TIRED, RETIRED - Retired to Skyrim 4 (Patreon)

Link, in Riverwood

“...And the tang fits into the hilt, and the pommel holds it in place.”

“I see,” Link said, smiling.

Riverwood felt like home. It felt like many homes, in fact, and the people there were relatively friendly. The blacksmith, Alvor, had been initially reluctant to take on Link’s assistance, but Link had brought him around. He’d been a blacksmith before, but it had been a long, long time. And it was actually rare that he managed to complete an apprenticeship before the world needed saving, and only slightly more common for him to go back and finish it afterwards. So he needed a refresher.

Dorthe, Alvor’s daughter, was eager to help him out. “The iron swords papa makes use wood for the handle and leather for the grip. They’re meant for stabbing, since they don’t hold an edge for very long.”

Link nodded, holding the blade in question in his hand. “I notice you’ve got a simple pin through the pommel. I’m assuming that it’s thread through a hole in the tang?”

“Yep!”

“Doesn’t that cause any problems?” Link asked. He tapped the hilt against his hand. “If the pin comes loose, the blade could fly out and hit someone mid-swing. Or worse, not hit someone in front of you. Why not weld it, or screw it on?”

Dorthe frowned in confusion. “Weld? I don’t know that word.”

“It’s not a common technique,” Alvor said, looking up from the grindstone. “Such precise melting of metal is something you need a specialist for. As far as I know, no smith in Skyrim uses the magic required for it.” He finished with the axe and set it on the table. “As for the screw, I don’t have the equipment for that. That’s for the like of Eorlund Gray-Mane, or the smiths in Solitude. Me, I make simple weapons with simple tools.”

“Sometimes, simple is all you need,” Link acknowledged. He put the sword aside and started preparing some hides. Tanning leather was a skill he’d never had to develop before. He could skin an animal and sell its furs, but curing it? That was a new one.

“You’re getting better at that, lad,” Alvor noted. “You want it to be thin enough to bend, but not so thin that it tears, alright?”

“Yes sir.”

In past lives, Link had worked with iron and steel, and he’d seen masters of the craft forge gold, silver, and sacred metals that were so rare they didn’t even have true names beyond their unusual colors.

Alvor mostly just worked iron. But he had a few ingots of stranger metals, too. There was a bronze ingot Alvor just called Dwarven metal. It was apparently an alloy of some sort, though no one knew what its components were anymore. But there were more than enough Dwarven ruins around filled to the brim with the stuff, so there was no danger of running out any time soon. It was tougher than steel, but as far as Link could tell it was just a normal metal.

Then there was the green stuff.

Dorthe had wandered off to play, and Alvor had moved over to the forge. Making sure he wasn’t watching, Link finished the bear leather he was working on and grabbed the orichalcum sword from the table.

“How do you feel about this one, partner?” he whispered.

The blade flashed blue. “...” It maintained the light for ten seconds of silence, then the edges of the blade began to blur. “...”

“No good, huh?” That was disappointing. Link set the blade down before the spirit could actually harm it.

In the week or so since his arrival, he’d tried a number of blades in different styles, but the sword spirit couldn’t find a good home. Iron could barely contain it at all, and steel wasn’t much better. A dagger disintegrated in his hand trying to hold its power, and a cutlass burned with heat. A simple, two-edged longsword was the only form able to contain it, but the material used wasn’t enough.

The Dwarven metal was just as bad as steel, and now the orichalcum had failed too. If Link wanted to find his friend a new home, he needed something big. And Alvor just didn’t have it.

“How much longer do you plan to stay in town, Link?” Alvor asked, wiping sweat off his forehead.

“Not sure,” Link replied honestly. “I suppose I’ll know the time when it comes.”

“Fair enough.” Alvor poured molten iron into a pickaxe mold. “You’re welcome to stay as long as you like, you know. Having an extra hand around the forge has proven more useful than I thought.”

Link smirked. “You could always let Dorthe start helping. Goddess knows she wants to, and she knows what she’s talking about.”

Alvor scowled. “Aye, well. When she’s older.”

“How much older is ‘older?’” Link asked.

“...” Alvor pulled a handful of gold coins--septims, Link recalled--and dropped them in Link’s hand. “Here. Why don’t you get out of the heat and get yourself a drink at the inn? And bring me something too, while you’re at it.”

