure a carriage for the evening. Leara’s smile was jagged. “I’ll just have to make do, won’t I? Now,” she said, entwining her free arm again with his, “why don’t you tell me about this ball? I know it must be terribly exciting! What sort of entertainment will they have?”

“I am not sure,” Casavir admitted. They strolled down the street, and Leara angled toward the Dour Run. Like Oblivion, she was walking barefoot down that steep hill to the Avenues! Casavir, distracted by the sound of his own voice, made no move to divert her path. “I am fairly new to Skyrim, so am unfamiliar with many of the customs and practices of the people. Though I am told that the ball traditionally has many great festivities, my paladin vows prevent me from partaking in a few of them.”

Ah, yes, paladin and all that. The only Order whose oaths she ever bothered with was the Blades, and she was the poster child for broken vows. But even as a Knight-Sister and later, after the war, she became acquainted with several different religious orders throughout High Rock, Hammerfell, and Cyrodiil. She wasn’t an expert by any means, but Casavir’s vows pricked her interest, if only because she knew how he seemed to rail against them. Perhaps she was playing Daedra’s advocate by agreeing to accompany him to the ball, but it did make Bishop upset. And now she had a break from him for the evening. That had to count for something, right? And besides, attending the ball, as absurd as it would be, would be good, the people of Skyrim would see her invested in their culture. She was serious.

Although she highly doubted that this was what Ulfric meant.

No, she chastised herself. Do not think about him. Do not!

“Tell me about your vows,” she said, in search of distraction.

“I must not partake in any drink that would impair my senses,” Casavir explained. “Partaking of wine and other strong drink would prohibit me from fulfilling my oaths. I must remain clear-minded so I am able to carry out the commandments of my Order.”

“And what Order is that?” she asked. And what in Oblivion did he drink? Milk? Ulfric’s voice calling Bishop a ‘skeever-faced milkdrinker’ came back to her, and it was all Leara could do to suppress her snort. Casavir was clearly one, too. By the time they mounted the run that cut through the Castle Dour yard, she’d just managed to compose herself. As they passed the entrance to the Court of the Eight and the Tempe of the Divines, Leara sent a silent prayer up to Akatosh, Mara, and Stendarr for grace, patience, and mercy. And then, after a moment’s thought, she asked Kyne for strength.

Casavir’s chest puffed up, swelling his ascot and blue coat. “I am a paladin in the Order of the Divines, my lady. We are a militant arm of the Council of the Eight.”

The Council of the Eight. By Talos. The Council of the Nine was the head of the Imperial Church, and just as they appointed priests to parishes and sent missionaries out to spread the Cult throughout the provinces, they also pandered to politics. Faith meant nothing when the concrete fist of the state threatened to break everything apart. That’s what happened following the White-Gold Concordat: Talos worship was banned, and the Imperial Church was restructured to cut the God of Man from their teachings. The Order of Talos was all but scrubbed from the face of the Empire. In the vacuum that followed, the Council of the Eight, so rebranded, formed the Order of the Divines, knight-paladins whose job it was to denounce Talos throughout the Empire in an effort to appease the Aldmeri Dominion. The Aldmeri Dominion, who despised the Imperial Church’s interpretation of the Aedra on a good day.

Bile clawed at Leara’s throat. She’d heard stories about the Order of the Divines, how they would sell out and even hand over Blades to the Thalmor. And here she was, a Blades operative on the arm of a paladin sworn into the Order of the Divines. Her katana was tucked under her mattress at The Winking Skeever, but the desire to check it burned her. She’d left it there before going to meet General Tullius. She didn’t realize it wasn’t the General’s recognition of a Blades weapon that she needed to be worried about.

“Also, I must not dance too close,” Casavir went on, oblivious. “It would be inappropriate to encourage my sensual thoughts.” Separated as they were by her gloves and his coat, there was a tension in his arm that threatened to snatch her closer, claiming to save her when he could only damn her to Oblivion.

This evening just got far more dangerous.

·•★•·

The Imperial Gardens lining the walk to the grand doors of the Blue Palace were alight with torches and chattering guests waiting to get in. Fiery dragon’s tongue and blushing mountain flowers waved from the flower beds lining the drive, enticing people toward the branching paths that wound off into the manicured gardens. Amid the clouds of perfume and torch smoke, soothing lavender wafted through the air, carried from the depths of the garden on a slight night wind. Arising on either side of the gardens, the wings of the palace loomed, cast into shadow by the westward sunfall. Stained glass windows were aglow with warm lights inviting partygoers in from the cool evening air. But the doors were still closed, and so they could only wait.

Hanging back, Leara fell behind Casavir to slip her shoes back on. By the time he turned to question her, she’d straightened and, with a placating smile, allowed him to lead her into the crowd in the gardens.

Stunned dismay and morbid intrigue seized Leara in turns. Several of the women were squeezed into dresses from The Jewel, some more flattering than others. From what she could tell, no one else’s waist was compressed as much as hers. The benefit of time to order according to measurements and having a trusted maid or relative to tie the corset, contrary to Victoria’s distorted preferences, was not lost on her. If she hadn’t refused Balgruuf’s desire to appoint her as a Thane of Whiterun, it was possible she could’ve had a better gown fitted properly. Although, she thought, sardonic, if she were a Thane of Whiterun, she highly doubted she would openly come to such an Imperialized function. Not while Balgruuf remained neutral in the war.

One woman broke off her twittering to her companion, her kohl-lined eyes wide at the sight of Leara. Too-red lips popped open. “It’s you!”

A cordial mask, the same she wore when attending Elenwen’s little soiree, settled across her face. “I’m sorry, have we met before?”

The woman, packed into Victoria’s lavender death gown, flushed. “You’re the Dragonborn!”

How forward. And how very unsettling that this random woman recognized her on sight. A strange little smile tried to pull Casavir’s mouth into something beyond his usual smolder. Lightning teased her nerves.

“The Dragonborn, eh?” the woman’s companion chuckled. “How about you put yourself to good use and Shout the doors open for us?”

Leara just smiled.

Wait, isn’t that what they said Ulfric did after he killed Torygg? Or was she getting her story mixed up? The facts around the High King’s death were so muddled by conjecture and heresay.

. . . and she was not going to think of Ulfric Stormcloak again this evening. She was not.

“You must excuse all the gossips out here tonight,” said one woman in slimming dovetail silk. “You’re causing quite a stir! You’re probably the most exciting thing that’s happened to them.”

More exciting than dragons and war? “Of course.”

“The windows look so pretty when they are lit up from the inside,” a nearby girl let out a dreamy sigh. Mercifully for her, she was wearing one of those high-waisted chemise gowns favored in more refined places, like Evermore.

The too-tight corset dug into her ribs. Leara shuddered.

“Are you cold, my lady?” Casavir asked, low in her ear.

“No, I—”

“I am!” cried a girl whose Victoria-gown was decked out with feathers, of all things. “It’s ruddy freezing out here!” The older woman beside her, clearly her mother or an aunt, tutted.

“I heard the Council of Commerce actually funded new sapphire fittings for the ballroom!”

“Fat chance,” someone sniffed.

Discontent murmured through the crowd. Leara wondered at the delay. It was almost unheard of to leave guests waiting like this. Were they still preparing the dinner and hall? Jarl Elisif canceled the ball last year, in the wake of Torygg’s death. In light of the progress in the war, or lack thereof, Leara began to doubt the young queen’s desire to actually host such a frivolous event. But what did that have to do with the Council of Commerce? Unless this was their party, Leara quickly amended. Ah, but things made sense now. An excess of extravagant and ornamental costumes, the volume of food that no doubt awaited them, the festivities and music – all the product of large amounts of money changing hands so merchants could show up, show out, and make bank.

Good taste and culture didn’t matter as long as money was made, yeah?

A hush fell over the crowd. Leara, who stood taller than most of the women, save a few of the Nords, straightened to see between the men’s heads. Then everyone was moving: The doors were open. Leara allowed herself to be guided by Casavir through the sea of people streaming into the Blue Palace. They went at a sedate pace, guests stopping in turns to hand off wraps and outerwear to servants. The line went quickly. Were these Elisif’s servants, or shop assistants pulled in by the Merchants Guild to work the evening? It probably looked good for business if people entered shops to find the same friendly faces who kept their coats safe for the evening.

All too soon, Leara and Casavir were through the doors, and she was handing her stole off to a bright-eyed maid. The cool air from the gardens brushed her shoulders. Casavir gave their names – and by names, she meant Sir Casavir and the Dragonborn since the knight so courteously never asked Leara her name – and then they were off again, swept along by the crowd.

The Blue Palace was large, larger than the Palace of the Kings or Dragonsreach, and certainly more grandiose. It had to be, having served as the residence of several members of the Septim dynasty during the height of the Empire. It was odd, walking where Uriel III and Pelagius the Mad once stood, never mind the Wolf Queen herself. An uncanny feeling utterly foreign to the reassurance she once felt in Cloud Ruler Temple knowing that Martin Septim once lived there. But, she decided, there was a stark difference between the fortress where hope was kept and the palace where treason and madness reigned. Bad things happened in the Blue Palace, most recently the High King’s death and the outbreak of war. With Leara’s recent string of luck, tonight would be just the latest in its sordid history, and she’d be right at the center of it.

They entered the ballroom, a white marble and gold draped hall that echoed bygone Imperial glory that was out of place in the grey climate of the current age. Amidst the rainbow of gowns and robes and suits already clustered on the floor, she could almost see dried blood on cold stone, blue eyes too bright, and shattered bones. A wolf howled.

“Sir Casavir and the one, the only – at least I hope there’s only one, or things will get interesting – DRAGONBORN!”

Leara slammed into the present. If Casavir hadn’t had her hand tucked into his arm, she might have stumbled at the announcer’s introduction. As it was, she tensed against the pull toward the floor. Casavir all but dragged her, escorting her to the wall where chairs were set aside for the women. Ballroom etiquette. How droll.

Introductions were still being made as Leara settled in her chair. Settling her skirts around her, she found Casavir staring at her expectantly. “May I help you?”

Casavir started. He smiled in what he no doubt thought was a suave display, but Leara wasn’t wooed. Nor would she be, having learned far too much about this man and his views on her to put her off him for the rest of the night. How very unfortunate that she was now obligated to dance with him by virtue of being his guest!

“You look beautiful,” Casavir said.

“Thank you,” Leara stared passed him.

The announcer rattled off several names. Most she didn’t recognize, but after a bit, she could pick out a few. There were many with some connection or another to the East Empire Company, crowned with, “Vittoria Vici and her Stormcloak teddy bear, Asgeir Snow-Shod!”

“You are so fair,” he went on. “For once in my life, I find myself regretting ever taking my vows.”

“Pardon, what?” Where in Oblivion did that come from?

Taking the seat beside her, Casavir reached for her hand. “I am merely thankful that you chose to accompany me this evening rather than remain in Bishop’s company. I fear what a man like him might do to you.”

Leara recoiled, but his grip was too much. “Are you saying I cannot defend myself?”

“My lady,” he pressed. “You are most kind, but I am skilled in the arts of battle and healing. Permit me to accompany you when you leave Solitude.”

This again? He’d mentioned as much when they met in The Prints and the Paper, but she didn’t realize he was serious! Bishop’s insistence that Casavir saw her as nothing more than a temptation only reinforced her realization that all these men who were obsessed with her wanted her. Casavir wanted her, and he wanted to get Bishop while he was at it. She coughed delicately into her free wrist, trying to ease the discomfort squeezing her ribs.

The members of the court began to be introduced.

“I don’t believe this is appropriate ballroom conversation,” she said. Again, she tried to withdraw her hand. With a sharp tug on her part, Casavir let her go.

“Forgive me, my lady. I do not mean to offend you.”

“Of course not.”

“And now, the fairest of them all, Good Queen Elisif!”

Everyone was watching then. Even Casavir turned from Leara to watch the Jarl of Solitude descend the short flight of steps to the ballroom. She was lovely, in a sweet yet melancholic way. Her coppery hair was coiled in a net of sapphires, framing bold green eyes in a gentle face. She indeed wore Victoria’s Blue Palace design and, somehow, it flattered her figure in a way many of the other gowns from The Jewel did not. The pink gem at her heart glittered under the candlelight. A gentleman who Leara thought was from the Merchants Guild stepped forward to meet Elisif. Bowing, he extended his hand to her. Elisif placed her gloved hand in his, and at once, music sprang up, and the first dance began.

Couples, hands clasped, swept onto the floor to join them.

“May I have this first dance, my lady?” Casavir stood and bowed neatly.

Silently, Leara nodded and allowed him to lead her to the lines of couples circling through the band’s lifting waltz.

Years separated her from the last time she stepped onto a ballroom floor. When was it, Fourth Era 190? Then, she was just a petty lord’s daughter’s governess, worth no more attention at a debutante ball than the curtains on the wall. Now as Casavir led her in line with the other dancers, she could feel eyes on her, the Dragonborn. The music swelled, a sweet revelry, and she made the expected step to turn. Casavir’s hand in hers was hot, but she held it as he led her, and they made the necessary pass. Were these the steps to the dance? She was unsure. Everything felt like a caricature of reality.

“Tell me more about your vows,” she said at length. Conversations from the surrounding dancers flitted just under the music. She forgot that it was necessary to talk to one’s partner to get through a set. Who came up with these rules?

“Well, being a holy knight, I must maintain vows, constantly upholding the cause of virtue and light,” Casavir explained. He spun Leara.

Spinning back to him, her velvet skirts flaring, Leara asked, “Does the Order of the Divines demand terribly much of you?”

“I must pray to keep a pure life dedicated to honor and justice,” he explained, evasive. “I must never succumb to worldly temptations.” Again, he mentions temptation, Leara thought. Any decent person would believe it natural to try and avoid obvious temptations when one’s honor and reputation hinged on it. While it was possible that some knights tried to maintain their image of noble chivalry, there were far too many stories of those who did not for Leara to take any knight’s word at face value. Especially one sworn to the Order of the Divines! Whatever Casavir’s personal failings, whether exhibited or mentioned by Bishop, the fact that he was a member of the militant arm designated to choke out Talos and the Blades penned volumes about his worldview.

“Do you enjoy your missions for the Order?” Was she digging? If so, was it anyone’s business but her own?

Their arms joined in an arch, Casavir broke from her, turned, and then rejoined their hands for another pass. “I fight for a worthy cause, just as you do, my lady. The eradication of heresy is a dangerous course, it’s true, but it is no less worth pursuing.”

“I see.”

Casavir clasped her left hand in his, her rings pressed into her skin under the heat of his palm. Too warm, the still-tender nerves of her hands prickled. Around them, the other women separated from their partners, spinning into an inner circle, mixing poised grace with giggling prattle. Leara followed, the netting of her skirts brushing against her legs as she went. In the midst of the sea of twirling skirts, she spotted Jarl Elisif laughing and twining arms with another woman, her dark umber hair coiled with silver ribbons. She orbited Elisif, dancing in a gauzy chiffon piece fluttering as a bank of clouds and as alike to the sky as her eyes. Like noon shining around the Blue Palace, illuminating the windows and gleaming off the great dome. The dark-haired woman mouthed something unintelligible to her companion, but Leara only caught Elisif’s dimpled smile before she felt an arm coil around hers, tugging her into a spin.

“So, you’re the one who has taken our favorite paladin’s arm!”

Momentum brought Leara face-to-face with an auburn woman, her pale complexion and cool contrast against the warm sienna of her skirts, flaring like a sunburst. Her face was aglow, but her eyes were shuttered.

“Pardon?”

“You know, he isn’t as noble as you may think.”

Not that Leara thought Casavir was very noble, to begin with, but this lady’s apparent penchant for gossip pricked her interest. Over her new partner’s shoulder, Leara spotted Casavir moving away in the line of gentlemen circling the perimeter. His back was to her, his hands folded behind him as he pranced away from sight and earshot. “Oh?”

A thin conspiratorial quirk of her mouth. “You didn’t hear it from me, but supposedly, a maid was cleaning his room and found a book under his bed, a certain script about a certain Argonian maid.”

Was that it, then? He read erotic plays? “Has he read the one about the bard?”

“What?”

But then the women were separating, spinning back to be joined again with their partners. Leara slipped back into Casavir’s waiting hold, manacled by his hands. Ballroom etiquette dictated that she only dance two sets with the same partner. She that was what Casavir expected of her, but Leara found herself wishing to vacate the first dance early, never mind finishing the set!

Mercifully, the dance ended moments later, Casavir dipping her low over his arm. Her arm thrown behind her, Leara could only hope and pray she didn’t spill from the top of her gown at this angle. Then he brought her back up, the room righted itself, and her head spun in its own little dance as he bowed to her. Leara curtsied.

A breath of silence from the musicians, and then the next piece sprang from the strings, a bright waltz more boisterous than the last.

Casavir took her in hand again, and Leara was swept across the floor in a dizzying whirl once more.

·•★•·

Gathering her skirts, Leara settled back in her seat as the couples dispersed from the floor. An airy flute melody wafted through the room, filling the absence left by the full orchestra. She wondered if the musicians were all from the Bards College or if some came from one of the conservatories in High Rock or Cyrodiil. Alinor has a very fine academy of music, but she somewhat doubted an Altmer virtuoso would play in Skyrim at a facsimile of a real ball. Not unless they were employed at the Embassy for one of Elenwen’s parties. Leara shifted just so in her seat at the thought. She didn’t recall much in the way of music at the party she essentially crashed, save for a flutist in the corner, but the elf, for all his quick notes and birdlike trills, hadn’t done much in the way of showcasing Aldmeri musicianship to the lower races.

