TIRED, RETIRED - Skyrim 6 (Patreon)

Ganondorf, near Rorikstead

Hadvar had elected to take the long route to Solitude. The most direct route following the roads lead through the ruins of Labyrinthian, a deeply cursed place, and very haunted. And for those who didn’t fear such things, also amok with trolls. If it had been more than just the two of them, Hadvar might have considered it. But Hadvar was only lightly armored, and had misplaced his whetstone, so his sword wasn’t up to snuff--and his companion had only his fists and an overly-large tooth to fight with.

Hadvar was man enough to admit that he had been foolish. With any other man, it would have been a perfectly logical decision. But seeing Ganondorf now, Hadvar really should have known better. He watched the man grapple a dragon and come away the victor, after all, and after watching this he could finally start to believe what he had seen.

Rorikstead, as it turned out, was having problems with a local giant. Most giants in Skyrim were willing to stay away from the main roads and leave travelers alone, only attacking if they were disturbed first. What disturbing them meant varied from camp to camp, but generally as long as you stayed out of their territory and left their mammoths alone you were safe.

Sometimes however you got a giant who was looking to make trouble, and Rorikstead had been dealing with this one for some time. He was constantly coming far too close to town for comfort, making the citizens uncomfortable and eyeing livestock.

Today, this giant showed up not long after Hadvar and Ganondorf arrived. The warrior had taken one look at the giant and grinned.

Now the Gerudo was wrestling with the giant. Almost everyone in town had gathered at the outskirts to watch the battle. Hadvar was a little concerned over how much the children especially were enjoying the spectacle. Almost more worrying was the laughter coming from Ganondorf.

It wasn’t anything Hadvar hadn’t heard before of course. He was a proud Nord, after all. The sound coming from the massive man was a common occurrence in mead halls all across Skyrim, after the men had had a few too many and got rowdy. There was nothing a true Nord savored more than a good brawl.

Ganondorf, however, had just been punched in the face by a fist the size of his head, and didn’t seem bothered in the slightest. What kind of monster was he?

The crowd cheered as he got underneath the giant and suplexed him, ramming his foe’s head into the earth. The giant grunted in pain, rolling over and trying to pin the Gerudo in place, but when it went for another punch Ganon rolled away. The giant hit a rock instead and shook its hand out.

A Redguard standing next to Hadvar pumped his fist. “Yes! Show that goat-stealing brute what for!”

“It’s been stealing livestock?” Hadvar asked, grasping onto something he might be able to deal with.

“Not yet,” the farmer said. “But I’ve seen him eyeing my Gleda. If you hadn’t shown up, it was only a matter of time.”

The crowd cheered again, and they refocused on the battle. Ganondorf had the giant in a headlock. There was a round of gasps, however, when it managed to get its feet under it again and rise to its full height, pulling Ganondorf off the ground and then willingly falling backwards to try and crush him. It didn’t work, but it did put Ganondorf on the backfoot for a moment.

“That’s a smart giant,” someone slurred, walking up beside them. “I’d hate to be the one fighting it.”

“Smart?” the Redguard asked, sounding doubtful. “It’s just a thieving beast.”

“Nah, nah, look.” He pointed to the left of the battle, then frowned and corrected himself. “The big guy just tried to put the less big guy in an arm bar, like he did to him earlier. Before it was all punches and kicks, but ‘e’s been learning as the fight goes on.”

They looked more closely, and indeed, the drunk was correct. The giant had learned that Ganondorf hit hard, and was trying to avoid the blows now instead of absorbing them. It was currently attempting to grab him in a full-nelson, but Ganondorf kept slipping out of it.

“Huh.” Hadvar’s eyes narrowed. “That seems… dangerous.”

“Giants are smarter than we give them credit for, you know?” the drunk went on. “I always thought the only reason they stayed in their tribes was cuz they knew we’d put ‘em to work otherwise.” He grabbed a bottle out of someone else’s hand who was too invested in the fight to notice and took a swig of it. “I can’t believe Vilkas is missing this.” He grimaced and gave the bottle a glare. “Ugh, Alto Wine? Nasty.”