Link shook his head, but took the money and left.

Riverwood was a nice town, it really was.

…But Link was a wanderer at heart. He was already itching to set out and explore. An entire new country, a new world that he’d never seen before…!

Link shook himself and stepped into the Sleeping Giant. He shared a nod with Embry, who was already drunk and probably didn’t know where he was. In fact, he probably wasn’t nodding back at Link so much as he was losing his balance just standing there.

Sven was playing his lute in the corner, as he usually was. He was… fine. He played perfectly competently. Link wouldn’t call him bad by any means, though his singing was better than his playing. The only issue Link had with Sven was that Sven only knew three songs.

Link didn’t spend much time in the Sleeping Giant; he could only hear Ragnar the Red so many times before the urge to break things became overwhelming. What kind of bard only knew three songs?

“You look like you could use an ale, kid.”

Link looked up, and Delphine looked back. They stared each other down, taking the other’s measure. Link took note of the muscles hidden under her dress, well-toned but slightly soft from disuse. Her eyes were just the slightest bit narrow as she looked at him, and her smile didn’t even try to reach them.

Link smiled and leaned back in his chair. “Sure, I’ll take one. And do you have any cider?”

Delphine nodded. “Of course, as usual. Be right back.”

She turned to fetch the drinks. Once her back was turned, Link heard her scoff and call him a “milk-drinker.” Honestly, he didn’t care what anyone called him. His body was still sixteen, so he was trying to limit his alcohol. It wasn’t easy; there was more beer in this country than water, it seemed like.

Link wasn’t sure what to make of Delphine. She moved like a warrior, but as long as she let him keep to himself, he’d return the favor.

“Here you go,” Delphine said shortly, all but dropping the bottles in his lap. Her service could use some improvements.

He paid her for the trouble and settled back to relax for a bit, when someone pounded on the door to the inn before stepping inside.

A bulky man in a yellow tunic and a full face helmet stepped inside. “This is a general announcement to the citizens of Riverwood. You’re now under the protection of Whiterun.”

Having said his piece, he left again, and the patrons of the inn became more animated with quiet conversation.

“About time,” Delphine muttered to Orgnar, the bartender. “These people wouldn’t stand a chance if a dragon showed up.”

“Hush,” the man whispered harshly. “We’ve got you, don’t we?”

Odd. But not his business.

Link downed half his cider and stored both bottles in his pocket, then stepped outside to see what was happening.

The guards of Whiterun were busily setting up around the town gates, preparing tents and laying out their supplies and familiarizing themselves with the layout of everything. There looked to be about ten guards overall, and Link found himself satisfied with them and the way they moved. They should do a decent job. Whether they could actually do anything against a dragon remained to be seen, but they should at least be able to hold it off while the citizens escaped.

What surprised him, however, was the familiar face coming through the north gate.

Jo’kir’s eyes were fixed straight ahead, focused entirely on the general store. His expression was blank, but if Khajiit were anything like regular cats, the lashing tail meant he was annoyed by something.

Link winced as the cat opened the door, and the argument happening inside spilled onto the street for a moment.

“What’s eating him?” Link wondered out loud.

A guard overheard him and snorted dismissively. “The cat’s been dour ever since we left Whiterun. Not that I expected good company from a sneakthief.”

“He stole something?” Link asked, vaguely surprised. He wasn’t sure why, it wasn’t like he knew the Khajiit all that well.

The guard just looked at him, body language indicating confusion. “Well, yeah. That’s what Khajiit do.”

Link’s face fell flat. “I… see.”

The Nord shrugged and walked off.

The Riverwood Trader opened again, and Link saw the cat walk out carrying a rucksack filled with fresh supplies, including a set of leather armor that Link was pretty he’d made earlier that week.

Jo’kir seemed even more upset somehow, so Link made a decision and intercepted him as he walked to Alvor’s. “Hey!”

Jo’kir flinched, and looked his way. His eyes widened somewhat in recognition. “Oh, weren’t you one of Ganondorf’s friends?”

…That concept had extreme difficulty penetrating Link’s mind. The former Hero stared at him, uncomprehending, visibly discarded that idea and instead said, “We met briefly at Helgen before everything happened. I’m glad you got away alright.”