Her fingers quivered, this time for a reason other than her fragile nerves.

In Alinor, at a real ball, harp song and fairy light filled the air, illuminating the room so that it shown with the brilliance of dawn over the Abecean. Flowers and fine stones covered the hall, ornamenting the guests against the backdrop of a thousand silver mirrors, as endless as the rolling seas. Dancers waltzed, their skirts in turns the crystalline sweep of the tide; in others, the pearly kiss of the moons; and again, the blazing gold of Magnus. So much of Alinor was shrouded in shadow and terror, and as an undercover Blade, she became familiar with more than her fair share of fear. But in those days, amid the society parades and political showcases, she took comfort in the starlight, visible and transparent at once as it fitted and fluttered with magic and memory. The arcane was so much more real in Alinor, and the beauty it took on in the land of the High Elves was more poignant than anywhere else in Tamriel. Though the Thalmor tarnished the true silver sheen of her ancestors, the call, the echo of Aldmeris in her blood sprang to life. Her heart longed for the gentle sands, the buzzing meadows, the white cities, and the crystal towers. To be again ingulfed in magic, arcane and musical.

To pluck a harp and truly touch the earth’s soul with her fingertips.

She could almost see the cherry harp stand, strung with mithril and gold filament. The bell chime laughter of the other members of her class when she was instructed to play. The hummingbird breath and petal fall of the lament, whispering and sighing as she cajoled it from the strings in turns of forlorn memory and wishful longing.

“Would you care for a drink, my lady?”

Gossamer frayed to rags and crystal shattered. Leara opened her eyes to find Casavir watching her, expectant. The shadow of Alinor passed from her face and she was again in the Blue Palace at a ball with a tête de nœud, a ridiculous dress, and under threat of apprehension from the Thalmor Embassy.

“Yes, please,” she said, anything to make Casavir go away.

With a bow, the paladin disappeared. At once, Leara got to her feet and glided in the opposite direction. Not hurried, but not sedate. She would have to join with him again for another dance, she knew, though whether it was the next set or the dinner set she didn’t know. She couldn’t imagine Casavir to be presumptive enough to expect more than two dances, not when he was so verbally concerned with his vows of chastity and piety. Those were ridiculous in themselves: Why would the Council of the Eight expect their paladins to remain chaste and pure? Unless they wanted them as wound up and disturbed as Casavir seemed to be. The Imperial Church, what an institution.

All around her, skirts and coats milled around, chattering to one another in seemingly pleasant tones. Underneath, however, ran the undercurrent or Imperial snobbery and mercantile calculation she expected from an event footed by the Merchants Guild. Their signature was written in the small print of the ball like an insidious contract. All the pomp and poise that seemed out of place in Skyrim was likely a joint effort from the government and the Merchants Guild to reinforce Imperialism to the Nords. The Empire had already taken so much from Skyrim and the other provinces by way of overlaying native cultures with the glories of Cyrodiil that when the people began to question the Emperor’s decisions, the Empire only tightened its fist and expected the people to fall back in line. Solitude fell in line. And all the while, politicians and merchants exploited the system for power and money.

People in corners, gathered away from the candlestands and the tall mirrors, huddled together in a conspiratorial hush. Yes, whatever else this night brought, money was made, power was promised, and someone somewhere would suffer for it.

“Ah, Dragonborn, I didn’t expect to see you here.”

Leara turned and found – of all people! – General Tullius. In polished regalia and with a glass of rum punch in hand, at first glance, he didn’t appear quite as put upon as when she met him that morning. Yet there was a hardness around his mouth and eyes that said he wished to be back in his war room, far away from the spectacle around them.

“It was very last minute,” Leara said. “How are you this evening, General?”

“Not at all drunk enough to be here.”

Leara snorted and then coughed into her wrist to cover it up. “The punch isn’t to your liking, I take it?”

Tullius swirled his glass, the ice clinking against the crystal. “It’s fine enough, I suppose. The best that can expected at a place like this. Not until dinner, anyway.”

“Do they not have a room set aside for cards and brandy?” Leara asked, recalling the arrangements made for the debutante ball in Camlorn and how her charge’s mother bemoaned the prospect of the gentlemen hiding away for the whole evening.

“They do,” Tullius said, “But half the Merchants Council is hauled up in there. I’d rather not get dragged into whatever they’re plotting just to get a decent shot of whiskey.”

“That’s a shame, I could use some,” Leara found herself admitting.

Tullius looked at her then, as if seeing her properly for the first time. “Not enjoying yourself, I take it?”

“You could say that.” Leara watched as the string and percussion musicians on the stairs took up their instruments again while woodwinds sat down for a break. The next set began. “Do you dance, General Tullius?”

He threw back the punch as if it were hard liquor. How much did they water it down to stretch the reserve through the night? “Not if I can help it.”

“Then since you have no intention of asking me, I will have to sit this one out.”

“I suspect that doesn’t bother you too much.”

“Hardly at all,” Leara replied. It suited her just fine, she thought. Walking barefoot across Solitude was enough, but to follow that up with endless dancing was like traipsing through broken glass.

Facing the lines of dancers rushing together in a rapid mazurka as they were, Leara spied a wry quirk on the General’s face. This gave Leara some small hope for the approaching peace council. Tensions would be high – she expected nothing less from a meeting between Imperials and Stormcloaks – but if she could connect to either side, then there was a chance she could connect them together. Tullius was a tired veteran used to leading men but was dragged into politics for the sake of his country. He had a strong sense of duty. She could understand that fundamentally. He would come around, kicking and griping as he came, but he would get there. She wasn’t worried about the Empire.

“It’s a shame we’ll never see Ulfric at one of these events,” a booming voice lamented nearby. “Shouting a man to pieces? Meh. Stormcloak and Dragonborn dance off? Gods yes!”

Tension buckled her knees. Leara would’ve stumbled if Tullius hadn’t grabbed her elbow. “Jackass,” he muttered, frown directed off toward whoever made such a tasteless comment.

And it really was in poor taste. Ulfric already proved that he doubted her ability as Dragonborn and her willingness to take her destiny seriously; He didn’t think she could look out for the wellbeing of Skyrim’s people. He would be difficult to manage. It didn’t matter that at the last party she attended, he’d smiled at her. His ability to make her laugh despite her embarrassment was without merit. And honestly! He would have defended any woman from Alec’s smarmy attentions. She wasn’t special. No, the only thing she deserved from Ulfric Stormcloak was his anger: For Skyrim, for his people, and for what she’d done to him. She would get no quarter from Windhelm, and so every inch would be its own battle.

“Divines,” Tullius grumbled.

“General, are you enjoying yourself?” a warm voice asked.

Yet again, Leara forced Ulfric from her mind, though she suspected at this point he’d return fairly soon. At this rate, she was probably going to hallucinate him stalking her, spying from the windows just to judge whatever she did against his standards. And then, of course, all her secrets would inevitably be laid bare before him: The Dominion, the Blades, her mother’s family recipes. Everything. She took a quick peek at one of the upper-story windows. No, nothing. For now. But this wasn’t the first time she’d questioned her sanity, and it would all be downhill from here.

“Have you met the Dragonborn?” Tullius asked, releasing her arm.

“I can’t say I’ve had the pleasure.”

Leara focused in again to find the woman in the cloud blue gown poised before them. Her smile was small, but star-bright, framed in all the warmth of a southern complexion. The West Weald accent was slight on her tongue like Surilie Brothers Wine. “How do you do?”

“It’s wonderful to finally meet you!” the woman said.

“Right, Julia, this is Leara,” Tullius said. Julia clasped Leara’s fingers in greeting. “Leara, this is Julia, Jarl Elisif’s favorite attack dog.”

Leara snorted another laugh. Her hand in Julia’s, she was forced to turn into her other elbow.

“Now, General Tullius, that’s hardly fair!” Julia laughed. Exhaustion pinched her mouth, slipping between the laugh lines. “Her Majesty simply has some concerns and I have the means to make them heard.”

Tullius grimaced. So, the General’s relationship with Elisif and her friend was rocky. Interesting.

“Yes, well, a ballroom isn’t the place to get into the war,” he said. “If you’ll excuse me, I just saw Thane Erikur. I must go before he sees me.” There was a note of mutual understanding between Tullius and Julia. Leara vaguely recalled the name Erikur from the guest list at Elenwen’s party, but if General Tullius and one of Elisif’s friends wished to avoid him, it was probably best she do the same. But Akatosh, she thought as she recalled how she fled Casavir, but the number of people she was avoiding in this room was rapidly growing. Now all she needed was Elenwen or one of her lackeys to show up!

Speak of the Daedra. As Tullius retreated along the wall, Leara caught sight of Casavir’s tall figure cutting through the milling groups along the edges of the room, his eyes searching. “Akatosh take me now,” she whispered.

“Are you all right?”

Julia’s concern was unexpected. And painfully real. Leara smiled, pale and practiced. “Perfectly, I’ve just spotted my escort for the evening.”

“Who—”

“Forgive me, my lady. I took a turn about the room to ease my head before I could, in good conscience, return to you. It is not my intention to neglect your excellent company this evening.” With that, Casavir offered her a glass of rum punch. Julia gaped at him, which he staunchly ignored.

Wordlessly, Leara took the glass. Odd that he took a turn around the room. She didn’t recall seeing him and she should’ve. But whatever Casavir did with his time away from her wasn’t her business so long as he wasn’t ratting her out as a suspected Blade to the Temple and Thalmor.

Actually, she was probably going to need to watch him.

·•★•·

She danced the next set with Casavir. His touch burned uncomfortably through her dress and gloves. Her nerves were on fire and she felt too hot. Still, she kept her eyes on the paladin. She did not trust him. Unease boiled under her skin. Whether it was his objectification of her or some secret suspicion that he betrayed her, she couldn’t tell, but the sooner the ball ended and she left Solitude, the better. Paranoia may be hissing in her ear, but its presence was constant at her shoulder. Maddening at times, but it got her this far.

Casavir escorted her off the floor afterward, Leara snagging another glass of rum punch on the way to the chairs. Dinner and hot wine couldn’t come fast enough. Tullius was right: The punch was fine at best but not enough for someone who wanted to be anywhere else on the face of Nirn. She sipped it politely as Casavir went on about saving some lord’s daughter or niece from a charging minotaur during a hunt in the Great Forest. It was a very dry tale, almost as dry as the punch. Divines, and it wasn’t even dinner yet.

“Then when the knave had the audacity to take the poor maiden’s hand in his, I had enough. Brandishing my sword, I drove him off before he could plague her in her weakened state. The look of dismay she gave me afterward told me just how much danger I saved her from. She was insistent that she was perfectly fine, but after being thrown from the saddle because of a charging minotaur, there was no doubt her sensibilities were impaired. Her father would have rewarded me for the protection of his daughter, but I could not in good conscience accept such worldly trophies when I have pledged my life to the Divines’ service.”

Mara’s mercies, he droned on and on and on! Keeping an eye on him meant nothing if he bored her to death. At that point, he might as well kill her outright and do the Thalmor’s work for them. “And how does the Order reward such loyalty?” she asked.

“All that I have is the Temple’s, and all that is theirs is mine,” Casavir flashed her a dazzling show of teeth.

Her stomach flipped, souring. Whose money paid for her dress and gloves and all this ridiculousness?

“Oh, Leara! . . . Sir Casavir.”

As she was trying to decide whether or not to ask Casavir about the dress payment, Julia materialized at her side. Casavir clenched his jaw, but Leara beamed at the Imperial woman. And then her eyes met the startled face beside Julia, and Leara froze.

“Hadvar?”

“It’s you,” he whispered, wide-eyed.

Dressed in a clean uniform styled more for ceremonies than battle was the Imperial officer who tried desperately to save her in Helgen. She could almost feel her hand in Ralof’s as they made the mad scramble through fire and falling debris toward the keep. Screams and General Tullius’s commands filtered through the haze of smoke, but more than anything she recalled the pounding of her heart in her ears and Hadvar’s steady voice across the yard as he led that family into the barracks. He'd pulled her from Alduin’s path before that, before she knew who Alduin was and that the great doom of their time was at hand. She remembered his reluctance before when the Captain wished to send her to the block alongside the rebels.

He promised to send her remains home. To Wayrest.

She took his hand in hers. “It’s lovely to see you again!” she cried, ignoring Casavir spluttering beside her.

Hadvar’s grin was warm and shy and everything that Casavir’s smarmy face was not. Because Hadvar cared about people, not power or pretense.

“Oh, you know each other already!” Julia laughed. “I was hoping you could help me convince him to dance!”

“Julia, please—”

“That won’t be necessary, Lady Lastblood. I will be dancing the dinner set with the Dragonborn,” Casavir said.

Julia’s smile withered. Hadvar’s jaw tightened. Leara wanted to vanish. Feim. Zii. Feim. Zii. Feim—

“That’s a bit inappropriate, isn’t it, Sir Casavir?” Julia said, eyebrow raised. “After two dances, it’s hardly becoming for a man under such holy vows as yours to overindulge in dancing, especially with the same woman three times. Don’t you think so, Hadvar?”

“Yeah,” Hadvar nodded. His arms twitched as if he wished to cross them, but his hand was still in hers. She forgot. The hard stare he directed at Casavir was enough. “Taking up all the Dragonborn’s time when there are plenty of people wishing to speak to her isn’t a good look for the Temple, either.”

“It’s not something you should concern yourself with,” Casavir grumbled. “She’s my guest for the evening—”

“Yes, yes, but see, Hadvar and I are friends, and it’s been forever since we’ve seen each other!” said Leara, her grip on Hadvar tightening.

Hadvar blinked at her, then nodded. Beside him, Julia snickered into her glove. “Yes, you’re right. Actually, can I escort you to dinner?”

The vein in Casavir’s forehead was close to bursting, but Leara didn’t care. “Yes, I’d love that,” she told Hadvar.

A few moments later, the musicians sprang up a lively tone for the dinner set, a cheery Breton song usually played during spring festivals. Definitely chosen to work up the guests’ appetites. Her arm in Hadvar’s, Leara could feel Casavir’s black stare shadowing her as she went. Glancing over her shoulder, Julia’s reassuring wave was enough to send her off. Then the wave turned into a rude gesture aimed behind Casavir’s back. Leara choked on a giggle.

“So, Dragonborn, huh?” Hadvar began as they joined the line of dancers. “Was it your ma or your pa that was the dragon?”

Leara laughed.

·•★•·

Dancing the dinner set with Hadvar meant he escorted her to the dining hall afterward. Leara was relieved. Hadvar asked her about her time after Helgen, cleanly skirting around any mention of Ralof or the Stormcloaks, for which she was grateful. She told him about collecting bounties in Whiterun over the winter. Bitter work, but it kept a roof over her head. She didn’t mention the sheer whiplash she felt going from the anonymous comfort of The Bannered Mare to the spectacle of attending a Solitude ball as Dragonborn. Hadvar asked about Mirmulnir (“That first dragon,” he said) and what it was like to Shout for the first time. Saying she choked on ash and went deaf from the wind in her ears didn’t sound like a good answer. Instead, she told him how the Words of Power sang to her and begged to be inscribed on her soul. Very, very, wild conversation to have over clam chowder and roasted vegetables. More often than not, one of the women sitting nearby would pause their own conversations to stare at her over their glasses; the men were less subtle. Leara didn’t pay any attention to them. By the time dessert was brought out – snowberry tarts dusted in icing sugar – they were discussing High Hrothgar and the call of the Greybeards. Still, as open as Hadvar was to listening to her talk about being Dragonborn, there was so much she didn’t dare mention. Any connection to the Blades was naturally not made. Talos was also off the table; despite her inheritance of the Stormcrown, she wouldn’t risk a word of it when Casavir of the Imperial Weasel Committee was sitting several chairs down. The one time she dared to look at him, snowberry halfway to her mouth, his dark frown stilled her hand faster than any frost spell.

Hadvar asked for her hand in the after-dinner set. Too cold, too warm, eyes on her bare skin, Leara said yes.

She asked him about service to the Legion and how the war was going. As he spun her across the tiled floors, snatches of long nights camped in the weird of Hjaalmarch’s swamps and of scouting missions through the Pale Forest came to her through the swirl of music and movement. She’d thought dinner would be an improvement – when was the last time she ate, anyway? – but eating only made nausea roll through her, twisting with every twirl Hadvar led her through.

She kept dancing. To stop would call attention to herself, a negative, questioning attention. And it would hasten Casavir’s return to her side. Did he find a partner for this set or was he brooding somewhere on the sidelines? Gods, Bishop was right. This was a bad idea.

“Do you think you’ll sign up for the Legion?” Hadvar asked.

“Me?” Her voice was distant to her ears. She shook her head, squeezing Hadvar’s hand in hers. “I can’t say.” I can’t say the day I join the Legion is the day the White-Gold Concordat is redacted and the Thalmor help rebuild Cloud Ruler Temple while singing campfire songs with the Blades they’ve hunted for nearly thirty years. “Being Dragonborn is a full-time responsibility.” Not to mention she’ll probably die when she faces Alduin in Sovngarde.

Hadvar shrugged, and she almost asked if he thought she would die before remembering that hunting Alduin in Sovngarde was another topic she skirted around at dinner.

When the dance ended, he bowed to her, a soft grin playing at his features. “Thanks, Miss Ormand.”

“It’s been my pleasure,” she said, giving a shallow curtsy. Straightening, she swayed back. “I think I’m done for the evening,” she laughed.

“You do look tired, if you don’t mind me saying so,” Hadvar said, halting their retreat from the floor. “Do you want me to help you to a chair?”

“No, no,” Leara waved him off. “I’m fine. I’ve taken up enough of your time already.”