“Vilkas. Vilkas…” Hadvar scratched his head. “I know that name, but from where?” The drunk was wearing normal leather armor, but Hadvar noticed a wolf symbol inexpertly sewn onto one shoulder. “Vilkas of the Companions?”

“Yeah! Me, too, I’m Torvar.” Torvar gave the bottle another look of disgust, then shrugged and downed the rest of it, slipping it back into its owner’s hands once it was empty. “We got called in out here by someone called Lund to deal with a Skeever infestation.”

“Ugh, that guy.” the Redguard scoffed. “Of course Lund would make someone else take care of it. He wouldn’t have a skeever problem if he’d keep his space clean…”

“Looks like it’s wrapping up,” Torvar noted.

Hadvar looked, and indeed, Ganondorf had the Giant in a submission hold, arms wrapped around its neck while he sat on its back. The giant struggled, but couldn’t break free. It was starting to turn blue in the face when it finally gave up, pounding the ground in surrender.

“Think he’d join the Companions?” Torvar asked, a hint of calculation seeping in through the drunkeness. “A guy like that’s probably gonna be so big even the guy who discovers him would be famous…”

“Ha! The Legion found him first, I’m afraid,” Hadvar said jokingly.

Torvar grimaced, then shrugged it off. “Damn. That’s just the way of it, I guess.”

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

Ganondorf stood and stretched. It wasn’t a very difficult fight, but it wasn’t often he was the smaller man. The giant had milked the size advantage as much as he could; it wasn’t enough, but he got some good hits in. Ganondorf’s nose had already healed in a crooked position, so he had to break it again to realign it properly.

Once he could breathe correctly again he regarded his opponent. The giant was still sprawled on the ground, breathing heavily.

…It had been a decent fight. Ganondorf grabbed the giant’s hand and hauled him to his feet. The startled giant stumbled slightly, not used to being manhandled, and blinked in confusion when Ganon shook his hand.

“That was fun, big man!” Ganondorf declared. “Do you have a name?”

“Ah, Ganondorf.” Hadvar came up behind him, overhearing. “Giant’s don’t speak Tamrielic. Or at least none I’ve ever met have--”

“Grok.” The giant’s voice was quieter than Ganondorf had expected, but deep enough that it carried far.

“Of course, I could always be wrong,” Hadvar admitted.

“Good fight, Grok. I am Ganondorf.”

Grok rumbled an agreement. He went to retrieve his club, which had been knocked from his hand early in the fight. He was noticeably favoring one leg.

“Are you going to make a habit of fighting every huge monster we come across?” Hadvar asked. He was trying to sound exasperated, but Ganondorf could hear the amusement underneath it.

“That depends on the monster,” he replied shamelessly. “How long until we get to your capital?”

Hadvar pointed up the road. “Dragon Bridge is due north from here,” he said, “and Solitude is straight uphill from there. I reckon we could be in Solitude tomorrow afternoon. Of course, that’s assuming the weather holds up,” he added. “It’s been looking like rain for a while now.”

“Let’s get the horses ready, then.”

“Excuse me?” They turned to see the Redguard from earlier approach. “Thank you for dealing with that loathsome giant. Do you need any additional supplies?”

“I think we’ll be fi--”

Ganondorf slid in front of Hadvar, all smiles. “That would be wonderful, actually. I’ve heard all about how Rorikstead grows the finest crops in all of Skyrim, and I’d be pleased to see for myself if the rumors are true.”

He hadn’t heard any such thing, of course. He had never heard of this dinky farming village until that morning. But it never hurt to ingratiate.

Sure enough, the man puffed up with pride. “They absolutely are, I assure you. Mine in particular--I’m Ennis, by the way. You want bread? Potatoes? Cabbage? How about some eggs? Cowflop Farm will provide.”

Ganondorf mouthed the word “cowflop” to himself before he answered. “Potatoes and bread will do fine. Thank you, sincerely.”

“No, thank you. And be sure to tell others about us if you find it as good as you expect!”