The Khajit had definitely cleaned up. His fur was a nice and clean white instead of a dirty gray, and there were faint stripes Link hadn’t noticed before. Jo’kir was wearing a faded but still sturdy-looking robe that tickled Link’s senses for some reason, and a steel axe hung on his hip.

“You seem to be doing well,” Link said.

Jo’kir scowled. “Everything is not as it seems, crazy Breton.” They both walked over to the forge and Jo’kir shoved some items aside so he could drop his supplies on the table and sort through them. “This one now knows how it feels to be a dog.”

Link raised an eyebrow. “How’s that?”

“People keep asking him to fetch things.” Jo’kir counted out a set of lockpicks and slotted them into the lining of his sleeves. “The Jarl asks him to fetch the wizard. The wizards asks him to fetch a rock. The trader asks him to fetch his knick-knack. And if the thrice-damned dragons weren’t such a threat, Jo’kir wouldn’t feel like he has to say yes to everyone.”

“...What does the knick-knack have to do with dragons?”

“It’s a dragon claw, and also it is in the same place as the rock.” Jo’kir made a gesture towards the west mountain.

Link though. “...The barrow?”

“Yes, the barrow.”

Something about this sounded familiar, so Link turned the grindstone around and sat down facing him. “I think I’d like the full story.”

And so Jo’kir complained, at length, about being accosted at the Whiterun gates for being a Khajiit, being almost attacked by the Jarl’s housecarl, being talked at more than talked to, and generally being told to do things as though it was a foregone conclusion that he would follow through and being very annoyed because he was.

While Jo’kir continued about having to journey back with the guards who didn’t respect him, Link grimaced as he made some connections, and he realized why Jo’kir had stood out to him when they first encountered each other.

“Have you ever gone dungeon-diving before, Jo’kir?” Link asked, cutting him off mid-rant.

The cat paused, confused at the non-sequitur. “A barrow is more of a mausoleum, though Jo’kir supposes it could have a dungeon.” He put a hand on his chin. “The ancient Nords were known for their sprawling city-tombs which even now pepper the landscape.”

“Not what I meant by dungeon,” Link said, slightly annoyed.

The Khajiit shrugged. “Well if it’s all the same to you, I would rather avoid dungeons. Jo’kir has had enough of wrongful imprisonment.”

Link looked at him, expression unreadable. Avoid dungeons? You poor fool. Link bounced his leg a few times, looked over his shoulder, and then sighed. “Alright.”

“Alright?”

Link pulled an unfinished blade from the workbench and started putting together a hilt from parts already lying around. “Do you know how to use that axe?”

Jo’kir, looked down at the weapon on his hip. “Of course. The choppy end goes into the enemy,” he said, dismissive. “It is not a hard concept.”

Link looked somewhat affronted. “Okay, but have you actually used it?”

“Yes, there were many Stormcloaks between Khajiit and the exit of Helgen Keep, and most of them attacked when they saw me traveling with Hadvar. I am still here, and they are not.”

Link finished putting the sword together. It wasn’t sharpened yet, but that was fine. “Well, if you want to adventure, you need more than knowing which way to point your weapon. Follow me.”

Link hopped the guardrail and fell into the knee-deep river, walking across into the lumber yard. Jo’kir followed over the nearby bridge, bemused.

“Why get your trousers wet?” the cat felt compelled to ask.

“It’s faster,” Link said, busily stacking firewood. “One moment.”

Jo’kir sat on a stump, bored, as Link went about setting up small logs in several configurations, and let his mind wander towards other things, such as why was he indulging this teenager? Jo’kir could throw fire from his hands, why did he need to know how to ‘properly’ use his axe?

“Okay,” Link said, dusting his hands off. “First things first. Let me see your swing.”

Jo’kir looked up and blinked. While he had not been paying attention, Link had set up six logs on posts and even a scarecrow. “That was fast…”

“Long practice. Chop chop, hero.”

Jo’kir scoffed, but stood and rolled up his sleeves. “This is a war axe, not a hatchet. If it needs to be sharpened, you will be paying for it.”

“Fair enough.” Link made an exaggerated ‘after you’ motion that made Jo’kir’s hackles rise

He took a whack at the nearest log, and Link whistled sharply.

“Wrong! Hold your arm like this.”

A second attempt.

“You’re not putting enough force into it!”

Third.

“I asked for a chop, not a slash!”