“It’s been fun,” Hadvar assured her. “And Miss Ormand, I just wanted to say, I know you’re not a lot of people’s first idea of a Dragonborn, but I think you’re the one we need, and that’s more than enough.”

Warmth blossomed in her chest. “Hadvar, that’s,” her words caught in her throat. She swallowed. “Thank you, really.”

Ducking his head, Hadvar said, “Don’t mention it.” Just like that, he left, and Leara watched after him.

“I must insist you share the next dance with me, my lady.”

Warmth blazed into fire. Leara rounded, insides rolling, to find Casavir leering over her shoulder. “Sir Casavir, please, I can’t dance with you.”

His too-pale eyes narrowed. “My lady, you are my guest for the evening. Isn’t it right for you to give your attentions to me? I was neglected during dinner, you know.” There was a soft purr in his voice reminiscent of a mountain lion.

“I’m tired.”

“You’re the Dragonborn, untainted by such mundane things as ‘exhaustion’,” he went on. “You are a fair woman, full of grace and power. It is only right for me to display your beauty before the elite of Solitude, where all of your virtues can be truly appreciated.”

Leara squeezed her eyes shut. She shouldn’t have come. She should not have come. Bishop was right. Bishop was—

“I’m here, darling! Don’t mind if I cut in, do you?”

Bishop was . . . here?

Opening her eyes, Leara felt her features slacken, though whether from shock or because somehow she knew this was how the evening was going to play out, she wasn’t sure. Probably both. Through the crowd of guests strode Bishop, but not Bishop as she knew him. Gone were his edgy dark leathers and muddy boots. In their place, he wore linen trousers and a navy quilted vest over white poet’s sleeves. In short, he looked absolutely ridiculous. The collar alone was a stiff, starched piece; she wondered how he managed to get it on. Actually, getting it on was probably why he was so late in coming. Where’d he get this stuff, a barrel behind the clothier’s shop? Strutting right up to them with a smirk, he waggled his eyebrows at Leara. “May I have this dance?”

“What are you doing here?” Casavir growled.

“Why, I’m here to rescue a flustered little boy from himself,” sneered Bishop. He jabbed a finger at Casavir’s oversized ascot. “Now get lost, Casavir. She’s mine tonight.” Bishop’s eyes were back on her in a moment, and the heat under her skin made her shiver. His fingers grasped her chin, firm and callused, and she couldn’t look away. “My, is it hot in here or is that pretty flush for me? That armor you wear doesn’t do you any favors. You look ravishing, sweetheart.”

Bishop’s fingers vanished from her as Casavir wrenched him back. “Bishop! Keep your filthy hands off her! An animal like you has no place with the likes of her!”

“Filthy? Ha! I didn’t get all cleaned up just for you to drag me through the mud!” said Bishop, shoving Casavir away from him.

One step back, two. She wouldn’t be the center of their argument.

“If we’re going to stay here any longer, I need to get drunk,” Bishop went on. “I refuse to put up with you sober!”

“It’s obvious a man like you was never fit for civilized society. Be gone and plague us no longer!”

People were starting to stare. Eyes caught and snagged on her, leaving blazing trails of curiosity and suspicion and derision across her skin. Surrounded by people, she was alone, an island in a choppy sea. It was like the performance in the Palace of the Kings all over again, except the storm was so much darker here. There was no safe harbor. No one was going to pull her out – she was stuck between Bishop and Casavir. At that, she shrunk into herself, her arms wrapped around her. Feim. Zii. Feim. Zii.

“Who wants to be in civilized society when its full of blind idiots like you? I’d rather choke on this damn collar!”

“That can be arranged!”

“C’mon.”

Like a soft whisper, Julia’s hand folded over hers and led her back from the two men. So absorbed in their cock fight, they didn’t see Leara retreat after Julia through the snickering crowd. The steady rainfall of plucked strings and the distant rumble of drums met her ears as Julia pulled her passed the musicians toward the doors.

“That’s so stupid,” she mutters. “Arguing like that in public! At a ball! But I expect nothing less from Casavir. I always knew he was a gross, chauvinistic pig!” Julia stopped just short of the steps. The sympathy in her eyes made Leara want to cry, but she just stood there, frozen. “I’m sorry your friend rose to his bait though.”

She swallowed, hard. “Me too.”

Julia placed a hand on her upper arm. Leara stared at it. It was supposed to be comforting, she knew, but it was hard to connect.

“Is there anything I can get you?” Julia was asking. “Tea? Wine? Sweet roll?”

Leara’s gaze slid over Julia to the musicians and their instruments. They were between sets, and several of them were taking a break. A trio was plucking a cheery harmony together on their lutes, accompanied by another on a snare drum, but the rest were either vacated, or their owners sat at rest beside them. Lutes, lyres, flutes, and whistles. A dozen different kinds at least; apparently the Merchants Guild weren’t ones to skimp out on good entertainment. No, the bright tunes and lively melodies, some Nordic and many cosmopolitan favorites from the Imperial City were the highlights of her evening. A bright patch of sunlight in a blanket of black clouds. And chief among them, curved and strung with grace, was her beloved—

“Harp.”

“What?”

“The harp,” Leara heard herself repeat. So close and so far. It has been years.

Julia stared at her, then followed her gaze over to the musicians, over their shoulders and music stands to the far side, to the harp. “Yeah, okay.”

“Oh!” Leara cried, not expecting Julia to pull her forward. Leara had a handful of precious inches on Julia, but that clearly meant nothing as Julia led her straight to the harpist’s chair.

“Having a nice night, Bragi?”

“As nice as can be expected,” sighed the harpist, a young Nord, his golden hair light and loose around his shoulders. “How’re you?” he asked, lowering his packet of sheet music. Then he did a double-take. “Oh, wow, I’m sorry, Dragonborn.”

Leara wanted to shrink back, but Julia’s grip stayed her. “This is Leara.”

Bragi bobbed his head, his mouth open. Leara offered him a weak smile in return.

“I was wondering,” Julia continued. “Do you think it would be okay for Leara to see your harp?”

Smothering a nervous cough, Bragi’s eyes darted to Leara’s gloved fingers. It was only then that she realized she was twisting them in the silk, and stopped. “Do you play?”

“I, I taught in High Rock, several years ago.”

“Really?” Bragi lit up. “Did you teach at one of the conservatories?”

“I was a private instructor,” said Leara.

Rising for his seat, Bragi stepped back. “Would you like to try something?”

“Is that a good idea?”

“The next set isn’t for another ten minutes,” Julia assured her, beaming like the sun.

“Please, it’d be an honor to have the Dragonborn play my instrument – if you want,” Bragi added, sheepish.

It wasn’t that hard to convince her. Once her gloves were off, Julia helped her shift her skirts so she could sit on the stool and still reach the pedals without too much hassle. Then she brought the harp forward, leaning it against her shoulder, and she embraced it. If the maple and Nordic carvings felt alien from the harps she’d held in the past, she didn’t care. A physical release eased the tension around her heart.

One of the flutists was whispering to the other. Leara didn’t pay attention.

“It’s been so long,” she whispered.

“Just start slow,” a nearby piper urged.

Leara plucked the strings. The melody wasn’t as tender as on an Altmer harp, but she could hardly expect that same level of craftsmanship in a younger race where the people had decades, not centuries, to perfect their craft. Another pluck, this time G, then half a scale, major than minor, C to D. Sweet and simple rudiments, stuff she ran over with her charge every day when she taught in Camlorn. Not dissimilar to the lessons she had in Alinor.

Her chest ached.

The last gala she attended in Alinor before the invasion of Cyrodiil, she played. The summer air curled through the open windows, carrying the fragrance of cherry blossom and petrichor into the diamond hall. She could still taste the Oleander wine and feel the brush of sunbird feathers against her skin. The end of Frostfall. Lord Varlarata was hosting the Lord Generals, and she was selected to play for the kinlords. Even then, she knew what was coming. She had to. More than now, dogging the World-Eater as she was, her terror strangled her. If at any moment, someone suspected she wasn’t who she said she was, that she was a Blades agent, then that would be hit. How terribly close she came to having her head join that of every other Blade sent tumbling along Green Emperor Way like a cart of spilled cabbages in the market.

The ring of fire in her black band glimmered darkly at her, as solemn and present on her hand now as then.

Shutting her eyes to the ballroom and the dancers, Leara was again in Alinor, afraid for her life and desperate for Elenwen’s approval. And she played.

There was the sea and the calls of a thousand birds. Auri-El’s dawn caressed the pearl-foam tide. An eagle soared overhead, and the Aldmere came. Breaching the mists of war and chaos, they brought golden light in their wake. Trills and quivering chords slipped in quick succession. Praises sung to the Ancestors, amen. High towers in crystal like stone and insect as glass rose, brushing the sky but never soaring high enough to reach back to Before. Beauty and loss. An accidental minor. Alas, they saw, the eagle would fall. There was no triumph. Bitter, bitter, bitter, harsh and biting, almost violent passages. Lamenting, because divinity was lost to devilry. Trickster foul and serpent cruel—

Pain bit at her heart, but she embraced it, pressing it into the harp.

Swelling crescendo, growing power. They were of Aldmeris. They would be again. Hope and purity rang high in the register.

“They want you to play one of Rolmelval’s pieces. You have the Dawn Comes Softly?”

“Yes, Mistress, but I—”

“Speak up, Vilya.”

“I’ve been studying Nibenaurio.”

“Have you?”

“Yes ma’am, and I was hoping—”

“We will see.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

Chaos and divinity warred across the strings in turns fire and stardust. Steadfast one moment and crumbling the next. They were splintering left and right and left again. Leaving. Leaves falling. Descending notes in minor tears. Hold on to the past. Hold the major lift. Her nerves ached, her soul stung. The Aldmere torn apart, the song deconstructed. Aldmeris was lost in the dark, the dark ate the—

She flubbed a note, a sharp accidental in the major key where there was meant to be a dissonant minor. She sprung from there, a wellspring, and reordered the measure to fall back into harmony.

Can anyone bear the pain of a thousand thousand souls weeping in the dark? Lost children in the forest, untouched by sun, unseen by star. The warmth in the blood was gone.

Tragedy seized hope by the hand and spun betrayal just as fast as her fingers danced down the strings. The heart broke. Her fingers stroked a low dissonance.

The sea was still. The pearls were scattered. Dusk touched the waves to the south in a haze of white poison. Harmony lost, the blood, the strings hummed in discord.

Wander lost, wanderlust, alone but the memory endures.

Everything drowns in the end.

The jarring of the strings was so sudden, yet calculated in its own way as only understood by someone familiar with the Aldmeri notation. Leara eased her hands from the harp strings, stunned. A mixture of pleasure and astonishment struck her. She hadn’t played that since before the war.

Julia was crying. “Oh Kyne,” she breathed, hands over her mouth.

“Are you well?” Leara choked, then bit her tongue, the lapse into the lilt of an Auridon accent comfortable and entirely unwelcome.

Bragi wiped his eyes. “Please, please, if being a hero doesn’t work out for you, come teach to the Bards College. Headmaster Viarmo will take you on. We have a High Elven harp.”

Only then did Leara become aware of the clapping and gentle weeping around her. Easing the harp back in place, she found the guests gathered in the hall watching her, tears staining their faces. Some cried softly, others whimpered. A few were clutching their friends and sobbing, mournful.

And then Leara remembered exactly what it was she played. A song of hope and loss, for the Altmer it stirred their magic to take what once was lost. A horrifying thought, all things considered. But for the mannish races. Actually, actually, she didn’t think anyone ever played Nibenaurio for lesser mer, much less men. It was too much.

It wasn’t acceptable.

The nausea returned. “I have to go,” she said.

“What?” Julia cried behind her hands. Her makeup was smearing. Bragi’s cheeks were red. One of the drummers was hugging his snare.

“I have to go!” And Leara darted to her feet, toppling the stool in the process. She didn’t care. She pushed by Julia and up the stairs toward the entrance.

“Leara!”

“Dragonborn!”

Several varying calls trailed after her, but she didn’t stop. Out of the ballroom and down the corridor, around the corner and down the stairs to the lobby. She paused long enough then to fling her slippers from her feet, and then she was off, out of the Palace and into the night.

·•★•·

Bishop found her in the corner behind the changing screen.

Her katana in hand, she sat huddled against the wall, feet bruised and hands shaking. Karnwyr was curled beside her, his head in her lap and ears flat to his skull. She’d cut herself out of the ball gown, leaving a mess of frost-burnt velvet and netting in a pool beside the bed. She was cold, left in nothing but the corset and other undergarments from The Jewel, but she was too shaken to try and get out of them. She was so stupid. All this time, running from the Thalmor, evading suspicion as a Blade agent, and keeping to herself, and at the first opportunity to touch a harp, she played the one song that would raise red flags throughout the Embassy!

She wanted to disappear, Alduin and the end of the world be damned. Maybe if he consumed Nirn, then she wouldn’t have to worry about the Thalmor or Ulfric or anything because they would all be dead!

“Hey there, sweetness. That was quite the exit,” chuckled Bishop, leaning against the wall beside her.

Leara just stared at the window. Would the Thalmor come in through the door? Or the window?

“You had that paladin on his knees, there. Fell apart like an old woman right on the floor!” Quiet, then, “Sweetness?”

“It’s too much,” she whispered. “I can’t do anything right. They’re going to get me no matter what I do.”

“Uh, what?”

She blinked up at him. “The Thalmor. They’re hunting me, and now they’re going to find me.”

“Now hold up just a minute!” Bishop cried. Grumbling, he sat down on the floor, his knees touching hers. With a growl, he ripped his collar off and tossed it somewhere behind him. Then he placed his hands over Leara’s on the katana hilt. Hers were small and frail with ice; his were a giant’s in comparison. She’d never noticed. “So, the Thalmor are hunting you? You knew that. Are you really worried about them? You’ve got me to protect you, and you know I’m not going anywhere.”

Conflict tugged at Leara. Yes, he’d said before that he would protect her from the Aldmeri Dominion, but still, the threat of him betraying her to Ulfric Stormcloak as a former member of the Thalmor continued to simmer under the surface. Oh! She should’ve never gone to that ball! She should’ve listened to Bishop when he warned her off Casavir!

His head in her lap, Karnwyr grumbled.

“You were right,” she whispered. “About Casavir, the ball, everything.” Tears stung her eyes, but they did not fall.

“Yeah, I am, but as great as it is to hear you say that, I’d rather you not be hiding out in a corner.” He pried her frozen fingers from her katana. “Here, let’s set this down and you come to bed – fully clothed!” he added when the tears threatened to burst. “Gods, woman, I’d think you’d have more decency at this point!”

“I’m sorry.”

“It doesn’t matter.” The blade set aside, Bishop skooched forward and lifted Leara into his arms. “C’mere, I’ll take you to bed.”

His arms around her back and under her knees, Bishop picked her up and toted her to the bed. Karnwyr grunted at the displacement, but followed after, hopping onto the foot of the bed. As he was letting go to set her on the blankets, Leara found herself tightening her fist in his vest. “Thank you for protecting me.”

A brief smirk, followed by Bishop pressing his lips into her hair. “Don’t mention it, darling.” He hesitated. “Do you really wanna sleep in that contraption?”

Leara shifted against the pillows, the corset’s boning digging into her ribs, suffocating. “N-no.”

Bishop nodded. “I’ll get my knife.”

·•★•·

Ruby droplets slid around the crystal bowl as she turned the glass in hand. The deeper garnets at the bottom winked delicious secrets of sun-ripe summers and natural magics. She watched them swirl and fold into the wine, slipping coolly beneath the surface into depths of rose and muscadine. She’d been nursing this same glass for two hours. Not an uncommonality. As with any task worth pursuing, a glass of Russafeld red required time and patience to parse out its secrets.

Not terribly dissimilar to interrogation, but far more pleasant.

There was a knock at the door. “Enter.”

“Mistress Elenwen, our agent has returned from the palace,” the young aid bowed.

Elenwen studied him over the pearl-toned mithril rim of her glass. “The ball was not scheduled to end until an hour ago, was it not?” And it was a two-hour ride on their fastest horses from the city gates to the citadel in the highlands. Elenwen did so hate when one of her agents disregarded her orders. It was already well after midnight. A few more hours of sleep would not soften her retribution for those who disobeyed,

Falcelmo bobbed his head. “It was meant to, Mistress, but I, it’s best if Hindalia tells it.”

There was a clink of crystal on oak as Elenwen sat down her glass. “Yes, I believe that would be wise.” After all, it was Hindalia who disobeyed.

Falcelmo retreated, and in his place, Hindalia strode in. She was tall, raised in the mountains of Firsthold and full of all the fire of someone who was promised the sky and forced to climb for it. More often than not, Elenwen appreciated Hindalia’s tenacity, but disobedience would not be tolerated.

“Mistress,” the girl bowed, her golden braid falling over her shoulder.

“Did I not give you express orders to remain in the Blue Palace until after their little circus shut down?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“And yet you left before the festivities were over?”

“No ma’am.”

Elenwen didn’t pause, but she did raise a delicate eyebrow. “You will explain yourself.”

“Of course, Mistress,” Hindalia bowed again, humor pulling at her rose gold mouth. “They canceled it.”

She did so hate it when Hindalia teased out the answers. “It is late, Hindalia. I am not in the mood for your games.”

The smile never vanished. “It was right after dinner. They weren’t even halfway through the second portion of the dances when Jarl Elisif’s little friend, Lastblood, took the Dragonborn to the musicians. You’ll never guess what happened next.”

The half-written dossier in her topmost drawer whispered, as teasing as Hindalia with unlocked secrets and yet not so easily unlocked. Ancano’s letter was in there too. Elenwen leaned forward, gaze sharp. Was this another piece to the puzzle? “Hindalia.”