While Ennis hurried away to fetch the supplies, Hadvar gave Ganondorf a look. “That wasn’t necessary. We have enough trail rations to last a week.”

“And now we’ll have more,” Ganondorf said simply, pleased. He looked towards Grok, who was still walking away back towards his camp. The giant turned, feeling his gaze, before huffing and continuing on his way, using his club as a walking stick. “Hadvar, what are your Legion’s policies on recruitment?”

“I--what?” Hadvar started, thrown off. “What do you mean?”

“Any limits on who can join up, that sort of thing.”

“Oh, no. Anyone able and willing to raise a sword in the Empire’s name is welcome. Why?”

“No reason,” Ganondorf said, watching Grok disappear into the hills. “None whatsoever.” The beginnings of a plan were stirring in his mind… but he was getting ahead of himself.

Hadvar looked at him aghast as the septim dropped. “You’re not seri--of course you are. I hope I get used to your nonsense soon.”

He just laughed in response. “You go prep the horses, I’ll collect the Cowflop crops. The sooner we get to Solitude, the sooner--” Ganondorf paused, a strange look on his face. “...Huh?”

The stop was sudden enough to make Hadvar concerned. “What’s wrong?”

That was when a sound echoed off the mountains. It hit Rorikstead with all the force of a thunderclap, and shook the very earth beneath them. Doors rattled, pots fell over, and animals panicked. And underneath it all, a powerful voice Shouted:

DOVAHKIIN

Hadvar gasped, the sheer force of the Shout almost knocking him over. “What in Oblivion? …Was that the… Greybeards?” he asked, awed.

Ganondorf stared directly towards the center of Skyrim. The Shout had ruptured the clouds enough that even at this distance, he could see the temple sitting atop the tallest peak. “Hmph. Sooner than I thought.”

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

Link, in Whiterun

The tree stood in not quite the center of the city. It wasn’t a terribly large tree. Depending on the species, Link would have put it at somewhere between fifty and eighty years. It felt much older than that though. When he laid a hand against the trunk, it gave him the same feeling that the Great Deku Tree often did, albeit muted. This tree wasn’t intelligent--or if it was, it thought too slowly to interact with it--but it was old and magically significant.

Even after all this time, magic wasn’t Link’s strong suit, but he had been around it long enough to have a feel for it.

“Are you here on pilgrimage to the Gildergreen as well?” A woman in those apparently universal brown robes walked up and sat on a nearby bench. “I’m sorry if it’s not what you were expecting.”

“It’s not doing well,” Link agreed. An upsetting crack ran down from its canopy to near its roots, and the heartwood was blackened and burnt. “Looks like it was struck by lightning.”

“It was, yes,” the priestess confirmed, mildly impressed. “Some months ago, now.” She sighed. “I’ve wanted to tend to it, but the war brings so many injured to our temple for healing that I simply haven’t had time. I’m sorry you had to be disappointed.”

He shrugged. “I’m not really. I didn’t even know it was here, I’m in Whiterun for other reasons.”

“Oh, my apologies for assuming. You just seemed to be drawn to it.”

“I’ve seen ancient magical trees before,” Link said, finally turning to face her. “It reminded me of home.”

The priestess's face under her hood looked politely disbelieving. “Have you? You must be well-traveled, then.”

He smirked. “You could say that.”

“Impressive, for one so young.” She sighed again. “I don’t suppose you have any advice for healing the tree?” she asked, clearly not expecting a useful answer.

Link tilted his head, running his fingers over the crack. “...it’s still clinging to life. It’s a stubborn tree, to be sure. Either it’ll pull through on its own, or it won’t.”

The priestess looked unimpressed. “Of course. Trees like this never really die.”

“Not really, no,” he agreed easily. “Once, I saw the Great Deku Tree wither before my eyes.” Link paused, tasting the word and the strange way it had sounded as he said it. He thought he felt a spark of something from the tree, but it was gone so quickly he might have imagined it. “...As he passed on, one of his seeds was planted in the same spot, and when it sprouted, it still had some of its previous life’s memories. I think if you plant one of this Gildergreen’s seeds here, it’ll grow faster than you’d expect.”