“Careful! Using the blunt side as a club is fine as long as it doesn’t bounce back with the blade pointing at you.

“Did you just try to stab with an axe?”

The criticisms kept coming, and finally Jo’kir snarled and turned on Link, fire in his off-hand, rage clouding his eyes.

And then he was on the ground, out of breath, and the axe thudded into the earth by his head.

Link clicked his teeth, shaking his head.

Jo’kir sat up, dazed. “What just happened?”

“You attacked me,” Link said, matter-of-fact.

“I--yes. Khajiit apologizes.” The cat stood up slowly, grimacing at a sudden headache. “But what happened?”

Link’s lips twitched. “If you’d like, we can do that again, but slower.”

Jo’kir agreed, and without anger and frustration blinding him, he took another swing at the young man, being careful this time not to put too much force into the blow since, as annoying as he was, Jo’kir didn’t actually want to hurt him--

Link stuck his sword between the axe and the haft and twisted, wrenching Jo’kir’s arm before he let go of the weapon on reflex. The axe went flying with a flick of Link’s wrist, and then he dug his elbow into the Khajiit’s gut and flipped him over his head.

Jo’kir hit the ground, out of breath, and the axe thudded into the earth by his head.

He sat up again, rubbing his stomach painfully. “That is… impressive.”

Link smirked, then turned to face the training logs. He took a stance, then Jo’kir’s eyes widened as he turned into a whirling, jumping storm of blades. A log’s top was removed from its bottom. Another was bisected vertically. Four at once were cut to pieces with a single spinning move. Finally, he jumped and cut the scarecrow’s bucket hat in half, leaving the gourd underneath untouched.

Jo’kir felt his jaw hanging open and closed it with a click. “...How long have you been practicing the blade, Breton?”

Link smiled distantly. “I don’t know, if I’m honest. Longer than I can remember.” He pointed his sword at the wooden carnage. “And my fath--” He paused, making a complicated expression. “And my uncle wouldn’t let me leave the village until I could do at least that much. If you want to be a Hero, you need to, too.”

“Ah, well,” Jo’kir said easily. “Khajiit has no interest in heroism, so that’s of no concern.”

He just smiled again. “Whatever you say.” He pointed at the axe. “You should still know how best to use that thing. Are you sure you want to use an axe instead of a sword?”

“Well, it cost a pretty penny. I would like to get my money’s worth before upgrading,” Jo’kir reasoned, pulling the weapon out of the ground. With a frown, he took another swing at one of the slices logs, and growled when it got stuck.

“Maybe you’d respond better to a practical lesson,” Link suggested. “When do you plan on going to the temple?”

“Barrow,” Jo’kir corrected, jerking it free of the wood. “Khajiit hoped to get it over with quickly…” He looked at his reflection in his steel weapon and rubbed his cheeks. “I need to repaint my stripes…”

“Take an hour or two, then,” Link said, sheathing his sword. “I need to tell Alvor where I’m going.”

Jo’kir blinked. “Why, where are you going?”

Link looked at him like he was stupid. “To the Barrow, of course.”

----------------------------------------

Zelda, in Falkreath

Siddgeir continued to be an absolute pill, but Zelda would give credit to his assistants. Once the guards had come back to confirm Helgen’s destruction, Nenya immediately set to work organizing housing for the refugees. The Altmer--as Zelda had learned her people were called--was an expert at manipulating Siddgeir’s selfish whims to benefitting the hold. As it turned out, Siddgeir had little to no concept of the value of a septim--Nenya was able to afford the construction of a new housing block by simply telling Siddgeir that his latest order of fine silks had risen in price due to the war, and he authorized the funds with a minimum of complaining, barely looking at the papers beyond searching for where to sign.

Of course, Falkreath was not the wealthiest city in Skyrim, and the money had to come from somewhere. This was Helvard’s specialty. In addition to being more or less in charge of the guards and soldiers of Falkreath, he was a skillful hunter. He had a knack for tracking animals that left Zelda impressed, and he was able to hunt enough furs and meat to trade for the remaining gold.

It left Falkreath hurting for money, though. Zelda approved of any leader willing to spare no expense for their citizens, so she’d stuck around for a while to see what she could do to help.

Unfortunately, unlike Link, Zelda didn’t make a habit of carrying her entire savings everywhere she went, and even if she did, the storage space her magic afforded her wasn’t as nearly expansive as the Hero’s.