“She played the harp, and you know, Mistress Elenwen, I wasn’t expecting much when she sat down. I thought that Nord harpist was being sweet on her because she’s their great hero or whatever rot they spout, but no! It was,” for the first time, Hindalia’s face crumpled, the humor dim. Her green eyes were far away, reflecting the meadows and forests of Home. “I’ve not heard anything like it since I was a girl.”

“What did she play?”

Swallowing, Hindalia’s eyes began to water. “It aches to think of it. The Dragonborn played the Aldmere’Loren.”

Elenwen sat back. If she still held her glass, it would have fallen. The Aldmere’Loren. The Darkening of the Aldmer. How in Auri-El’s blessed name . . .?

. . . she used a spell I have only seen used by our own interrogators. Is she from the Justiciar’s branch? . . .

Ancano’s questions circled through her mind, coupled with the lament of the Aldmer.

Leara Ormand.

“You discovered why she was in the city?”

“Yes, Mistress,” Hindalia sniffled, sobering. “The Nords’ elders, the Greybeards, have called a peace council between the Imperials and rebels. She was ensuring General Tullius would attend.”

“Excellent,” Elenwen rose to her feet. “A meeting such as that will be a heated affair. It’s best someone is there to oversee the terms of the Concordat.”

“Ma’am?”

“We are leaving for Solitude in the morning, Hindalia. Tell Falcelmo to prepare our bags.”

“Yes, Mistress,” the girl bowed and was gone.

Elenwen stood beside her desk, her wine glass in front of her. In its depths she saw the Oleander Coast and another agent, quieter and yet not dissimilar to Hindalia. She could almost see the fine gold features in the place of the Dragonborn’s mannish face. It didn’t make sense, none of it did. And yet.

Well, whatever came from the journey to High Hrothgar, she would have her answers.

[trickstarbrave]

i actually do like the hit and spell chances in morrowind. it does help balance the game (though i wish you gained a minor amount of exp if you fail. there is a mod for that but i think it would work fine in the base game). the issue i think is that people dont like seeing their weapon models collide with enemy models and then nothing happens. but if there was like some way to show the enemy blocked or dodged or parried the attack it would make more sense and feel fine. you didn't miss the hit because your dumb little baby arms cant do any damage when hitting an enemy, they just parried it.

removing the hit chance instead of reworking it i think actively hurt oblivion. the balancing they had to do to make it work was atrocious. and because it was so annoying and the leveling such a mess they just axed even MORE stuff from oblivion when they made skyrim.

i think morrowind's system worked, it just needed some tweaks. and probably an in game tutorial on how combat works bc way too many people just pick up the first iron dagger, run until they get low on fatigue, and then try to fight an enemy when they have basically nothing in shortblades while spamming short attacks. which is a sure fire way to ensure you cant hit anything for shit and even IF you do it will do basically no damage in the 1 in 20 chance your blade connects with the enemy. the average person who picks up morrowind tho doesnt know that and will proceed to get their ass kicked and then say hit chance is god awful and terrible and how glad they are oblivion and skyrim dont have it. the problem isn't hit chance its that the game doesnt rly explain all the mechanics

[sheirukitriesfandom]

Ye Big Olde Savos Aren Headcanon Masterpost

(Super long post under the cut)

Short biography

General information:

- Savos is an only child.

- He was born in 4E 5, making him 194 years old by Skyrim time (Elven ages are ugh, but according to the UESP, 200 is old for a dunmer…)

- Savos was born under the apprentice, thus making the month of his birth Sun’s Height.

- He is bisexual.

- He was born in Winterhold and grew up among the city’s large dunmer population.

- Knows Winterhold-dialect Dunmeris, Tamrielic, Nordic, and a tiny bit of Dovahzul.

- His parents owned a tailor shop.  

- He's a second generation immigrant to Skyrim. His parents came to Winterhold shortly after the fall of Baar Dau (I imagine there was a short period of growing volcanic activity before Red Mountain blew up for good), fearing further consequences of the impact. His grandparents lived in Morrowind until their death.

- He has been to Morrowind on several occasions (and he has met Neloth). He has also been to Cyrodiil.

- Savos is not very religious; he was raised to believe in the reclamations, but over the years it has become a matter of “Whichever deity is willing to listen”. However, he does practice ancestor worship in a sense; he regularly leaves a little offering for the dead of the Great Collapse (which included his parents) on the shore below Winterhold. 

- Also, due to the nord/dunmer cultural mixture of his hometown, exclamations like “Shor’s bones!” are just as much a part of his vocabulary as “Azura curse you!”.

Appearance:

- He is fairly short for a dunmer (1,68 metres); he’s just a tiny bit taller than Mirabelle.

- Savos has a Lichtenberg scar (a souvenir from Morokei) running from just below his clavicle all the way to his hips. He’s extremely self-conscious about that and will lash out at anyone questioning his explanation of “magical accident”.

- He has a barely noticeable bald patch (a scar) from when he got hit by an icicle when he was a student.

- He doesn't care much about anyone's looks, including his own. He's clean and knows when to look presentable, but he cares more about being comfy than looking good. Has exactly one outfit for special occasions.

- He's in average shape for his age and lack of physical activity. 

��Social:

- Savos does not like dealing with people in positions of authority. Serious talks with Jarl Korir, for example, are his personal nightmare.

- Although Savos is an introvert through and through, he is not necessarily shy.

- He is not a good public speaker. Even when he was still a teacher he could not capture the crowd. However, those students who still listened would get clear and easily understandable explanations and instructions.

- Savos’ “Love language” is spending time together.

- Savos enjoys giving physical affection but is terrible at receiving it. It’s not that he doesn’t like it (he’s probably quite touch starved), but he has trouble accepting that someone could care for him.

- For that reason, he’s usually the big spoon - even if his partner is taller than him.

- Savos does not like smalltalk a lot. 

- However, if someone captures his interest he has no problem chatting until the early hours of the morning.

- Despite some different opinions about his leadership, Savos still gets along with everyone in the faculty.

- He does not trust Ancano and finds him annoying at times, but the previous headcanon includes him as well.

- Savos is a fairly sensitive guy and it’s easy to tell whether he’s happy, sad or angry. However, he’s often dishonest as to why.

- Savos is one of those people who’ll always promise to do something “later” and then forget about it. Mirabelle often has to remind him of his duties - much to her annoyance.

- Savos is not the type to make enemies (at least on purpose). If he has nothing nice to say to someone, he won’t say anything.

- Although it rarely happens, Savos can hold a grudge (and for a long time, too).

- He and Viarmo are close friends (and spent a night together once)

- Mirabelle Ervine was his student and he is still very close with her.

- Savos is good friends with Tolfdir and the two sometimes go fishing together.

- He's oblivious to Kraldar's "interest" in him and views him as a good friend.

- In fact, Savos is incredibly dense when it comes to flirting.

- Although Savos doesn’t engage with the students all that much, he still feels a sense of pride whenever he hears about their accomplishments.

- He also loves J'zargo’s shenanigans.

- There are some days where he’ll lock himself in his chambers and not open the door to anybody. The rest of the faculty knows to leave him alone on “one of those days”.

- Savos tolerates some crookery as long as it serves the college. For example, although he isn’t happy about Enthir’s business ventures, he realizes that having someone who can procure anything away from the normal supply lines is indeed quite beneficial.

- I like the idea of him being the nephew of Fathis Aren, the court mage in Bravil during the oblivion crisis. Given Fathis’ area of expertise and the possibility of their lifetimes overlapping, it’s not unlikely.

- Savos is not good at comforting others. He’ll let them pour their heart out to him, he’ll listen, but he doesn’t really know how to react afterwards. However, no matter how poorly he may express it, his sympathy is usually earnest.

- He is, however, very good at keeping secrets.

Skills & Knowledge:

- After the battle with Morokei Savos obsessively researched the dragon cult and its priests. Over time he’s come to understand (but not speak!) a tiny bit of Dovahzul.

- Since his conjuration magic was anything but useful against Morokei, Savos picked up restoration magic as soon as he returned to the college.

- Savos toyed with necromancy when he was an apprentice, intrigued by the promise of immortality. After what he did in Labyrinthian, he’s never used a spell of that sort again.

- Savos is extremely skilled with wards and even (re-)discovered different types of wards by combining restoration and conjuration (think of something like ESO’s barrier and bound ward spells).

- He is a good healer and possesses a decent knowledge of anatomy.

- While Savos is not a physical fighter, he still knows how to keep someone from knocking his teeth out (thanks to Hafnar).

- Savos is an average alchemist.

- He can talk backwards, much to the annoyance of Ancano or anyone else he decides to mess with. He also has a talent for deciphering drunken gibberish.

- Savos’ interest in magic, particularly conjuration, was caused and fostered by his uncle and Savos always looked forward to his visits. 

- He is a quick learner but not very studious, which made him an average student. It was his skill with wards that caught the previous archmage’s attention.

- Although he grew up in a tailor shop, he can't sew at all.

- He's a terrible cook.

- Laments that he doesn’t know telekinesis but never actually sits down to learn it.

Attitude, Hopes And Fears:

- Savos is scared of lightning

- Savos tends to be pretty laid back when it comes to pranks and mischief as long as it doesn’t hurt students or staff.

- Savos is quite conflicted about his position as archmage. On the one hand, he’s proud of his station and wants to use it to improve the college, but on the other hand, he’s fully aware that he wouldn’t have gotten the title if Atmah and his other friends were still alive. Not to mention that they died under his leadership.

- Savos is both an optimist and a hopeless idealist. While this combination lets him believe that he can eventually lead the college into a better future, it also often blinds him to reality.

- In his youth, Savos dreamt of travelling the world in search for ancient knowledge - a dream shared by his friend Atmah. After Labyrinthian he buried any aspirations of adventure.

- Ever since Labyrinthian, Savos has trouble with nightmares. He often stays up late.

- He’s tried several methods to help him sleep, such as stuffing his pillow with lavender - a scent which clings to his hair.

- The easiest way to piss him off is to bring up politics.

- Savos rarely gets seriously angry but if he does, he tends to act irrationally.

- Overall Savos is not a brave man. Standing up to Ancano when he took control of the eye was perhaps the bravest things he’s ever done. It was also the most reckless he’s been since Labyrinthian

- He is crippled by a fear of repeating his mistakes.

- He’s well aware of some of his flaws (his lack of social skills, too lax attitude) but denies others, particularly those related to his past failings. 

- In Savos' opinion, a three-headed man-eating horker could apply for a place at the college—so long as it has the aptitude and keeps the man-eating in check, he'll be okay with that.

- He's got an ego the size of a peanut and it's easy to make him doubt himself.

Taste and Favourite things:

- Despite having tried many different beverages from many different parts of Tamriel, his favourite alcoholic drink is still a good mead.

- Savos has a sweet tooth which he doesn’t get to indulge all that often save for the honey he puts in his tea.

- Ever since his first trip to Morrowind, Savos has had a fascination with bugs and as a child, he always wanted a Nix-hound. He got a Nix-hound plushie instead.

- In fact, Savos likes many creepy crawlies others tend to find disgusting. Spiders, worms, bugs, scorpions — he thinks they're fascinating.

- His biggest hobby is gardening, which later led to an interest in alchemy.

- He used to be interested in archaeology (more Atmah’s hobby than his own, still…), but the expedition to Labyrinthian put a damper on that.

- His favourite food are honey nut treats, though his dad’s fish soup is the one he misses the most.

- His favourite colour is pine green, followed by the deep dark blue of the ocean.

- Savos enjoys going for a walk along the shore every once in a while.

- He is an avid reader with a preference for nonfiction, travel logs in particular. They're good for dreaming oneself away from bleak old Winterhold…

Random Headcanons:

- He’s a blanket thief.

- Savos has two standard sleeping positions: rolled halfway off the bed and blanket burrito.

- Savos is a cheerful drunk overall. However, he also becomes quite reckless if inebriated.

- Despite having lived in Winterhold all his life, he is not at all good at dealing with the cold.

- Savos is a clean but not very orderly person and the chances of finding anything in his quarters without asking is slim.

- He is an absolute night owl and has the bad habit of sleeping in his favourite chair rather than his bed. 

- Savos is not good with children. He likes them all right; he just doesn’t know what to do with them.

- However, he does stand by his opinions. In fact, he can be quite stubborn.

- Savos still has that plush nix hound mentioned above. It’s in… well-loved condition.

- Savos was the type of kid who'd always try to get out of doing chores. He spent most of his childhood playing in the streets with the other kids of the crafter's quarter. He remembers that time fondly.

- He had a very good relationship with his parents that continued into adulthood, despite their disappointment about him joining the college rather than taking over the tailor shop. 

Savos Dadcanons

- Okay so first off I can’t see Savos planning to have kids. The college is no place to raise a child (neither is Winterhold, for that matter) so if he became a father, it would be by accident. As such, I think he’d be happy but also very, very worried.

- However, when he gets to hold his kid for the first time he just turns into a joyous puddle on the floor (like, not literally, but his knees would be very weak and he’d shed few tears).

- He doesn’t really know what to do with children and that really becomes apparent when he has to handle the baby. But damn he’d try. He has probably read every book on childcare the arcanaeum has to offer, though granted there may not be too many of those.

- He’s overall not one for random silliness (I can’t see him making faces at the child or making babytalk, for example) but he’d smile and laugh a lot more around his kid.

- Also cuddles. At first Savos is a little scared of handling the child bc it’s so small and vulnerable, but eventually he’d enjoy holding the them.

- He’d try to teach his kid as much as he possibly could, though not through books and dry teaching. He’d definitely show his kid the garden or venture out into Winterhold at night to watch the stars. In a modern AU he’d absolutely be the dad building a baking soda volcano who’d then be almost as excited as the kid when the volcano explodes.

- There aren’t many children in Winterhold so Savos would be concerned that his child can’t make many -if any- friends. At some point he considered summoning a friend for them before realising that that’s a horrible idea.

- He’d continue his own dad’s bedtime story tradition.

- Savos would be a bit of a worrywart though; he’s lost so many students already so he’d definitely try and shelter his kid a bit. He’d teach them wards as soon as possible.

- He’d absolutely encourage some mischief.

- In fact, I don’t think he’d be a strict parent at all. It’d fall to his SO or Mirabelle to teach the child some boundaries. 

- As a healer, he is entirely unfazed by anatomy and awkward puberty topics. For example, he can give his child The Talk just fine, they just shouldn’t ask him how things feel\taste\etc. He’s a very private man and would get flustered at having to reveal things about his love life.

- He’d always stay a bit insecure about his parenting skills though, even when the child is all grown up. Is he a good dad? Did he raise a responsible adult? Did he prepare his child for all that’s out there? Late at night, he’d wonder.

- At any rate, Savos is by no means #1 dad, but he’d grow into it and he’d always be there for his child, even in case of potentially massive fuck ups.

Savos Adult Headcanons:

The NSFW alphabet

[self-loving-vampire]

I understand people being annoyed by literal-level nitpicks of stories and especially thought experiments, but I do think there is some nuance there that gets overlooked by the extremes.

There is such a thing as a story that works only on an allegorical level but falls apart and makes no sense on the literal level, and this can legitimately make the more emotional parts of it feel forced, artificial, or illegitimate. It can cause story collapse and overshadow whatever higher points the story was trying to make.

One very uncontroversial and infamous example of this is the original ending of Fallout 3, which the narrative treats as a matter of courage and heroic sacrifice for the greater good but which only ends up being a horrible mess because of how clumsily the game arbitrarily bans you from sidestepping the whole conflict by thinking about it for just a minute.

And I'm sure that a lot of people will have encountered this kind of thing too at some point. Maybe it's all the issues with the original ending of Mass Effect 3. Maybe it's how MCU's Thanos has a profoundly stupid plan that raises tons of questions. Maybe it's the entire Skyrim Thieves' Guild questline. Maybe something happens that is just inconsistent with what was previously established in a way that seems thoughtless and you're left rolling your eyes at people saying "But the story has fantastical and unrealistic elements so anything can happen really, don't think too hard about it." even though you are really just thinking about it a normal amount.

I'm all for being charitable to stories. In fact, I consider myself more charitable than average when something doesn't seem to immediately make sense in fiction or when there's something that looks like an inconsistency or error, but sometimes writers do make actual mistakes. They are human. They overlook things and neglect research from time to time.

I feel like an argument against "nitpicking" these literal aspects of a story comes too close to being a general "you are not allowed to criticize this dimension of fiction" argument.

I also just feel that stories that make sense on every level rather than just the allegorical one are better-written all else being equal.

[chataiaesthetics]

Haldis’ tribe was a large one under his father and uncle’s reign, but when his uncle died a huge fracture in the community happened. Haldis’ father was a large warlord chief who wasn’t a great person. Haldis had a tough and rough and hard upbringing, his Uncle was his only friend and solace. Haldis picked up the pieces and start his tribe from the loyal followers of his Uncle. Haldis and his new tribe, mostly male minotaurs, came across a village being raided by Orcs and stepped in. The town was nearly decimated and was mostly left with women and children. Haldis rebuilt the village as a mix of human and Minotaur; and now they are one tribe of two species. Every spring, a Minotaur will claim their bride by giving gifts for a week before taking the maiden to a house the Minotaur built for their new family. Haldis is now the leader of the town and in charge of everything; but thankfully he has a few friends who help out.

The world is inspired by Skyrim, Dungeons and Dragons, Pathfinder, The Witcher, World of Warcraft, Dragon’s Dogma and Dragon Age.