She looked upset at him now, standing to loom over him. “We can’t replace the Gildergreen, are you mad? The temple relies on the pilgrims and their support! If they come to see it gone--”

Link met her angry glare evenly. “You asked and I answered. Nothing lives forever, but it can always be reborn in a new form. Or the same one, if you’re lucky.”

The priestess huffed and walked briskly back to the temple, not quite managing to hide the troubled look on her face.

Oh well. Maybe the tree would pull through, maybe it wouldn’t. It really wasn’t any business of Link’s.

…he looked around to make sure no one was watching. Then he pulled a bottle out of his pocket and uncorked it. The fairy inside fluttered out aimlessly. Link got a sense of vague confusion from it, then it seemed to realize its purpose and flew a few tight circles around the tree. The crack didn’t seal up, but a branch shivered despite the lack of wind. Link and the fairy watched together as a single pink flower bloomed at the furthest tip.

The Gildergreen settled into a more restful sleep, and Link nodded in satisfaction as the little ball of light flew off to wherever fairies went after their job was done. That was as much as he could do, and the rest was up to the tree and its tenders.

That done, he looked up at the palace looming above the square. It was an impressive piece of work, honestly, comparable to some of the fancier dungeons he’s seen. Dragonsreach, it was called. It was where the Jarl lived, and it was where Jo’kir was, delivering the Dragonstone. Zelda was up there as well, as she wanted to talk to the court wizard. Link had stayed behind, wanting to explore the city.

He got to the Gildergreen through a residential district. The Jarl’s palace was up the stairs, and what looked like a mead hall was nearby. It reminded him vaguely of one version of the Anouki. Link wasn’t interested in a drink right now--liquid courage didn’t work on him, sadly. He had too much of the genuine article, or something. Also his body was sixteen, so they probably wouldn’t let him drink. Or maybe it was a training hall, since the people he saw walk in were armed and armored, but he was getting used to the idea that Nords were just like that, so who knew.

Regardless of what it was, Link didn’t care to poke his head in just yet. No, instead he went to the most important part of town.

Whiterun was at the very center of Skyrim, and according to what he’d overheard, it had stayed neutral in the war so far. It was in a temperate area, was home to the Skyforge and lots of farms, and anyone traveling through the country ended up here one way or another. It was near enough the trade capital of Skyrim, and that made it the perfect place for a burgeoning merchant to start.

Link had quite a list to get through. He had to talk to store owners to see what sort of things the people of Skyrim actually wanted, he had to talk to farmers about maybe growing some of his Hylian crops, he wanted to talk to a blacksmith about the handful of knives he’d made in Riverwood… He had lots to do.

He decided to do the last point first, and so he ended up at Warmaiden’s.

Adrianne, the smith, weighed his steel dagger in both hands. “It’s not bad work. Not bad at all. The design is a bit simple, but that matters less than how well it cuts.”

“It’s not my best work,” Link admitted, accepting it back. “I used to be a blacksmith’s apprentice, but I’ve gotten out of practice since then.”

She looked surprised. “Really? Your work certainly doesn’t lack promise; why would you have lost your apprenticeship? If you don’t mind me asking,” she added hastily.

Link blinked.

--he was turned into a painting and was so traumatized he hung up his hammer--

--he was killed by demons--

--he fired me when I vanished to save the kingdom, and didn’t believe me when I said I was the hero afterwards--

--I dropped it myself when more important things came up--

He shook the visions away. “It wasn’t any one thing,” he said carefully. “Sometimes things just don’t work out.”

“True enough. If you’re looking to revive your apprenticeship…?” she asked.

He smiled. “Thanks for the offer, but I want to travel for a while. Still, I want to make my own stock where I can, so if you want I can pay to use your forge--”

“That won’t be necessary,” the blacksmith said firmly. “As long as you don’t get in the way of my own work you can use it whenever. You certainly have the talent for it.”