“I thank you for all your help, Lady Zelda, truly, but you’ve already done enough,” Nenya told her.

“I still think I could get a better price if we showed the Rupees to a practicing magician. The Khajiit only saw them as jewels, but they actually have magical properties--” Zelda began.

Helvard cut her off. “Only seeing them as gems is good enough, given the size of them. Those five emeralds were more than enough, we couldn’t ask for more.”

“We really couldn’t,” Nenya agreed. “If nothing else we don’t want to flood the market.”

“If you’re certain,” Zelda said, smiling. “Honestly though, it’s a shame that the two of you have to put up with that oaf.”

“Tread carefully, Breton,” Helvard warned, mood dropping. “Siddgeir is still Jarl. The position deserves respect, regardless of who holds it.”

“Apologies,” Zelda said, bowing her head slightly.

Helvard nodded acknowledgement, then left to attend to other things.

Once they were alone, Nenya relaxed and smiled. “Are you sure you don’t want the Thane position, Zelda? It would be a joy to keep you around.”

“I’m sorry, Nenya,” Zelda said with sincerity. “Perhaps at a later date, but there’s still too much to do and to see. I don’t want to tie myself down to any one place. Not yet. And besides, you and Helvard have the place well in hand, despite the Jarl’s best efforts.”

“He really isn’t that bad, you know,” Nenya said. “He never gets in the way of us doing our jobs, and he isn’t actively harming the hold by his inaction. We could be doing a lot worse.”

“I suppose.”

“If you aren’t staying, what will you do next?”

“Before I leave,” Zelda said, “I wanted to visit your Hall of the Dead. I’m interested in learning more about the Divines, and the God of the Dead is as good a place to start as any.”

Nenya tutted. “Oh, Arkay is much more than just death. But Runil will be able to tell you more than I can.” She gave Zelda a short bow. “I hope your stay in Skyrim continues to be more pleasant than it started, Lady Zelda. And thank you again for looking out for our citizens.”

“It’s been a pleasure, Nenya.”

---------------------------------

Zelda had already visited the Falkreath’s famous graveyard during her stay there. It was impossible not to; the cemetery surrounded the city, and made it feel larger than it was. The graveyard didn’t even have a proper name, and yet it informed the entire hold’s culture. The apothecary was called Grave Concoctions. The tavern was called Dead Man’s Drink. Even the farm was called Corpselight, and the citizens ate their food anyway!

Zelda was almost impressed. She couldn’t remember a town more obsessed with death.

“Most cities in Skyrim prefer crypts,” Runil told her over tea. “But the bedrock is too close to the surface here for easy tunneling, and digging graves was a more immediate concern. Now, it’s traditional.”

They were seated together in the Hall of the Dead, which despite the name was simply a small house for Runil and the gravekeeper, Kust, who was at the tavern.

“Have you lived here long, Mr. Runil?” Zelda asked. Runil was clearly of the same golden-skinned race Nenya was, and he carried the weight of a long life in his posture.

“Oh my, no.” Runil sighed. “It’s only recently, relatively speaking, that I came to settle in Falkreath. I came into Arkay’s light after the Great War. So many lives ended by my magics… I’m grateful that the people of Falkreath have come to accept me.”

“It’s wonderful you’ve found your place, Runil,” Zelda said, smiling. “Especially given the recent tensions. I’m not fully informed on the situation, but I understand that pointed ears aren’t in style at the moment.”

She’d meant it as a joke, but Runil just smiled sadly. “Yes, well. Speaking as an Altmer who fought for them, the Aldmeri Dominion isn’t in the habit of making friends. Some days it seems like…” He trailed off, looking troubled. “Well, I’d rather not say. I’m sorry if you’ve had any issues due to your ancestry.”

Zelda shrugged. “It’s a new experience, to be sure. I’m not troubled over it.” She took a sip of her cup and winced. “My, this is… quite sour.”

“It’s an acquired taste,” Runil agreed. “Now, you wanted to learn more about Arkay, correct?”

Zelda smiled wider, sitting up straight. “Yes, please! And, if you don’t mind, I’d like to discuss magic with you later as well, since you mentioned it.”

Runil stood, clearing his throat. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Arkay--”

The door creaked open just a sliver. “Brother priest, may I come in?”