Minotaurs are normally a very tribalistic and brutal species. They are on average 7 feet tall and up to 8 and a half feet tall. They have hooves and are bipedal; just bovine humanoids, with horns and and tails and snouts and cow ears. Their hands are clawed. They hunt, raid, and fight amongst other tribes and villages. Minotaurs are monogamous. They may be rough, tough, and brutal but they are huge teddy bears for their families and those they care for.

In the spring they court their partners by giving gifts- jewellery, food, fixing things, etc. Behind the scenes they are building a house for them and their mate; after a week of courting they’ll take their chosen partner to the home they built and start a family together.

Minotaurs and humans can have children together. Minotaurs are named after traits, heroes, or personalities in the first two years of their life after their parents have an idea of the calve’s personality. Minotaurs children are called ‘calves’ and they can’t talk for the first three years of their lives- at least can’t speak common language, only able to moo, squeal, and bellow and huff.

Minotaurs are reverent creatures; their Gods and Goddesses are heroes and ancestors that had accomplished deeds that are still used and talked about; whether it would be inventing irrigation, or being a hero in battle- anything that worked to improve and protect the herd and tribe. These paragons are uplifted to God or Goddess status and names are passed down. Each tribe is different. The tribes live and uphold the ideals that the herd and community are everything to one individual in that tribe. Minotaurs are a huge social creature that lives for the herd and tribe.

[omgkalyppso]

9, 18! (from @bladesandbhaalspawn)

Thank you for the ask! ヾ(•ω•`)o

9. What did they do for work/to get by?

I'm so embarrassed that I didn't give Étoile a "day job," but every d&d setting I've ever played has had an Adventurer's Guild, and having made their mother my Skyrim Dragonborn oc, it felt fine at the time to make Étoile's profession "Adventurer."

I imagine a lot of work obtained from the Adventurer's Guild can look like mercenary work, such as protecting scholars as they research something dangerous or travel from place to place, or being hired to drive a cult out of a particular land, or collect so many vials of gelatinous cube, etc. But that being a part of the Adventurer's Guild means swearing off taking additional mercenary work or a promise to direct potential employers into going through the AG so that you're not hired in competition to your fellow guild members by those bandits, that cult, etc.

I think Adventurers are largely paid well / are more likely than the average person to come across rare and magical artifacts and other items that can be sold to stay afloat, but on the occasion that this income needed to be supplemented that Étoile wouldn't be opposed to odd jobs; painting a house, fixing a wall, helping someone move from one place to the next, dock-work, and they aren't a doctor but a few applications of Lay On Hands has to be worth something.

18. What did they want to be when they were younger?

I don't think there was something they wanted to be so much as there were things they wanted to see! They wanted to see the world! They wanted to feel prepared to leave their little home on their mountain and see what lay at the bottom of it, and beyond; to see how people lived across the Sea of Stars, etc.

They wanted to be respected, like they imagined (or perceived) their mother Wylla to be. Whether she's just coincidentally respected in Étoile's presence because the only people who they meet in her company are members of her werewolf pact and paladin order, and community members who have benefited from her actions directly, or because she was actually a respectable woman, her reputation would have stood out more to a young Étoile who felt like an assistant or apprentice to their mothers' works.

Étoile definitely had a period where they worried they'd falter and spend the entirety of their life in Aranea's temple to Auril / Azura, or that in Wylla's absence that Aranea would force them to stay, but Wylla trained them to be a paladin and Aranea nurtured their faith to ensure that when they felt othered because of it or their upbringing that they'd still be able to continue on and pursue those other desires of wanderlust.

It wasn't really until the illithid parasite that they went through anything traumatic enough that made them homesick.

[cruisingheightswithdragons]

These prompts are really fun to think about, so I ended up writing some more with Dah’ni!

1. An encounter with a dragon

A brisk wind drifted through the air, messing up the tidy fur that Dah’ni had so carefully brushed through that morning. Hissing with annoyance, they unsheathed their claws and combed through the ruffs of fur on their cheeks.

“Agh, and I had just fixed up my hair, too…” From behind the khajiit, the nord Lydia sighed from the sight of her disheveled brunette hair that clung to her steel armor.

Another khajiit, Kharjo, slowed his pace with the other two in order to be just behind Lydia. “Perhaps it would be best to put it in a braid, yes?” Taking off steel plated gauntlets and placing them perched underneath his arm, his grey furred hands combed through Lydia’s hair, pulling it out into three equal pieces before tossing them together into a braid.

“Thank you.” Lydia glanced back at the taller cat with a grateful look painting her eyes. “I’m afraid that autumn in Skyrim is always windy.”

Dah’ni couldn’t help but let out a smile seeing the two of them get along. At this point, Kharjo had only been with the team for a week, and was still getting acclimated to the ways of the dovahkiin and their housecarl. However, it seemed as though he was starting to warm up, which Dah’ni appreciated. A hot feeling surfaced, blooming in their stomach and moving to their face, as if by a comforting fire. Behind their dense coat of pale fur, Dah’ni could feel heat flushing their cheeks.

Shaking away the sudden feeling, the khajiit perked their ears forward, listening for anything that may lay ahead as the trio travelled down a mountain path in the Rift. The air was still, and no birds sand their songs as they passed orange-leaved trees. It was oddly quiet, which made Dah’ni wonder.

A shadow zipped overhead, casting the amber grasses in brief darkness before letting the sun shine on them once more. Their fur stood on end, bristling their tail to twice its size as Dah’ni looked up at the sky. For one destined to slay dragons, the sight of one always struck fear into the dragonborn’s heart.

Kharjo brought out his sword, and Lydia her battle axe. Dah’ni readied their war axe as well as soon as the dragon landed just in front of the party. Dust bellowed outward from the impact of the lizard’s weight, catching in Dah’ni’s eyes. They blinked, but held their ground, ready to take on the foe.

Strangely, the dragon did not attack. Now that Dah’ni could get a decent look at it, the dovah was actually much smaller than the others they have fought, only about half the size. It’s smooth scales were small and tightly packed, shining a brilliantly deep purple, with amethyst eyes to match. It had no horns, instead it was equipped with fins like a blood dragon, letting Dah’ni know what type it was.

It let out a voice, expectantly higher pitched than an average dragon. “Which one of you is dovahkiin?” It asked.

Dah’ni tensed, keeping their firm stance, they tightened their grip on their weapon. “This one!” They growled. How odd it was that the dragon could not sense its own kind within the khajiit. They felt their dragon blood course through their veins, their heart beating rapidly.

The dragon raised its neck, standing tall. “I am Briilokven!” It roared, baring fearsome rows of teeth, sharp like daggers. “I have come to you! Yes, this fire that burns within Briilokven… she shall see if you are truly worthy of taking the name of dovah!”

Dah’ni gulped down their fear. “Very well, then! Khajiit will dance on your bones once I have felled you!”

Briilokven rumbled a low growl. “Arrogant pest… this defeat will not mean death, whoever will take it.” She turned to Kharjo and Lydia. “Stand back!”

The two looked at each other before sheathing their weapons, understanding that this battle will be fought by dov, with no kill to decide the match. It was surprising to see a dragon show mercy over others. Who was this Briilokven, to be so unlike a dovah in nature?

Stifling back a sigh of relief, Dah’ni stood firm. “Then I will show you my power!”

Their dragon soul danced to life as Dah’ni concentrated their breath. “Yol!” A thundering cry erupted from their lips, followed by a wall of flames that charged towards the dragon.

Briilokven cringed as the fire hit, radiating against her scales as they glimmered like stars against the heat. “You truly do have the voice…” She reared her head back. “But can you stand against mine?!” She shouted, letting her own flames burst forth.

The fire engulfed Dah’ni, and it was hotter than that from any other dragons they had encountered. Scorching their fur that turned from a pale grey to a charred black, Dah’ni quickly held up their left hand, summoning a ward to block the flames. Once the rocket of embers ceased to lick at their body, the khajiit strengthened their ward, waving it against Lydia and Kharjo as it planted in front of them as a wall, now having exhausted their magicka supply. “Enjoying the show, yes?”

“Can this one really face a dragon alone?” Kharjo yelled out, placing his hand on his blade’s hilt, ready to draw it.

Dah’ni laughed, bellowing out hot smoke. “It is not every day a dragon challenges this one to a battle that does not result in death!”

Briilokven growled. “Enough of your squabbling!” She unfurled her wings, beating them down and taking to the skies. A roar pierced the heavens, cracking the air as she let gravity take her down. Her wings tucked into a dive, Briilokven spewed hot fire as she passed by the group overhead. It hit Dah’ni before they had the chance to regain some magicka to put up another ward, and baked their leather armor. The dragon spun around, and as she charged towards Dah’ni, the khajiit let out another shout.

“Fo Krah!” An icy wind sliced through the sky, striking the winged foe with intensity.

“Gah!” Briilokven tumbled to the ground, crashing into the dirt that now formed a crater from the impact. Chunks of ice littered the ground. She turned around to face her opponent, baring her teeth.

Before the dragon had time to react, Dah’ni had already charged ahead. They sliced their war axe against her purple muzzle, blood erupting from the gash and glossing the dirt below. The khajiit struck again, grabbing at giant bared teeth as they sank their blade in Briilokven’s jaw.

Briilokven hissed a snake-like sound, shaking her head sharply. Dah’ni dislodged themself from the dragon, collapsing into the earth. Giant fangs found their way to Dah’ni’s arm, clamping down and staining their fur red. The dovahkiin let out an anguished cry as blood welled from their wounds.

“Let us help you!” Lydia readied her weapon as the ward dissipated, ready to charge at the adversary.

With their free arm, Dah’ni felt that they had enough magicka for their spell. Their digits twitched, and a ball of flame bellowed from their hand and swallowed their entire body. The dragon unlatched her teeth and flinched back, giving Dah’ni a chance to stand.

“A flame cloak!” Kharjo’s eyes glistened against the light before turning to Lydia. “They are intent on keeping us out of it, no?”

The nord tensed her shoulders, readied weapon clasped in both hands. “What a fool!” Lydia shouted, and Kharjo knew she wanted Dah’ni to hear as well.

Briilokven staggered back, her footprints leaving deep divots in the ground. She exhaled a breath, smoke trailing in the wind. “You have strength, ronit,” She huffed through labored breaths, “I will part now, having had a taste of your thu’um.” She curled her lips, baring her blood soaked teeth. “But make no mistake, this is not the last you have seen of me.” Before anyone could respond, the beastly foe spread her wings and climbed into the sky. “Wuld Nah Kest!” The shout let her tear through the air with incredible speed, and the deep purple shape was nothing more than a black dot on the horizon.

Fatigue hitting them like a war hammer, Dah’ni fell to their knees as their fire smoldered into nothingness. It took most of their energy to get some rattled breaths in and out. Their fur was scorched black, and their arm was red with gushing blood. In fact, Dah’ni was sure that the dragon’s teeth hit bone, the wounds searing in pain like fire. The pain was so great that the dragonborn had not even noticed Lydia and Kharjo rush to either side of them until they spoke.

“You prideful idiot,” Lydia scolded with worry etching her voice, “What made you think you could take on a dragon alone?” She wrapped her arms around Dah’ni’s back, and the khajiit ungracefully fell limply into her touch.

Kharjo took out a large, red bottle. “Khajiit has to agree.” He uncorked the bottle, forcing Dah’ni’s mouth open and letting the red liquid cascade onto their tongue. “We are a team, yes? Let us help you when you are in trouble.”

The sweet nectar of the potion set to work, giving Dah’ni enough energy to pull themself up. Their bleeding started to slow down, and their charred fur began to heal. “It only wished to test my strength,” They said, “I wanted to oblige! A sparring match between dovah and dovahkiin… how could this one pass up the chance?” They strained as they stood up, Lydia supporting their weight.

The nord lass peered into the sky, turning a milky orange as the sun began to slide towards the horizon. A wind blew, rustling the autumn leaves to sing their melodies. Lydia placed a firm grip on their khajiit thane. “I doubt that’s the last we’ll see of that dragon,” She concluded, “But right now, we need to find somewhere for you to rest.”

Kharjo hummed. “Ivarstead is down the road,” He noted, “Let us stay there for the time being.”

Dah’ni hissed under their breath. They wanted to explore, not rest in an inn! However, they let Lydia and Kharjo help them along the cobbled road, limping their way to the small town. Though exhaustion gripped them tightly, the dragonborn wanted nothing more than to face Briilokven again.

[numbaoneflaya]

Errrm what the scallop ☝️ it’s a new oc post (drunken)

Had a few shots and I’m stretching out my oc muscles rn bcs it’s been a while since Iv rly gone in on making a new one (thurwen once again has been stealing my attention)

This is gonna be a rant for me to remember what the scallop I was thinking when I wake up tomorrow but I come up w all my best oc ideas drunk. So.

GWINDETH. nicknames Gwin, Gwinny, peapod, slipper. Don’t ask for context of the last names as she will not give it.

Breton female, about 5’7, 29 at the start of elder scrolls online so around the age of 1029 at the start of Skyrim. Black hair in a meticulously maintained short cut that doesn’t reach the bottom of her ears, side part bangs that reach just to the top of her eyebrows bcs if it gets any longer it makes her wanna shave her head. Healer/necromancer/it’s complicated. Starts out as a healer but as time goes on her life he much worse as does the state of the world, and she doesn’t trust anyone or anything else to take care of it so she becomes a lich. Easier said than done but she has… a lot of practice. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Her becoming a lich and getting interested in necromancy happens way after the events of ESO. God. Okay so no one gonna read this anyhow so I’m just marking main character traits so I remember

•genius

•obsessive

•kind hearted but unsure how to express it as she is v non expressive nd people frequently misinterpret her

•has a decent relationship w her parents. It’s not good it’s not bad it’s just slightly less than average but she seeks their approval

•has always been interested in the process of decay and corpses and thus was not very popular as a child :/

•her parents worry about her, but don’t understand her and don’t want to. They just want her to be normall

•loud noises, busyness and bright lights kind of make her go insane but she’s become an expert at internalizing discomfort so she just kind of goes nonresponsive when these things happen bcs she doesn’t wanna be a bother. But if they go on long enough and she can’t get a break she will be a bitch about it

•her favorite animal is the mountain lion! She relates to it a lot. That’s up to u 2 figure out how

•she’s prone to fits of melancholy and depression. The only thing she can do in these times to keep from spiraling is to throw herself into her studies

[dashbored-hell]

Not to make Actual Posts on my Fandom Blog instead of just using it as an archive of Dashbored related posts But:

Random Headcanon about save masters:

they can be very. Very impulsive. And if not kept in line by an outside force or their own strong will, can drive themselves completely insane by constantly reloading their saves instead of dealing with reality.

Due to being the one saving and resetting timelines, when they save and reload themself, they remember things more than your average person.

Like, when Nic reloads a save, he'll not Really remember it, but he'll get a sorta "gut feeling" about something later. A vague deja-vu. Maybe even have alittle phantom pain from whatever hurt/killed him before the save. But nothing clear.

Midori reloading a save, however, has a much clearer picture. Still fuzzy and distant, but more than Nothing.

As a result, save masters can get stuck in the past, reloading the same save over and over to re-experience something or to avoid moving forward with life for one reason or other. Maybe they keep trying again and again to save someone they can't. Maybe they just want to re-live a fun day. Maybe they're dreading tomorrow too much to let it come. Regardless of the reason, without anything in place to stop them, they can catch themselves in a loop.

Theres also the possibility of save masters becoming numb to the gravity of things since they can just reload and try again. They're like That Kind of skyrim player that'll save right before doing as much fucked up shit as possible Just To See What Would Happen.

Save masters can be a detriment to themselves and the multiverse's timelines, so thats why the SAPU are very VERY adamant about keeping them in check. A rogue save master can be a very dangerous thing.

Having time powers already can cause any of these afflictions, but rarely would a temprocal component user have the ability energy to do such things enough times in rapid succession to reach a similar state.

Idk why i just had the idea in my head.

Most Save Masters know the risks and as a result usually have to limit their personal use of their abilities to resist the temptation to savescum.

Idk what got my mind on time loops n the mental toll of a self inflicted one today but i guess thats just the vibe lmao

[thana-topsy]

6 questions

I was tagged by @mongoose-bite - many thanks, crunchy!

RULES: answer the questions then tag some folx you want to get to know better/catch up with.

Last Song: "Blood Upon the Snow" by Hozier and Bear McCreary - Yes it's for God of War: Ragnarok, but sweet fucking Mara if it doesn't fit for Skyrim so well. I've practically been listening to it on repeat since my friend showed it to me (thanks Orion).

Last Show : Vinland Saga - Just starting in on season 2 and I'm .... hhhh I have a lot of emotions.

Currently Watching: Lord of the Rings: Return of the King - Wow I really do only consume fantasy/viking media these days huh

Currently Reading: I'm in between stories right now, so I'm not reading anything at the moment. I'm in Writing Mode, and usually I can't read things and write at the same time. BUT the last thing I read was the absolutely amazing fic "Ingenious Gentlemen and the Persistence of Memory" by muldezgron on AO3. I cannot recommend it enough. Muld's writing is always next fucking level.

Current Obsession: The Elder Scrolls, always. If I had to get specific, I'm flip-flopping between my Hadvar/Ralof ship and thinking about the ending of Halfway to the Sky.

Unrelated Obsession: Creating custom tea blends, identifying mushrooms, studying anatomy & physiology, and reading tarot cards

I tag @b-lizi @dwellerinroots @kookaburra1701 @dirty-bosmer @nientedenada @sneaksandsweets @incorrectskyrimquotes @argisthebulwark @average-crazy-fangirl

[quicksilverdrabbles]

In the Dead of Night...