“Heh.” Link smiled sheepishly.

The doors to the city opened, and a yellow-armored guard sprinted in and past the two of them.

Link rested a hand on his sword. “Oh, while I’m here, do you only work with steel, or do you have anything else?”

Adrianne tilted her head, expression neutral. “How do you mean?”

“In Riverwood, the blacksmith had a few…” Link snapped his fingers, thinking. “...Orcish. Orichalcum, that was it. It had some interesting properties. Do you have anything like that?”

“Of course I do,” she said, bemused. “Steel is good and reliable, but you can’t call yourself a good smith if you only work with steel and iron.” As a demonstration, she walked over to her smelter and poured out a stream of molten metal into an axehead mold. Even glowing hot, the liquid had a distinct silver tint to it. “Do you have a custom order in mind?”

“I’d rather make it myself,” Link denied. “I’d just like to know what my options are for materials.”

The woman gave him an odd look, then shrugged and stepped inside.

The gates opened again, a pair of guards this time. One was supporting the other as he hopped on one leg, the other bloody. Link almost offered him some of his leftover soup, but they stepped inside the barracks before he could.

Adrianne returned with an assortment of colored ingots. “This here is Dwarven metal,” she began, pointing at an aggressively orange one. “Quality-wise, it’s only slightly better than steel, and heavy enough to not quite be worth it in my opinion. The real draw of it is that it never rusts or corrodes, and is slow to lose its edge. Unfortunately it’s not easy to work. The heat needed to melt it is difficult to maintain.” She paused, mulling something over, then added, “Once properly forged, it’s a very handsome gold, if aesthetics are important to you.”

Link nodded. “Not bad.” Then he frowned. “Alvor had some of these, but they looked more like bronze. This looks orange, like copper.”

Adrianne scowled. “That might be what he had, then. It’s not an uncommon scam. One of us should let him know so that he doesn’t accidentally lie to his customers.”

Well, that was unfortunate. Maybe Link would double back later; he hadn’t really decided where to go yet after this, anyway.

Adrianne shook her head and went on. “This one,” she continued with a pale block the color of banana flesh, “is moonstone. I don’t have much of it since Elven armors aren’t very popular around here, but it makes decent weapons. It holds a sharp edge and is the lightest metal around. Of course, it needs to be alloyed with quicksilver or else it’s almost as soft as gold.”

Next, a green and faintly translucent one. It clinked when it hit the table, rather than clanking as the others had. “This one is malachite. It’s actually not a metal, but apparently a form of special crystal. Most folks call it glass.” She paused, looking at him, then continued when he still didn’t recognize it. “It’s fairly light, and takes enchantment well. It’s tricky though, and probably my least favorite material to work with, so I can’t tell you much more than--”

“Adrianne!”

The smith hung her head with a groan. “One moment.” She turned to face the newcomer. “Idolaf, I’ve already told you--”

Link tuned them out, and while she was distracted he walked up to the bend with the ingots and partially unsheathed his sword. Quietly, he asked, “What do you think?”

“...”

A phantom sensation ran up his arm from the sword. With his limited magic senses, he felt the spirit reach out and brush its essence against the metals.

The moonstone glowed briefly, but despite the fanciful name it seemed to be a normal metal. The ‘glass’ had an interesting effect where the crystal structure inside shifted colors; it took on a blue and purple hue, and for a split second he thought he saw a face… The most dramatic reaction was the not-bronze. The moment the sword spirit touched it, it gave off a low tone, like a struck bell. The spirit pulled away, surprised--then, radiating fascination, touched it again, managing to play a soft tune that Link almost recognized. Finally it pulled back into his steel.

“Any good?”

“...” He could almost hear a soft chime that time. It sounded despondent.

“Maybe an alloy would be our best bet. Best of each type?” Link mused.

Adrianne returned, looking annoyed. “Sorry about that,” she said. “Battle-Born keeps trying to cajole me into taking orders I can’t fulfill. Too many weapons in too short a time frame, and he’s so pushy about it…” She shook herself. “Anyway, what do you think?”