“Eh? Oh, of course.” Runil gave Zelda an apologetic look, but she waved it off.

A woman in the same orange robes as Runil stepped in, hood pulled down. “I beg forgiveness for the intrusion, but the inn is full and I need to rest before I return to Solit--oh gods, not you again.”

Zelda blinked at the dismayed tone, then she snapped her fingers. “I recognize you, you were the priestess at Helgen. I’m glad to see you’re alright. How is your head?”

“Fine,” the woman said curtly. “Perhaps I should come back another time…”

“No, it’s no trouble at all,” Runil insisted. “I’m more than pleased to help a sister of the faith. Please, sit. I am Runil, and my guest here is Zelda.”

“We’re acquainted,” the woman said. After a moment’s hesitation, she sat down. “My name is Vinora.”

“A pleasure to properly meet you, Vinora,” Zelda said politely. “Did Mr. Executioner get out alright?”

“Turon?” She nodded. “He went up through Whiterun, but I felt the need to check in on any survivors, and since there weren’t any reports of them up north, that only left Falkreath.” She frowned at Zelda. “Why didn’t you bring them to Riverwood? It was closer.”

“Perhaps,” Zelda said, “But the forests of Falkreath provided cover from any airborne enemies. They needed the sense of security after what they’d just gone through.” She grimaced and took another sip of tea. “And they are technically citizens of Falkreath hold. I didn’t want to cause trouble by delivering them elsewhere. Of course, if I’d known what Siddgeir was like…”

Runil coughed. “Miss Vinora, I was just about to give Zelda a lesson on Arkay. Would you care to join me?”

The Imperial raised an eyebrow. “Are you interested in becoming a priestess… Zelda?”

She waggled her hand back and forth. “Not as such. You could technically call me one already…”

“Oh?”

“Technically.”

“Which Divine do you worship, then?” Runil asked curiously.

“She’s not a deity you would be familiar with,” Zelda said. “She’s called Hylia.”

Zelda paused. Runil and Vinora stiffened, and then looked confused.

“What was that?” Vinora asked. “Did you feel that?”

Interesting.

Zelda turned her head towards the table against the wall, opposite the door, where a small metal shrine sat. It consisted of two squares interlaced, with an orb suspended between them, all carved in decorative runes. And to her senses, at the moment, it was heavy with magic and something more than magic.

It was a familiar feeling, really.

Runil, the more magically attuned of the priests, gasped suddenly. “What…”

“You know,” Zelda said, standing. “I’m not an elf or a Breton. I am what is called a Hylian.” She cupped a hand behind her ear. “And legends say that our ears let us hear the voices of the gods.”

Is that so?

A pressure settled onto the room. It was an almost physical presence that made the timbers creak and left Vinora and Runil gasping for breath, and the candles around the room began burning brighter and stronger.

Zelda bowed until her top half was parallel to the floor. “Arkay, you honor me with your presence.”

Oho. How polite. You need not prostrate before me, Daughter of Time. …But you are not of Akatosh’s, are you?

Zelda shook her head. “I know not of this Akatosh. I am Zelda, descended from Hylia, Goddess of Time, Light, and Sky, and my patron is Nayru, Goddess of Wisdom, Love and Water.” The back of her hand sparked, making Vinora flinch. Zelda mentally logged that away for later.

The god laughed softly, candlelight flickering. You don’t need to be so formal. Time and Light, hm? Interesting.

The Hall fell silent, and Zelda looked over to see her hosts looking pale. “Is there a way for you to make yourself heard so that my friends here aren’t left out?”

I could, but you wouldn’t like that. I am already pushing the limit of how much presence I can give you without drawing unwanted attention. Be careful that you do not attract the eye of the Gardener of Men, Daughter of… Hylia.

“The Gardener of Man?” Zelda repeated, committing the name to memory.

Vinora paled even further. “Oh gods, why are you talking about Herma--”

The pressure increased, and one of the support beams cracked. Do not say his name! You don’t want to attract his attention. The knowledge you carry he would commit atrocities for, and the Daedra are more able to affect Nirn than I and my kin can.

“I see,” Zelda said. “Thank you for the warning, Lord Arkay.”

Consider it a welcome gift if you want. Of course, if you wish to repay me for the advice…

Zelda smiled. “I would be happy to assist.”