Azazel: *gasps, sitting upright in her bedroll*

Gore: *snoring quietly, still tucked into his*

Azazel: ...

Thalmor Justiciar: Over here, this way.

Azazel: ...? Elven.. Altmeri?

Thalmor Wizard: You're sure? This looks like an average vagrant camp.

Thalmor Justiciar: Positive. Our tip seemed very insistent that these were Talos worshippers.

Azazel: Talos worshippers..?

Thalmor Wizard: Summon the others, then. Leave no survivors.

Azazel: *gasps* Gore! *backs away from the tent opening, feeling around for where he is on the ground and shaking him frantically* Gore! Get up!

Gore: Hmn- Nn- Wha-

Azazel: Get up, you oaf! We need to get out of here!

Gore: Az-? Wha-What's going- OW! Mmf! *gets slapped in the face by Azazel's hand, a quiet 'sorry!', and then silenced by the same hand covering his mouth*

Azazel: Shh!! *points behind her towards the rising sounds of the Thalmor*

Thalmor Wizard: What was that?

...

Thalmor Justiciar: Probably a pair of lovers. It is that time of night.

Thalmor Wizard: Ill-fated lovers.

Justiciar/Wizard: *snickers*

Gore: *eyes widen, grabbing Azazel's wrist and pulling her hand away from him* We need to go.

Azazel: Where??

Gore: Across the border. We're close enough to slip through into Falkreath if we can avoid them here.

Thalmor Justiciar: Ugh, but I don't want to have to kill half-naked humans. Phynaster forbid they are fully undressed.

Thalmor Wizard: Leave that tent for last then, you prude.

Azazel: ...! Wait, I might have some invisibility potion-

Gore: You just had those the whole time??

Azazel: Lass like me kind of needs multiple options, just take the stupid potion!

Gore: Wait hang on- *grabs his sword, tearing a hole in the back of the tent and peeking out to make sure no one was around* We go out here. Come on. *takes the potion from Azazel and drinks it, disappearing*

Azazel: I have no idea what you just did, I hope you know. *drinks her potion and disappears*

Gore: Just- Come on! *grabs her hand and pulls her out of the tent. Cries rise up all around the camp, and smoke begins to rise from the tents closest to the edge*

Azazel: Oh Gods, I smell smoke-

Gore: Keep going. We gotta head north.

Azazel: Right.

Gore: *takes the lead, pulling her through the forest thicket towards Skyrim*

Azazel: *trips, stepping on a branch, the invisibility potion wearing off just as the loud crack echoes through the forest*

Thalmor: Hm? Did you hear something?

Gore: Shit. *grabs Azazel by the shoulders and redirects her in a certain direction* Keep running this way and you'll get across the border to Falkreath. Keep going, and don't stop until you feel the sun rise. I'll find you.

Azazel: Wait what are you doing-

Gore: I'm gonna buy you some time.

Azazel: That's ridiculous! Gore, you can't-

Gore: I can, and will. Hurry and go!

Azazel: Wait-

Gore: *shoves her forward, pivoting on his heel and drawing his sword at the three Thalmor that step out from the shadows* Go!

Azazel: *gasps, hearing the Thalmor's laughter*

Thalmor Wizard: Found the lovers.

Thalmor Justiciar: Gross. Just kill them and be done with it.

Azazel: Gods- just don't die! *turns and runs in the direction Gore pointed her towards*

Gore: Hah. What do you take me for?

~

Azazel: *hunched over with her hands on her knees, panting. Feels the warmth of the sun on her face* Sun's up... *swallows, wiping her forehead and standing straight* ... And I have no idea where I am. Lovely.

...

Azazel: I hope I'm at least in Skyrim. Don't think I went the wrong way, at least... *sighs, trying to listen for anything unusual* ... Why is it so quiet? Where are the birds?

Thalmor Justiciar: *from afar* Come on now, that mutt couldn't have gotten far!

Azazel: !? How the hell do they keep doing that??? *turns and runs, her feet catching against roots and branches against the ground* Son of a- I've got to find Gore.. *lifts her hands in front of her, conjuring a small blue orb between them, casting Detect Life in one hand and Clairvoyance in the other* If he's alive, lead me to him.

~

Gore: *laying on the ground with his leg caught in a bear trap* ... Y'know, I can't honestly say I'm surprised anymore.

snap!

Gore: ...! Who's there? *raises his head and glares into the woods* ... Whoever you are, better come out now, s'wit, or else I'll-

Azazel: S'wit? That's rich coming from the man I presume to be laying on the floor.

Gore: Azazel!

Azazel: What are you doing down there? You weren't sleeping, were you?

Gore: ... I'm stuck.

Azazel: Stuck?

Gore: Stuck.

Azazel: .. On what, exactly?

Gore: A bear trap.

Azazel: So.. you tripped over it?

Gore: No you idiot, it caught my leg!

Azazel: ...

Gore: ...

Azazel: *snorts* And you call me the idiot?? How did that even happen?

Gore: Would you just shut up and help me-

Azazel: Fine, fine. Bite down on something, this is gonna hurt. *kneels down and feels for his leg, her touch light as she skirts over the metal and takes a hold of it* Ready? One.. Two..

Gore: Three. *grunts, wincing when Azazel pries the trap open* Ow.

Azazel: Quit being such a baby. Here. *helps him stand up, leaning him against a fallen log* Take a rest for a sec while I heal this.

Thalmor Wizard: This way, hurry!

Azazel: ... *sighs* Or not. Guess we gotta do this the hard way. Stay here.

Gore: Are you crazy?! I can fight, just-

Azazel: Sit. *a streak of magic forces him to the ground* I'll handle it.

Thalmor Wizard: I found them!

Azazel: *turns towards the sound of the three Thalmor, dark green scales bloom across her face and neck as she activates Dragonskin and flames gather at her fingers* You'll really wish you hadn't in a moment.

[nerevar-quote-and-star]

I Didn't Know You Were Keeping Count — Part IX: Slaughterfish

ao3

masterlist

first | previous | next

Author's note: Happy Monday! Please accept this chapter as a distraction as many of us in the US face inclement weather that's a little too Skyrim-esque for comfort.

Tag list:

@ravenmind2001 @incorrectskyrimquotes @uwuthrad @dark-brohood @owl-screeches @binaominagata @constantfyre @kurakumi @stormbeyondreality @singleteapot @aardvark-123 @blossom-adventures @argisthebulwark @inkysqueed @average-crazy-fangirl @the-tuzen-chronicles @shivering-isles-cryptid @orangevanillabubbles

Hey! If you want to be on the tag list, just ask! I'd be happy to add you! ✨

Content Warning: Verbal abuse; mature language; Bishop being Bishop.

#######

Contrary to her previous misgivings, Leara found that she could stomach showing her face in Windhelm again. It didn’t hurt that she wore the cowl up over her mouth and hood over her hair, effectively concealing her identity to most passersby. She prayed to Akatosh, Mara, and Kynareth that no one remembered her involvement in that circus of a performance at the palace! If she didn’t already have nightmares from the war and her battle with Alduin, then Leara was certain the mortification she’d felt under Alec’s attentions would haunt her sleep. 

Talk about a night she’d never forget! If only she could!

Well, if only she could forget most of it, she reflected as she and Bishop made their way across the bridge. That night she put to rest at least one of her insecurities concerning Ulfric Stormcloak: The fear that he would recognize her for who she really was, not as Dragonborn, but as an officer of the Aldmeri Dominion. That was worth something, for however brief a time the relief had lasted.

It was just her luck that a new fear soon took its place, one more solid and present. She snubbed his letter. For the hundredth time since, Leara regretted not opening it when she’d had the chance. Now it was lost, and whatever important business Ulfric Stormcloak had with her went ignored. Would he agree to speak to her about the peace council after she slighted him? Leara was at a loss. Truthfully, she was unfamiliar with how letters and summons from jarls worked in Skyrim. Was it very different from High Rock, where ignoring a court summons could mean a day in the stocks, or worse?

“You’re fidgeting again.”

“Sorry.”

Bishop shot her a look, but Leara was too preoccupied to try and unravel it. In fact, she’d been preoccupied since before they left Whiterun. To her unsurprise, Bishop made his awareness of this quite vocal. During the nights on the road, while she sat beside the fire, twisting her rings around raw fingers and worrying over the peace council, he would sit across from her, sometimes snarking off, sometimes shaking his head. Every night, without fail, he offered her a better distraction and every time, Leara refused. She knew all too well what Bishop’s idea of a “better distraction” was, and she was too busy to play his little game of musical bedrolls. 

The grey skies to the northeast threatened foul weather from the Sea of Ghosts. Leara found they reflected her mood: Dark, worrisome, and held in place by a few well-placed bobby pins and armor straps. 

Between her and Bishop, Karnwyr plodded, his head low. Every once and a while, the wolf would catch Leara’s eye, and the weight of his care would strike her. On those nights when she worried and Bishop whined, Karnwyr would curl up beside her, his now-familiar presence a comforting heat against her leg. Whoever coined the phrase, “Silence is golden,” must’ve had a dog like Karnwyr, loyal, protective, and companionable to a fault. If anything good came from her keeping Bishop around, it was Karnwyr. 

The gates were closed. Foot traffic around Windhelm was scarce; Leara hadn’t seen a single wagon since they passed through the miller’s hamlet early that morning. With another cautious glance at the darkening clouds, Leara approached the gate, Bishop dragging his feet behind her. One of the city guards gave her a nod as she went to open one of the doors, but otherwise, all was quiet. 

It set Leara’s teeth on edge. 

Windhelm was as worn and grey as before, cast in shadows from the approaching storm. Inside the gates, people scurried back and forth, not hurried, but none seemed willing to stop and engage in curbside conversations with neighbors or strangers. Thunder rumbled near the mountain’s head, punctuating the dull crunch of feet on stone and permafrost. Something loosened in Leara’s chest. The city looked as tired as she felt.

“Black mood,” Bishop observed next to her. “You’d’ve thought a bunch of Stormcloaks would like a little rain.”

“No one likes dismal weather,” Leara muttered back. She slipped Bishop a small coin purse. “Now, would you be so kind as to go handle our accommodations? I’ve business at the palace, and even if that doesn’t take long, I don’t think we’ll be leaving until that storm passes.” 

Bishop stilled, the coin purse loose in his palm. “You have business in the palace? That’s why we’re here?” At Leara’s affirmation, he threw his head back with a groan. “That’s real funny, your ladyship, because I could’ve sworn we had this conversation before!”

With one hand propped against her hip, Leara quirked a delicate dark eyebrow at the ranger, a silent, “Are you serious?” in the draw of her mouth. 

“I just mean,” Bishop went on, unbothered, “you know I don’t want you around that religious freak!”

Lifting a silent prayer to Mara for patience, Leara shook her head. “Careful, Bishop. Just remember that you’re in his city, surrounded by his supporters. You have a certain, ah, je ne sais quoi about you that sets people off and a comment like that’s toeing the line.”

“A certain what? – No, forget it! Listen—” Bishop caught Leara’s free hand, pulling her to him. Leara found herself chest plate to leather jacket with Bishop on the streets of Windhelm, surrounded by people and overlooked like a tree in the forest. Sleet began to fall, brushing the rooftops and stone with a bitter wet gruel, but Leara didn’t see it for the blaze in Bishop’s gaze. “Listen, you’re a good girl. I get that! But you keep playing with fire every time you go out of your way to help someone! Those old windbags, that nutjob in the ice burg, Jarl Temper Tantrum – and now you want to skip up to Ulfric damn Stormcloak and share friendship bracelets with him! Are you out of your damn mind? Wait! Don’t answer that! Oblivion knows you’re a mad woman!”

“Are you done?”

“Am I – are you even listening to me?”

Leara yanked her hand from his. “Yes, actually! And now it’s your turn to listen to me for once! I am the Dragonborn! By the grace of Akatosh—”

“Oh, here we go again with that Divines bull—”

“—by the grace of Akatosh, I am Dragonborn, and if that means I need to meet with the An-Xileel of all things, then I will bloody well do so!”

“The who—” 

“My muse!” 

In rare harmony, Leara and Bishop groaned.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Leara sighed, her forehead pressed into her palm. 

“You’re the moron who just had to shout about being Dragonborn to the rooftops!” hissed Bishop. 

“Shouted? Hardly! I—”

And then Alec was next to them, sleet weighing down the giant plume of his puffed-up hat. He was wrapped in an oversized fur coat that looked suspiciously like snow fox. Leara gave half a thought to calculating just how many little foxes it would take to make such a thing. Hadn’t she seen a similar coat on the Countess of Bruma years ago? Then Alec snatched up her hand, cutting off her calculations.

“Dragonborn, you’ve returned! I knew you would, of course. A vision like yourself knows in her heart that her radiance must be captured like sunlight through a prism!” His hands were unbearably soft, Leara noticed, wondering where the calluses were from his lute. “You need me to focus your beauty and heroism for the world to see! I can assure you that I’m up for the challenge! Just say the word! I will stay right here, ready and willing by your side!”

“I bet you are,” Bishop sneered, batting Alec’s arm so that the bard released his hold on Leara. “Now get lost! The grown-ups are talking.”

Alec reeled back, as if only just noticing Bishop for the first time. Standing between the two, Leara just restrained the urge to face palm. “I see you’re still hounding her like a lost puppy, savage,” sniffed the so-called Prince of Song in distaste. Unfortunately for him, the heat was lost in the uncanny stillness of his sculpted face. “Still looking for a bone?”

“I’ll give you a bone,” growled Bishop, “right up your scrawny brown ass!”

Seriously? Must they do this in public? Out on the street, of all places? Behind her, Karnwyr grunted, a near-silent agreement. At least someone had manners, even if it was the actual animal!

Alec marched right up to Bishop, his too-perfect nose pointed right at the scruff on the ranger’s chin. “Is that the best you can do, you untamed wild man? What do you know of treating a woman such as the Dragonborn like the goddess of perfection she is?”

“A thing or two more than you, you sniveling brat!”

Leara crept back, first one step and then another. Neither Bishop nor Alec noticed, so engrossed in their dualling match that they didn’t see the object of their argument walk away. Any moment now, she expected them to stop brandying words and switch to a more, ah, biological weapon. Whatever. She had palaces to go to and jarls to see. 

Karnwyr needed no prompting to follow her as Leara ducked down a side street and through a back alleyway. Snow mounds lined the broken stones, crusting the foundations of buildings with a frozen blend of frost and dirt. What wasn’t packed into the corners, swept aside by busy feet, was strewn across the narrow alley in streaks and banks. The grips on her plated boots pierced through the icy mixture, leaving thin, dotted footprints in her wake. Leara wouldn’t put it past Bishop to track her and Karnwyr once he got bored with Alec – or either when either realized that she left – but she hoped he waited long enough for her to convince Ulfric to attend the peace council before he came to rain on her parade. 

Akatosh, but one would think Bishop was her overprotective father, the way he carried on!

At the end of the alley was a drop-off; the alley stretched between two buildings set on a lower tier before leading directly into a wider street. The husky scent of burning incense wafted by, teasing Leara’s nose with musk and spice. Oh! This was the Grey Quarter, wasn’t it? 

Leara slipped down from the ledge, and once down, waved for Karnwyr to jump after her. Emerging from the alley’s end, she found that the streets were different from those in the rest of the city. Though snow and slush still lined the stones, bright lanterns of crimson, maroon, and sienna blazed on the eaves of buildings, seemingly untouched by the increment weather. Many of the structures were built from wood, heavy boreal hardwoods harvested from the slopes of the Winterhold Mountains. Some bore tribal markings, remnants carried over from the Ashlander tribes Leara knew once roamed the isle of Vvardenfell before the Red Year devastated much of the island, driving longstanding natives into exile. Interspersed with these were House banners: Hlaalu, primarily, though she recognized the armored crab of Redoran on a few, as well as the twisting roots of a Telvanni banner at the end of the road. 

This must be the main street through the district, she thought, making a slow spin, taking it in. Now where did she go?

Clairvoyance glittered at the end of her fingertips before the sound of her name being called sent the ethereal tether back to Magnus in a wisp of vapor. Leara jerked around.

“Jolinar Aren?”

And it was the Archmage of Winterhold’s daughter, standing there across the road with wide eyes and a fried pastry dangling between gloved fingers. The sudden ice that gripped Leara’s lungs at the thought of Bishop finding her so soon was banished at once: Most of the time, she wasn’t even sure he remembered her name – actually, she knew he didn’t, because she heard him call her Ellen to the barkeep when they stopped at the inn in Heljarchen after leaving the Tower of Mzark. That should bother her, shouldn’t it? she realized, watching Jolinar Aren wave her over.

Burying the thought in the growing mountain of internalized feelings she didn’t want to deal with yet, Leara joined the golden-haired Dunmer under a flame-patterned awning. Then Leara got a good, proper look at the mage: Whereas in Winterhold, Jolinar wore dark, dusty purple robes glittering with enchantments, now she wore worn leather armor, the faded black broken up by glimpses of pale pinks from her otherwise traditional Dunmeri wrap blouse. A knit scarf was tucked around her neck, and a hood was thrown back off her morning-bright hair. After all, even in summer, northern Skyrim was ruled by harsh weather and freezing temperatures. 

“You can’t imagine how excited I am to see you!” Jolinar was saying. “When you went into the ice fields after the scroll, well, Urag figured you and that boy toy of yours were as good as dead!”

“Boy toy?” echoed Leara. 

Jolinar waggled pale ashen fingers. “Bit pretty, isn’t he? Where is he, anyway? Actually, I’d rather know if you ever found the scroll. Urag and I have a bet running, you see. He thinks you wouldn’t find one. I disagreed, naturally! So?”