“Is this all you have?” Link asked as politely as he could. “What’s the best you’ve got?”

“That’d be the glass. Although,” she added, looking thoughtful. “Wait here.” She went inside Warmaiden’s returning quickly. “Look at this.”

She held out a rough, unpolished black rock in the palm of her hand. It looked more like a lump of coal than anything else, but when she dropped it into his own hand he shifted into focus, almost involuntarily.

“...!”

“What was that sound?” Adrianne asked. “Did you hear something?”

“What is this?”

“That’s ebony,” she answered, forgetting the noise. “It’s very rare, very heavy, and the best damn metal most anyone can ask for. It’s actually a glass like malachite, but once it’s refined it behaves more like metal. Odd stuff.”

Link stared at it. The little rock had weight to it, and not just in the literal sense. It felt… in some undefinable way, just a little bit more real than the world around it. Or less. The two sensations were remarkably similar.

This was the one. “How much?”

“Fifty septims.”

Link almost dropped it. “Fifty? For this tiny nugget?”

“I did say it was rare, didn’t I?” Adrianne laughed. “That thing’s been in the shop as a curiosity piece for years. The only mine in all Skyrim is locked away in an Orc stronghold, the mine on Solstheim dried up before I was born, and few are willing to sell it, or even stock it. That chunk is the most raw ebony I’ve personally ever seen. If you want it, fifty is as low as I’ll go.”

That was more than twice--more than thrice what an entire sword’s worth of steel was worth. Link wasn’t exactly hurting for money in the practical sense, since Skyrim didn’t seem to see a difference between Rupees and gemstones, but… was this tiny chunk really worth that much?

“...! …!” The sword was almost vibrating.

Link shook his head ruefully. “I guess I’ll take it then,” he said, counting out the coins.

Adrianne grinned. “Pleasure doing business with you.”

Link helped her put the metals away, and afterwards she offered him ten of his coins back if he ran an errand for her. He ended up agreeing to deliver a greatsword up to her father in the Jarl’s palace. He was the Jarl’s steward, she told him, so maybe he could talk to him about if there were any permits he needed to fill out for selling wares.

He made his way back through the marketplace, giving only a passing glance to the guards gathering at the gate.

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

Zelda and Jo’kir

“You want me to what?!” Jo’kir shouted, incredulous.

“I know, it’s not something I ask you lightly,” Jarl Baalgruf said. “You and your friend survived Helgen, so you have more experience with dragons than anyone else here. But I haven’t forgotten the service you did for me in retrieving the Dragonstone for Farengar. As a token of my esteem, I will instruct Avenicci that you are now permitted to purchase property in the city. And please,” he finished, snapping his fingers. “Accept this gift from my personal armory.”

Hrongar dropped an axe into Jo’kir’s hands. It was of elven make, and had some sort of enchantment on it, but Jo’kir hardly noticed.

Property? What good was property after he was eaten by a dragon? He could fight draugr, maybe, but he saw what that beast did to Helgen, even with that maniac Ganondorf punching it. What chance did a novice Khajiiti mage have?

“Maybe I should come along,” the court mage said. “I would very much like to see this dragon.” He sounded far too excited by the idea in Jo’kir’s opinion.

“No. I can’t afford to risk you and Irileth,” Baalgruf denied. “You’re better served staying here, working on ways to defend the city against these dragons.”

“As you command.”

Zelda chuckled. “Don’t worry, Mr. Secret-Fire. Perhaps we can convince the dragon to give you an interview later.”

The frantic bustle of the keep came to a momentary pause as everyone stopped what they were doing to give her a weird look. The Jarl cleared his throat. “Lass, diplomacy isn’t really an option. You can’t negotiate with a dragon.”

“How certain of that are you?” Zelda asked. “I was under the impression that no one has seen a living dragon in centuries, and stories become exaggerated over time.”