Oho. Be careful who you say that to. Even among the Aedra it is a bad idea to give yourself so easily. But if you insist, all I need you to do is do a quick errand.

“Yes?”

Step outside, if you would.

Zelda blinked, slightly thrown. “I--Right now?”

In the next few seconds, yes. We’ll talk again.

The candles went out all at once, burned down to the nub, and the pressure receded. Both the house and the residents sighed as they relaxed.

Well, mostly relaxed. “What was that, what was that?” Vinora demanded.

“Have you never felt the presence of your god before?” Zelda asked, distracted.

“Of course I have, but not that… much! What were you talking about?! Where are you going?”

“He wanted me to step outside,” Zelda answered.

As instructed, she opened the door of the Hall and looked around. Everything looked normal. The sun had set while she was inside, with some red still in the sky. Fireflies were hovering about, and crickets chirped in the woods. A fox was sleeping on top of one of the headstones, though it woke up and ran as she approached. The lights from the town were slowly going out. It was about as picturesque as a graveyard could be.

So what had Arkay wanted her to--

Something shifted, and Zelda tensed, all senses on high alert.

A dark power… it felt like the Stal, vile energies of the undead, and it was coming from under the ground. In a graveyard. Zelda looked over her shoulder. “Stay back.”

Runil and Vinora had followed her out and were standing on the Hall’s deck. “Zelda, what’s happening?” Runil asked, sounding shaken.

“I’m not sure, but nothing good. Do you have anything good against the undead?”

“I’m a priest of Arkay, of course I can fight the undead--” Runil began, affronted, before what she said fully registered and he paled. “...No, that’s not possible. If you perform the funerary rites, the dead can’t be risen. That’s why the job is so important.”

Something shifted, and this time it was audible. Dirt and stone ground together, near the center of the field. A hand clawed its way out of a grave guarded by a black stone.

Zelda’s expression turned to stone. She raised both arms and formed a triangle with her thumbs and index fingers. The sigil on her right hand sputtered, weaker than she remembered, but it glowed on regardless.

The body pulled itself out of the grave, howling and shrieking. It looked like a Nord with pitch-black eyes and gaunt, emaciated features, wearing golden armor untarnished by its time in the earth. Most prominent, however, were the sharp fangs that gleamed in the moonlight.

Zelda blinked, and her spell fell away. “...A vampire?”

The creature smirked, putting away its savage nature to converse. “Indeed… And now, it is time at last to enact my long-awaited sequel… Care to assist me in the opening act?”

He leapt for her with inhuman grace, face twisted in an animalistic snarl.

Zelda stood there, unmoving, as a burst of solar light from Runil knocked it out of the air.

“Foul creature!”

“Foolish priest!”

“Motherfucker!” Vinora contributed, light flowing from her hands. The vampire tried to attack the priests, but he couldn’t get past the barrier she was generating.

“Such undignified language,” the vampire scolded. He returned his focus to Zelda, who looked at him impassively. A red light built in his hands as they shifted to claws, and he swiped at her.

Zelda moved slightly to the side to avoid his attack. He stumbled past her, not expecting to miss, then swiveled to strike again. She bent backwards, letting the claws meet empty air, and then brought up a leg to knee him in the stomach. He grunted, more in surprise than in pain, and grabbed her leg.

She delivered a palm strike to his throat, which did hurt, and sent him stumbling back, then brought her hands up in a triangle once more.

“Goddess Hylia, if you still hear me in this new land, gift me your power that I may smite this abomination!” All present froze at her prayer. For what felt like an entire minute no one moved, and the Vampire relaxed, a confident grin spreading across his face.

And then night turned to day. For five seconds, golden light cascaded from Zelda’s hands, and when it was over, nothing of the vampire remained above the knees.

One of the legs fell over, and Zelda sighed, satisfied.

“Well, that was simple enough,” she said, turning to her companions. The priests were staring at her, open-mouthed. Vinora was mouthing something to herself. “Runil, do you think you could show me some of your magic now?” she asked cheerfully.

The Altmer’s mouth opened and closed a few times before he shrugged helplessly. “I… Yes, of course. I doubt I’ll be able to sleep tonight anyway…”

“Excellent! First, though…” Zelda eyed the vampire’s golden boots, just sitting there with part of his legs still inside them. The flesh was slowly turning to dust in front of them. “Do you think those are my size?”