Leara gaped at her, then shut her mouth. “I, I did find what I was looking for. It’s at, it’s safe,” she amended quickly. As safe as any priceless artifact could be under the guard of an ancient dragon, she mused, recalling how the Elder Scroll remained at the Throat of the World with Paarthurnax. Yes, that was the safest place for it.

An excited, “Oh!” chirped out of Jolinar. Leara couldn’t think of her as anything but chipper, sunny and cheerful like blackberry wine put up in summer and brought out during the holidays. 

Thoughts of the Throat of the World recalled Leara to the task at hand. Her meeting with the Jarl. She almost dreaded this meeting with Ulfric more than she had the one with Balgruuf! “Pardon, but Jolinar? Do you happen to know the way to the Palace of the Kings?”

“Ah,” Jolinar quirked her head to the side. “Yes, of course. Follow me,” and with her half-eaten pastry, she directed their path down the winding street. “Dragonborn business?” 

“You could say that,” Leara offered a tentative but thankful smile. Despite all Bishop’s badgering, she still hadn’t explained the purpose behind their visit to Windhelm or the pending trip to Solitude. Knowing him, he’d snap out something that would lead to an argument not dissimilar to the one simmering between them before Alec’s oh so timely interruption earlier. But Jolinar Aren? Teeth kneaded the end of her tongue, then Leara, nodding to herself, her decision made. 

Quickening her pace, Leara waved her fingers for Karnwyr and moved to walk beside Jolinar. The blonde led her down a short stair, passed a porch lined with earthenware painted in fiery reds and blazing oranges. Whereas the rest of Windhelm seemed to reflect the hardy yet frostbitten spirit of the Nords, the Grey Quarter was lit with the ancestral fires of the Dunmer, kept burning even in their exile. Respect for their resilience and defiance squeezed Leara’s heart, though not uncomfortably.

“The Greybeards are calling for a peace council,” she murmured, voice pitched low enough so as not to be overheard by the occasional person on the street. There weren’t many out; Dunmer were less inclined than Nords to brave the dreary conditions of a north-born storm just for a bit of shopping. 

To her credit, Jolinar’s only reaction to this apparently unprecedented move was a quick dart shot from garnet eyes toward Leara. “Then you’ve got your task cut out for you,” she sighed.

“Tell me about it.”

The street curved toward the left. The houses there were rather large, taller and terraced compared to those deeper in the quarter. House and tribe banners hung from windows and balconies, creating a dusk and dawn patchwork against the otherwise drab canvas of wood and stone. From a shuttered window, the faint trill of a pipe slipped out, entwining with the droning of an unknown string instrument. From a window across the way, the tantalizing scent of baking bread teased at her nose, richer and more savory than the buttery smells she was used to from bakeries in High Rock. 

“They were manor houses, once,” Jolinar explained, noting Leara’s interest. On one of the lower balconies, an old Dunmer wrapped in a thin shawl sat, smoking a bone pipe. On spying Jolinar, he sent her a jaunty wave. She returned it, no less enthusiastic, before continuing: “They’re mostly tenements now. Almost anyone rich enough to afford a manor in Windhelm can afford to move to Blacklight.”

“I didn’t think the Jarl’s steward handled apartment leases.”

“He doesn’t. All the court cares about are taxes and that we keep our heads down. The Dunmer here answer first to a council. It’s not that different to the one back in Morrowind, only a thousand times smaller and less ostentatious, not to mention,” added Jolinar, “Ambarys runs a tight ship. No in-fighting, or at least, none that the Nords are allowed to see.” This last she said in a conspiratorial whisper, a grin curling her frosted berry mouth that Leara couldn’t help but share.

Suddenly she wished that she met Jolinar before Bishop. She was cheerful and full of local knowledge. With Jolinar, there would be no brooding silences or sarcastic remarks; instead, good humor and wry smiles would liven up the bleak travels across Skyrim. And, Leara thought ruefully, another mage would be more likely to understand her methods. But, no, she couldn’t blame Bishop’s attitude on his mundanity. Goodness knows there were plenty of mundane people untouched by magic who were far kinder and certainly more tolerable than Bishop usually was! Regardless, Leara was certain that with Jolinar, there would be nothing but lighthearted companionship in place of Bishop’s advances. 

“Up through here,” Jolinar was saying, turning sharply to the left. Leara hurried after her, up the narrow-wide stairs and out onto the Avenue of Valor. High above, the Palace of the Kings rose as a mountain unto itself against the ever-darkening backdrop of storm clouds. Leara prayed to Kynareth that it wasn’t an omen for the direction her meeting would take. “And here we are,” Jolinar said, clearly not as bothered as Leara was. 

The Dragonborn set her shoulders, her spine stiff. “Thank you—”

But Jolinar was gone. 

Blinking, Leara glanced back at the stairs winding down into the Grey Quarter, then at the towering pillars marking the avenue from the maze of streets crisscrossing the Stone Quarter. But the golden Dunmer was nowhere in sight. A little putout, Leara strode toward the palace.

“I’m here to see the Jarl,” she said to the guards standing sentinel by the doors, her voice frost. The guards glanced at one another in silent communication. Their cage helmets weren’t much different from those worn by the Whiterun guards, Leara noted as one nodded, stiff, and the other pulled open one of the doors. “Thank you,” she said, striding passed with Karnwyr on her heels.

Neither said a word, and Leara wondered if they knew who she was.

Immediately, she decided it didn’t matter. Less chance of embarrassment.

The great hall was as cold and imposing as on her previous visit without the added benefit of dinner to warm the atmosphere. Once again, she sought out the throne, only to find it empty. Behind her, the door shut with a hard snap! that eclipsed her weary sigh. He could never make her job easy, could he?

Out of a side passage stepped the steward, and a sense of déjà vu tapped Leara on the forehead as, upon spying her, he made his way across the hall.

“Excuse me, can I help you?” he asked, eyeing her silver plate and katana warily.

Oh, of course. Whereas Jolinar met her before in armor, the steward, Jorleif, had only met her once, and then in a dress with her hair down. Leara pushed the cowl down and, throwing back the hood, offered the man a petal thin smile. “Yes, I was hoping to speak to Jarl Ulfric. Is he available?”

Surprise colored Jorleif’s face. Giving his long mustache an absent tug, he nodded. “Jarl Ulfric is with his generals, but I’m sure he has a moment to spare for the Dragonborn. This way.”

“Of course.” And beckoning to Karnwyr, Leara followed Jorleif as he led her through a different passage than the one leading to the gallery of kings. This one was much shorter, and opened into a low, brightly lit room crowded with barrels and chests. Weapon and armor racks cradling shining steel were clustered around the small windows, dim and frosted over against the increment weather. But these drew little attention away from the room’s primary feature. Dominating the center was a heavy table, strewn with parchment rolls and loose-leaf pages that no doubt contained reports on Imperial movements and the latest on resources and recruitment. But the most striking feature was the great map of Skyrim, marked with a number of flags in red and blue, which denoted the movements of the Imperial and Stormcloak militaries. This was the war room, the heart of the Stormcloaks’ campaign, and Leara just walked right in. As if she belonged.

Perhaps, because she was the Dragonborn, some might think she did. Or at least Jorleif seemed to think so. She wondered if General Tullius and the Legion might feel similarly when she arrived in Solitude. 

“Jorleif, what is this?”

“The Dragonborn, my Jarl.”

Leara’s gaze sprang from the table to the occupants of the room. Two men were crowded at one end of the table, both shrouded in heavy furs that made their resemblance to bears uncanny. Yet, it was the bear himself that drew Leara’s attention. Lifting her chin in a manner painfully reminiscent of Her, Leara met his storm cloud stare across the room where he stood, hands braced against the table. Once again Ulfric Stormcloak was before her, and she would weather the gale. 

The bob of her head was a measured motion that never cut the view she held of Ulfric’s face. In the mixed torchlight and pale grey light pushing through the snow-crusted windows, he gave off none of the tempered humor that surrounded him on the night of the performance. And yet, there was a quiet light in his eyes, the promise of sun after the rain. For some reason, that eased the tension in Leara’s shoulders.

“Dragonborn, yes,” Ulfric tilted his head, a small motion that carried all the invitation required. “Your presence is timely. Once again, I didn’t expect you, and yet here you are, alone. Good. That will be all, Jorleif,” he added, and with a murmur of respect, the steward left. 

“You may disagree, Jarl Ulfric, after you hear what I came to say,” she said, eyeing the war plans strewn along the table. A shift in her periphery pulled her attention to one of the generals, the one wearing a bear’s head on his own. He was watching her. Nonchalant, Leara continued, “I come bearing a message from the Greybeards.”

Ulfric straightened, “So the dark state of our homeland has finally drawn their attention from the skies.” His mouth twisted, sardonic. “Tell me, what do they say?”

 Giving Ulfric her full attention, Leara cleared her throat. “They request that you attend a peace council at High Hrothgar—”

“A what?” coughed the man with the bear helm.

“—to address the dragons plaguing Skyrim—”

“They cannot be serious! The Empire is tearing Skyrim apart and the Greybeards call for peace?” the helmless general snarled, slamming his fist on the table. Leara jolted back. 

“Yrsarald!” Ulfric snapped, “Mark how you speak. The Greybeards are not to be disrespected.”

“Yes, my Jarl,” Yrsarald said, though he didn’t appear cowed at all.

Turning back to Leara, Ulfric continued, “I do not question the Greybeards lightly. I am well aware that the dragons are a growing threat. But there is the political climate to consider. As long as some of the Jarls aren’t fully committed to supporting me as High King, I can’t agree to any peace talks. I cannot afford to weaken my stance before them. Not unless Tullius himself agrees to be there.”

Resentment and respect wound together inside Leara in a bittersweet union. Politics. Everything under Magnus came back to bloody politics and bleeding shows of strength between opposing factions. Peace begged a hard price, and Leara was exhausted trying to cover the cost. “Politics will soon lose all power if the dragons aren’t dealt with. You may wish to reconsider.”

“Why is that?” asked the helmeted general.

“Alduin has returned.”

He swore, and Yrsarald again slammed his fist on the table. Ulfric remained still, almost stiffening. “Alduin? The World-Eater himself? Then if the tales and songs are true . . .”

“They are,” Leara said, breath quickening as the memories of smoke and blood clogged her nose and coated her mouth. The battle at the Throat of the World blazed in shards of painful memory across her mind’s eye. “It was Alduin at Helgen.”

“Was it?” Ulfric’s storm-blue eyes clouded, likely lost in recollections.

“If Alduin has returned, as you say, then we’re all doomed anyway,” Yrsarald grunted. “But suppose you’re wrong, Dragonborn. What use is there in talking to the Empire? They’re being devastated by the dragons.”

“So are we!” the bear helmed general growled, his mustache twitching.

Leara bit back a sneer just as Karnwyr bristled beside her. Is the return of Alduin really that impossible to accept? “If left to their own devices, the dragons will destroy all Skyrim, Imperial and Stormcloak alike!”

“You’ve made your point, Dragonborn,” Ulfric said, raising a hand to silence Yrsarald in turn. He frowned, troubled. “So, the World-Eater has returned and the Greybeards believe the answer is to call for peace. But war or peace, Alduin will consume us all just the same. Everything is already lost.” 

“Not as long as I’m here,” Leara heard herself say. Then Ulfric was eyeing her, and the weight of her destiny pressed down on her shoulders. Did he doubt her ability to face Alduin? To match the World-Eater in battle and bring an end to the crisis? If so, then she couldn’t blame him. After her muck-up of the meeting at the Throat of the World, Leara knew her chances of victory were narrow, if they existed at all. But still, she was doom-driven. “There is hope.” Though she didn’t have much hope for herself, Leara would give it to the people of Skyrim if she could. 

Ulfric was silent. The moment stretched on, then, “Galmar, what say you?”

The helmeted general, Galmar, folded his arms, a dark look on his face. “Talking to the Empire is worse than a waste of time. No good could ever come from it. But,” he went on, “no good ever came letting sleeping dragons ie, either. If the Dragonborn here thinks she can handle the World-Eater, who are we to stop her?”

“Sooner the dragons are gone, the sooner we put down the Imperials ourselves,” Yrsarald muttered, earning an “Aye,” from Galmar. 

With a tired smile, Ulfric nodded to himself. “I won’t refuse the Greybeards’ request,” he said. “And I’ll give Tullius one last chance to quit Skyrim with his tail between his legs while I’m at it. He has agreed to attend?” he asked Leara suddenly.

“Well—” 

A scuffle of boots in the corridor cut Leara off as a man appeared in the doorway. Wearing the blue and steel that the Windhelm guard shared with the Stormcloak soldiers, Leara’s attention was pulled to the open face of his helmet where a brilliant red sheen on his left cheek anticipated a vivid bruise. His eyes on Ulfric, the guard bowed his head in difference. “My Jarl, Generals,” he said. He cast a glance at Leara in her silver armor and frowned to himself.

“Speak, Calder,” Ulfric said, snapping the guard’s attention to him. 

Calder bowed his head again, “My Jarl, I’m sorry for the interruption, but there’s a situation in the jail, and Captain Logi said to get you.”

Lifting a brow, Ulfric’s mouth drew a thoughtful line just as Galmar said, “Logi doesn’t usually have a problem knocking scum back down where it belongs. What’s happened?”

Calder cleared his throat, his eyes darting back to Leara and then to Karnwyr before trailing back to the Dragonborn. When she tilted her chin, watching him, the guard dropped his gaze to the floor. “There was an . . . altercation at the gates not twenty minutes ago.”

Dread pooled in the pit of Leara’s stomach. Surely not . . .?

“The guardsmen on duty broke it up, but not before some bard got beat in the nose. We hauled the assailant in, threw him in a cell to cool him down, if you follow, my Jarl.” Facing the guard as she was, Leara caught the slight upturn of Ulfric’s mouth from the corner of her eye. So, the Windhelm jail was as cold as a Frost Atronach’s bits, then. Lovely. “He got a good hit in on me before we got him in, though.” Ulfric’s mouth fell, and Calder quieted.

“Is that all?” Galmar asked, gruff. “What’s there to involve Jarl Ulfric over?”

“The man we brought in, he won’t stop shouting for the Dragonborn. Says she’ll have something to say about us locking him up. Says she’ll make us ‘pay.’”

Her muscles tensed. No. No bloody way! That complete and absolute cretin! That utter idiot! Did he really attack Alec? In the street where everyone and their ancestor could see it? And then he threatened the guards. Akatosh, but it was a wonder she hadn’t heard Bishop’s caterwauling as he was hauled in! Ice stung her palms and her teeth clenched. Did he honestly believe her purpose in Windhelm carried so little weight that he could antagonize the city guard without a second thought? Did he ever stop to think about the consequences or what they might do to her? No! This, this was an embarrassment. This was ridiculous!

By Akatosh, she was going to have to pay bail, wasn’t she? Divines damn it all. 

“Take me to him,” fell from her mouth, her voice bringing with it the frost of winter. 

Calder gaped at her. 

“Listen to her, Calder, this woman’s the Dragonborn,” Ulfric directed, his face drawn and closed off. If Leara wasn’t already mad at Bishop, she’d wonder at the sharp change in his countenance. As it was, Bishop consumed all her thoughts. Just like the imbecile wanted. 

Karnwyr growled deep in his throat, and in the back of her mind, Leara realized that the wolf was as agitated as she was, and perhaps more so with how sudden her change in mood was. Losing her temper would get none of them anywhere. Her eyes closed, Leara counted back from ten in Altmeris, Bretic, and Cyrodilic, and then, not knowing the number system used by the dragons, she instead focused on the words Paarthurnax had taught her to meditate over. Feim. Zii. Feim. Zii. Fade. Spirit. As the first thaw after winter, tension eased from her limbs in a slow drip that left lingering traces of permafrost still clinging to her bones. Drawing in a frozen breath, Leara tuned back in just as Ulfric directed the two Generals to continue going over supply routes without him. And then he was walking to the door, Calder in his wake, and Leara found herself pulled along in the tailwind. 

All was quiet between them as the guard escorted them through winding passages and under stone arches to the Windhelm Jail. Situated clear across the palace from the war room, Leara felt the last of her anger give way to the growing familiarity of exhaustion. Try as she might, she couldn’t hold on to the blizzard scream howling to blister Bishop. Helpless, she watched it wither away into a pale and tired rain. When she saw Bishop, Leara . . . Leara didn’t know what she’d do. And that bothered her.

Far too soon, they reached a wide stairwell, blocked by a heavy cell-like door. Before Calder could move, Ulfric pulled it open, and then he stopped. Until now, as they traveled through the palace, Leara could hardly bring herself to watch his back, but now she had no choice but to face the grim set to his mouth and the clouds shadowing his face. The cool stare she leveled him with betrayed none of the returned anxiety over his anger. Again, Leara regretted the lost letter. Again, she regretted snubbing him and whatever he meant to discuss with her. She regretted coming to Windhelm and she regretted thinking she could handle politics again after all this time. 

“After you, Dragonborn,” his voice was stone.

“Certainly.” Her spine iron and her chin pointed, Leara swept past Ulfric and down the stairs without a second glance. When a genuine approach no longer served, subterfuge and sleight of hand were a safety net. Wasn’t it ironic how lessons learned while with the Dominion carried forward to help her handle their most hated asset?

At the base of the stairs was another door, this one of aged cold oak. She could already hear Bishop’s shouting as she stood there. Beside her, Karnwyr whined deep in his throat, as agitated with his master as she was. Akatosh give her patience. Scarcely did the Jarl and his guardsman reach the bottom of the stairs before Leara threw open the door and strode into the jail. 