Jo’kir, despite his current worries, managed to eke some vindictive pleasure at the way the Jarl visibly had to adjust his thinking to deal with Zelda. “Miss,” he said at length, “Dragonsreach was built with the express purpose of catching a dragon. The skull of one hangs over my throne. Even if you could talk it down, which I doubt, it probably wouldn’t want to play nice with Whiterun.”

Zelda hummed in thought. “I don’t think you should be so quick to treat them as monsters, is all I want to say. My experience with dragons is that the evil ones are either false wyrms of being controlled by something else. Very rarely were the dragons of Hyrule monsters in truth.”

“Then this Hyrule of yours was very lucky,” Baalgruf said carefully. It was obvious to Jo’kir that he didn’t believe a word she was saying, which meant it was certainly obvious to her as well. Zelda just tutted, though, and moved on.

The dark elf growled. “As riveting as this conversation is, the dragon isn’t going to wait for us to sit through a lecture. We need to go, now.”

“Stay safe, Irileth,” the Jarl ordered. “This isn’t a matter of death or glory; I need to know what we’re dealing with.”

“Of course, my lord. I am the very soul of caution.”

As the gathering dispersed, Irileth pulled the two of them aside. “Cat, how good are you in a fight?”

Jo’kir’s ears folded back. “This one can throw fire and lightning, and can handle an axe.” He shifted things around so that the elven weapon Baalgruf awarded him sat on his hip, his steel vanishing into his pocket.

Irileth barely gave the trick a glance. She sniffed, unimpressed, and turned to Zelda. “And you?”

Zelda smiled. “I can handle myself, don’t worry.”

“Hmph. Very well. Meet me at the gates right away. There’s no time to waste.”

Irileth jogged down the stairs towards the door, leaving them behind. Zelda followed after her at a more sedate pace, albeit still a quick one, and Jo’kir hurried to keep up.

“Listen, Zelda,” the Khajiit said. “Do you really need help? You are friends with Link, no? And Ganondorf, who fought the black dragon. You don’t need this one there, yes?”

Zelda looked at him from the corner of her eye. “I’m not here to save the day, Jo’kir. This will be good for you.”

His eye twitched as they left the keep and crossed the bridge. “The dragon will not be making Khajiit eat his vegetables, Zelda, it will be trying to eat him! I am not prepared for this!”

“We so rarely are, when things go wrong,” she said with a sigh. “But I have a feeling that you’re better than you think you are.”

“Oh, well. A feeling. If you have a feeling, then it should all be alright.” Jo’kir muttered in his native tongue.

“If you truly don’t wish to fight, I can’t make you,” she said as they passed through the residential district. “You can still come to help heal the soldiers as they fight.”

That idea did hold more appeal, actually. There would surely be places to hide and drag wounded to at the watchtower, right? “Fine, Khajiit will come. But I am not happy about it.”

They stepped down to the gate, where Irileth and four guards were waiting. “About time you showed up. Here’s the situation,” she said, addressing the guards. “A dragon is attacking the Western Watchtower.”

That set the guards off muttering, and the dark elf gave a short rousing speech. It was nonsense about honor and glory and how very Nord-like it would be to fight a dragon. Jo’kir was very impressed by how well Irileth seemed to have adapted to living in Skyrim, that she understood how Nords thought so well.

No, that was unfair, he chastised himself. She was not wrong, they could not simply stand by and let the citizens get hurt while a dragon was on the loose. It was their job to protect Whiterun, and it would make for a very impressive story. If they survived.

They were very Nordic Nords, broad of the shoulder and with thick facial hair. Jo’kir assumed that all had beards, anyway, one of them was wearing the standard issue full helmet. The rest were wearing a horned helmet, a leather helmet, and a steel helm, all open-faced. It allowed him to see their expressions as they shifted from nervousness to determination. These men itched to fight… but they were fighting for the city full of innocents.

A pair of children ran by while Irileth wrapped up her speech, not paying much heed to the housecarl and her men. The girl chased the boy through the smith’s shop, weaving between the poles holding the awning up.

“S’rendarr, give this one strength,” he muttered a prayer. Looked like he was doing this, then.

(Zelda smiled knowingly behind him.)