“—ME OUT, YOU SON OF—” 

Two guards sat at a low wooden table, his head down, evidently suffering through the abuse blaring through an archway across the room. This must be the guardroom, Leara mused as she took in the cluttered desk and locked cabinet across the room. A board hung on the wall, crowded with bounty posts and notices. There were other doors as well: One probably opened to the captain’s office, while another likely connected to the guard barracks. She wondered how old this jail was. How long had the Jarls of Windhelm been locking up criminals and thugs here? Was it always a jail, or did it have another purpose long ago, maybe as a scullery or servant quarters? However, given the Nords’ penchant for tradition, she imagined Ysgramor himself appointed the first guard captain here and set today’s standards himself. 

At the sight of Ulfric behind her, the guard quickly stood. “Jarl Ulfric,” he said, relieved. “Is this--?”

“The Dragonborn, yes. Where is Captain Logi?”

“I’M GOING TO TEAR YOU A NEW ONE AS SOON AS I—”

The guard cleared his throat, twice. “He’s with the prisoner.”

“What are you going to do, Jarl Ulfric?” Calder asked. His cheek was darkening, inflamed and swollen. Leara almost winced in sympathy.

“AND I’LL MAKE YOU GAG AS I FORCE MY—”

The urge to walk away was strong, but almost against her will, Leara stepped forward. “I’ll take care of it. Just take me to him.”

“This way,” the guardsman began, but Ulfric stopped him. 

“Arne, go with Calder to have his injury tended,” he said, and Arne the guard – because the Palace did not breathe without the Jarl’s ascent, it seemed – gave a quick salute before he and Calder disappeared back up into the palace. 

Leara stared at the cracked stones tenuously forming the far wall. Windhelm was so old, the oldest city of men yet inhabited. It would be nothing for it to give way to dust. And yet, it wouldn’t. These walls would continue to weather storm and ice long after she passed into legend and Ulfric Stormcloak became a footnote in history.

“—ASSKISSING RAT—”

She prayed to all the Divines and some of the Altmer deities besides that no one bothered remembering this episode. 

She was keenly aware of the man behind her and his displeasure. A passing thought whispered that he might back out of the peace talks following Bishop’s display, but the rational – hopeful – part of her knew that Ulfric respected the Greybeards too much to go back on his word now. Not when he’d given it in front of his generals.

“You know, Dragonborn, I consider myself to be a reasonable man,” he said, cutting through the sounds of Bishop’s squalling. “But I can’t seem to figure out what you’re playing at.”

Slow and prim, Leara turned. “You assume that I believe this is some game in the first place. I assure you I don’t.”

Ulfric paced toward her, taller than her, but Leara was used to looking up at people who thought they were better than her. She didn’t flinch. “You leave me no choice when you insist on bringing that—”

“—THEN I’LL CUT YOUR DICK OFF AND FEED IT—”

“—skeever-faced milkdrinker into my city to assault my citizens and wreak havoc in my palace,” Ulfric continued, heated. “You bring him here, disregarding all sensibility, and yet you expect me to heed your advice and to place the wellbeing of Skyrim into your hands!”

She did not want to have this discussion. She refused to be cowed by a man she once had on the rack – no matter how she regretted those actions. “Given the state of things, you don’t have much of a choice in the matter,” she clipped. 

The clouds darkening Ulfric’s face deepened. “Perhaps, and perhaps my council isn’t worth much to you, but I would advise you to remember that as Dragonborn, you are the people’s hero, and the minds of the masses are fickle. It may be your destiny to defeat the World-Eater, but that will do you no good if the people cannot trust you.”

Lips thin, Leara barely gave him a curt nod, “Noted,” and turning her back on the Jarl, she marched toward the cells, a silent Karnwyr trailing behind. It took all her prayed-for grace to enter the cellblock with Bishop before her and Ulfric behind her, and yet by Akatosh, she did it, her face an impassive stone. The temperature seemed to drop as she entered a large, dimly lit room: Whereas the guardroom had a burning hearth and was well-stocked with wood, the cellblock had nothing of the kind. Calder was right; it was freezing down here. The man she assumed was Captain Logi wore a fur-lined cloak over his armor. He stood across from the entrance with his arms crossed and a “Talos take me now” kind of expression on his chapped face. At the sight of Leara and Ulfric, he straightened. 

“Jarl Ulfric, is this her?” Captain Logi asked, jutting his chin at Leara. With the movement, Leara noticed a woolly wad sticking out of his ear. So that was how he withstood Bishop’s abuse, by quite literally blocking it. 

Before Ulfric could answer, Bishop noticed just who came into the room, and, cutting himself off mid-remark about bedding Logi’s “pox-ridden” mother, leered at Leara through the bars of his cell. “Well, well! Look who finally decided to grace me with her presence! And here I thought you’d forgotten about me while you were sweettalkin’ your way into Stormcuck’s bed. Did he get your sword, too, or did he just settle for a taste of—”

Ulfric’s shout and Logi’s yelp were the only warning bells to sound before Leara flew across the room. Bishop was the only prisoner in holding, and right now he was the only person in her crosshairs. With a cold fury, she shot a hand into the cell and caught Bishop about the collar. Frost spread from her fingers to the dark leather, harsh and biting as it crept to his skin. “Be quiet,” she hissed, low and soft like a blanketing snowfall, so silent that only Bishop could hear her. “You are on thin ice as it is. I won’t ask what you were thinking, because clearly you were not, but if you want out of here, it would behoove you to think about the person holding the purse strings and your freedom in her hands.”

Ice tickled at the skin of Bishop’s neck and her grip, white-knuckled under her gloves, was close to strangling the ranger on his own collar. Yet the smirk he leveled her with was nothing short of cocksure arrogance. “If they knew the truth, it wouldn’t be me they’d have locked up in this skeever-infested hole.”

Just as quickly as the ice spread from her fingers, it sped even faster through her blood to chill her heart. “What are you talking about?”

Bishop’s smirk twisted. “If they knew what you are, you’d be in here until that pretty face of yours was ruined by age.”

What she was?

“Dragonborn, what is this?” Ulfric Stormcloak’s voice came from behind, far away across the room and yet clarity struck Leara between the eyes like lightning. What she was. The Aldmeri Dominion. But how did, how could Bishop possibly even know about that? Where had she made a mistake? At the College, when she ran into that Thalmor wizard? But even then, she’d been careful not to let on to Ancano who she was! Bishop couldn’t have pieced it together from that exchange. But how else—? No, no, did she talk in her sleep? She didn’t, did she? Even the best of operatives might be given away by a murmur in the night, but she never knew herself to do so. But everyone started at some point, didn’t they? Mara’s mercies, Bishop knew that she was once in the Dominion and she knew he was just petty enough to use that against her if she left him here. 

And then Ulfric would have her killed. 

That old terror coiled itself around her heart again, cradling it in a vice so tight that for a moment, Leara couldn’t breathe. 

“Dragonborn?”

The vice tightened, forcing Leara to exhale. Her hand, cold and cramping, fell from Bishop’s neck. It smacked against one of the bars on its way back to her side, and Leara noticed for the first time how the still-damaged nerves of her hands were screaming. She swallowed. “How much is bail?”

“What?” Captain Logi asked. 

With short jerking movements, Leara slowly stepped away from the cell. “How much is bail?”

The captain gaped at her, then to Ulfric. He was watching Leara with a closed expression; his arms were crossed in silent judgment. Her earlier pretense gone, Leara couldn’t meet his gaze. Not after what Bishop said. Not with what Ulfric may yet do to her. Her head bowed, Leara slipped across the room. Even Karnwyr was watching her, the wolf’s ears flat and his eyes almost teary. “Please, let me pay his bail, and then we will leave Windhelm. I’m sorry for the grievances we’ve caused for you and your people. Forgive me, it will not happen again.”

Ulfric was silent, and anxiety ate at Leara’s nerves. Then, “Captain Logi will accept the payment. Logi, go with her.”

“Aye, Jarl Ulfric.” Confusion mixed with relief on the captain’s face. “This way, ma’am.”

Leara dared a glimpse at Ulfric as she followed Captain Logi in silence. He didn’t look at her. She didn’t want him to. With Bishop’s eyes burning into her from across the room, she wanted as much distance as she could possibly get placed between her and the man she tortured.

“I’ll be waiting, sweetness!” Bishop called after her. 

Breathe in, breathe out.

Leara wanted to disappear. 

·•★•·

“How much is bail?”

“What?”

The Dragonborn jerked back from the cell, and for the first time since she’d charged forward, Ulfric could make out the self-satisfaction pinching the ranger’s face. Seeing the way the other man’s gaze followed the Dragonborn reminded Ulfric of a wolf stalking an injured doe. No matter how far she ran, her wound would always fell her and call the wolf to her side. Comparing the memory of the woman who threw her arms around the man, this Bishop, after the bard’s circus with the woman shrinking into herself, Ulfric began to wonder if his impression that the Dragonborn was infatuated with the menace was incorrect. 

“How much is bail?” she asked again. The Dragonborn stood facing him, but she was far away. Her eyes were haunted, the bright blue from before now dull and weary. Faded. Ulfric studied her. She came on behalf of the Greybeards, claiming to fight for Skyrim. And yet, her disregard for counsel and persistence in keeping a man like Bishop around when she visited the Holds suggested she was flippant about her appointment as Dragonborn. But now Ulfric couldn’t reconcile such an attitude with the woman who quietly assured them that she would defeat the World-Eater. The woman who offered hope.

“Please, let me pay his bail, and then we will leave Windhelm. I’m sorry for the grievances we’ve caused for you and your people. Forgive me, it will not happen again.”

The fragile plea struck him. She wouldn’t meet his eye; instead, her head remained bowed, cascading the deep red hair too short to tuck into her bun forward to shroud her. She was hiding. Somehow, then, Ulfric knew that it wasn’t the Dragonborn who chose to keep Bishop around. For whatever reason, this man attached himself to the Dragonborn and was draining her vitality through his own brand of poison. 

“Captain Logi will accept the payment,” he said at length. “Logi, go with her.”

“Aye, Jarl Ulfric,” Logi nodded, his relief at getting rid of Bishop clear. “This way, ma’am.”

The Dragonborn trailed after Logi, appearing as if she were in a daze. Ulfric wondered if she was. The way a few whispered words from Bishop seemed to turn a roaring dragon into a skittish deer was unsettling. The more he thought about it, the more uncomfortable Ulfric became with the idea of actually letting the man go. But Logi was already leading the Dragonborn away to pay the bail. Bishop would be released and Ulfric would watch as the Dragonborn left in his company. With how fast she wilted when faced with Bishop in the cell, Ulfric wondered if the elven woman would be able to make it to the Greybeards’ peace council. 

“Are you going to let me out or are you going to continue brooding like a teenager?” Bishop’s voice cut in. 

Ulfric leveled the man with a glare. “Your fine hasn’t been paid yet, boy. Hold your tongue.”

“Angry, are you?” Bishop snorted. “Her ladyship not get you off?”

“What.”

Harsh laughter echoed in the small cell, grating. “I don’t get what she sees in you, but something about you’s got her knickers all twisted up.” Fire flared in the returning glare. “Whatever it is has made it damn near impossible to claim that woman as mine!” He snarled and struck his fist against the cell wall. “Get out of her head! She’s not fighting in your damn war for your weak god!”

It took every ounce of patience Ulfric possessed to keep from reaching through the bars and slamming the ranger’s skull into the hard iron. He drew in a slow, meditative breath, and held it. He would not murder a prisoner in his own jail. To occupy himself, Ulfric retrieved the key ring from its hook near the door. Logi should be back soon with the Dragonborn, and then this business would be over. 

“Got nothing to say to that, do you?” sneered Bishop. Did he not know when to shut up? Given the pitch and content of Bishop’s earlier screeching, it wasn’t likely. Ulfric wondered vaguely if Bishop talked while eating. The same way Galmar’s brother did, with food spraying from his mouth and mead dripping down his chin. “Is she even your type? Do you like pretty little elf maids? Or do you prefer one of those strapping blonds fighting for you? Flexing in uniform.”

“Hold your tongue,” Ulfric snapped.

“Oh-ho-ho! He speaks! What was it, the idea that you thirst after your soldiers—” Bishop cut himself off. “No, I know what it is. You want her. You want what every red-blooded man wants from her. You want that woman in your bed, under you, as you play out some sick power fantasy with her. What are you going to do, tie her up like the elven whore she is? Pretend she’s that hag-faced ambassador and beat the crap outta her? Ha!”

The key turned in the lock before Ulfric realized he’d marched across the room and inserted it. Then the cell door was open, and nothing stood between him and the wretch. 

A resounding crack! filled the small space as Ulfric slammed Bishop into the back wall. Bishop’s head bounced, hard, but the twisted smirk never left his stubbled face. Bishop was tall, but Ulfric still had an inch or so on him. This he used to yank Bishop up so he was scrabbling against the wall for stability. “Quiet.”

“I knew it,” Bishop wheezed, his hands pawing at the steely grip Ulfric held on his collar. “You’re nothing but another power-hungry noble with a chip on his shoulder. Newsflash, asshole: No one cares about your war, least of all her—”

Another knock against the wall pushed the air from Bishop’s lungs. 

“Learn to be quiet before someone grows tired of your whinging and silences you permanently!”

“Who’s going to do it, you?” Bishop rolled his head back against the wall. “Flattering, but I’m not interested.”

Bracing his arms against the wretch’s chest, Ulfric pushed him into the hard stone. “You have attacked my people, assaulted my guards, and insulted me to my face. But more than that, you continually abuse the Dragonborn, the same woman who wants to free you. Have you no shame?”

“What’s there to be ashamed of? She’s mine, she’ll do whatever I want.”

Except sleep with you, Ulfric thought, recalling the earlier admission. He scowled.

“You know what I think?” continued Bishop. “You want her, but you’re not man enough to take her. You couldn’t handle a fox like her,” Bishop chortled.

“Jarl Ulfric?” Captain Logi had returned. 

Before the guard captain saw him physically assaulting a regretfully free man, Ulfric dumped the sorry excuse of a Nord on the dirt-strewn floor. Scrambling to his feet, Bishop darted ahead of him out of the cell. 

Captain Logi stood back at the door, alone. “The Dragonborn’s upstairs waiting with your stuff,” he told Bishop, ignoring the deep scowl cutting the ranger’s face as he brushed loose straw from his tussled hair. "You better thank Talos that Leara was so willing to cover for you.” 

“What? Whatever. I’m outta here.”

Leara? Up until now, Ulfric hadn’t realized he’d never known the Dragonborn’s name. Leara. An airy name. 

“Boy,” he said. Yet Bishop would’ve kept going if Logi hadn’t barred his way. Grumbling, the ranger stopped. “Remember this. A day will come when I have you in these cells again, and when I do, the Dragonborn’s good favor won’t save you.”

Another cold laugh. “Fat chance! I’d like to see you try.”

Logi bristled, but Ulfric shook his head. Then the ranger disappeared up the stairs, back to the Dragonborn – Leara’s side.

The image left in his mind was dark and unsettling. All Ulfric could do now was pray to Talos that his foreboding was ill-founded. 

·•★•·

They left Windhelm as the bottom broke and freezing rain fell in torrents across Eastmarch. A mage’s cloak and whispered Bretic rune would’ve kept the worst of the water off her, but Leara could hardly muster the energy to keep moving. Magic was beyond her ability to care. The most she could manage was some household spell usually used to keep plates warm. This she focused on Karnwyr, who, with his drooping head and dripping fur, looked just as miserable as she felt.

Bishop marched ahead of her, his face dark and silent. Whatever happened after she left to pay his bail was a mystery. She didn’t dare to ask. All she knew was Bishop came stalking out of the cell block with his jacket in disarray and a scowl so fierce it’d scare a Frost Troll. She couldn’t bring herself to ask about it, nor about anything else. The realization that Bishop knew she was once an officer in the Aldmeri Dominion was still too raw for her to address. Even as an undercover Blades agent, the actions she carried out under the direction of her superiors in the Dominion would have her labeled a criminal here. It would be the same if she were anywhere else, perhaps Solitude or Daggerfall or Bruma, and they discovered she was a Knight Sister. Leara was damned either way.

If Alduin had his way, she’d be damned in every way.

When they stopped for the night under an outcropping of rock flanked by several snow-laden pines, Leara approached Bishop. Knots twisted her stomach in every direction. She wanted to throw up. Instead, she sat and watched him sharpen one of his knives, waiting for him to acknowledge her. 

“Something on your mind, darling?” he asked, humorless.

Leara suppressed a nervous cough. “The Greybeards are hosting a peace conference in order to negotiate a temporary truce in the Civil War. I need them to stop fighting to secure Jarl Balgruuf’s cooperation.”

“What do you need him for?” Bishop didn’t look up as he passed the whetstone along the blade’s edge in a rhythmic pattern. It would have been mesmerizing if Leara weren’t so on edge. 

“I—” Need to trap a dragon in Dragonsreach so I can find Alduin’s portal to Sovngarde so I can end this crisis once and for all. I may die.

“Spit it out, sweetness. I haven’t got all night!”

But she couldn’t. Leara couldn’t bring herself to confess the plan to trap a dragon and fight Alduin again. Not when she knew all too well Bishop’s opinion of her Divines-ordained destiny. She couldn’t. Not after the day she’d had. So, instead, she pushed herself forward, and, mindful of the knife, Leara pressed her lips to his. Tangling her hand in his hair, she pushed him back, muffling his surprise and the memory of their conversation with her mouth. 

Long after, when the petting was over and Bishop was asleep, Leara curled into Karnwyr and cried.