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

Western Watchtower

It was only a few minutes’ jog out the city and to the watchtower, and the place was a wreck. The surrounding walls were utterly destroyed, reduced to so much rubble, and a gaping hole looked out from the tower’s second floor. And everything was on fire.

“Shor’s Bones,” one of the guards breathed. “Did it kill them all…?”

It seemed so, Jo’kir thought. His nose wrinkled at the scent of burnt flesh. A body lay prostrate in the center of what used to be the courtyard of the tower. The poor thing’s skin looked more like charcoal than anything else, and the Khajiit wondered how that even happened. Either the dragon had continued to breathe on the already-dead corpse until it was burnt to a crisp, or dragonfire was far hotter than it had any right to be.

One of their group approached another charred body, and it crumbled away as he touched it.

Or possibly both.

“Damn it all,” the leather-helmed guard said. “I can’t even tell who this used to be. How are we supposed to give them their rites?”

“There’ll be time to worry about that later,” steel-helm assured him. “The mission comes first.”

Jo’kir glanced towards Zelda, who was hanging back and keeping an eye on the sky. He supposed that was sensible. “Housecarl. How many are typically stationed at this tower?”

Irileth looked up from the rubble. “Four, typically. I think there were five today.”

One of the guards affirmed that, and Jo’kir frowned. Only two corpses, so… “Is anyone still alive?” he shouted, startling the others.

He avoided an attempt to swat him. “What are you doing?” the full-masked guard demanded. “That dragon could still be nearby!”

He rolled his eyes. “We are on the plains, and I see no dragon from here to the horizon. Its ears cannot be that sharp. Reinforcements from Whiterun!” he yelled again.

“What? No! Get back!” A new guard emerged from the tower, looking worse for wear. He had been wearing another full-mask, but the previous attack had caused half of it to be torn off, letting his wild eyes be seen. His armor had been burned, leaving only scraps of the Whiterun yellow hanging from chainmail. “It’s still out there! Hroki and Tor just got grabbed when they made a run for it!”

Jo’kir jumped up the wall to meet him and inspect his wounds, which only received token resistance. “Relax, friend.”

“Relax?!” Broken-helm asked hysterically. “Look at what it did!”

“Guardsman!” Irileth called. “What happened here?”

“I think it’s rather obvious what happened,” Zelda commented. Her gaze was fixed on the Brittleshins to the south. “Everyone! Be ready!”

There was a distant roar.

“Kynareth save us, here he comes again…”

“Find cover!” Irileth barked. “Make every arrow count!”

Jo’kir saw the dragon coming over the hills and pushed the injured guard into the tower. He forced the man onto a bed roll and ran up the stairs to look from the hole. The Khajiit built an electric charge in his hands; fire was his Destruction magic of choice, but firebolts were too slow to be of use at long range. Lightning would cross the distance instantly, so all he needed to do was aim.

Hopefully it was easier than with a bow… Jo’kir grimaced, eyes on the dragon as it approached. He glanced down at the others. Leather-helm and horned-helm had bows out, and Horns loosed one early. It sailed almost straight up in the air; Jo’kir was lousy at archery, but he knew enough about it to guess that Horns had accidentally let it go before it was ready.

Despite that, it actually hit the dragon as it soared overhead--only to break against its scales.

It must have felt it anyway though, because it roared in response and swooped down. Horns only barely managed to avoid its claws.

“Oh Magrus…” Jo’kir tensed as it banked around the tower, passing in front of his perch multiple times. It hadn’t seemed to notice him, and…

He frowned. This was not the same dragon as what attacked them in Helgen. It was brown like dead leaves instead of black like coal. It was also significantly less spiky, and Jo’kir even thought it was smaller.

There was more than one of these things? Ugh, don’t worry about that now.

Jo’kir threw his bolt when it passed by again. The lightning struck true, and arced up the dragon’s wing enough to lock the joints up. Only briefly, unfortunately, and not enough to knock it out of the sky.

The dragon rumbled. It came to a hover in midair and slowly turned to face him, glaring hatefully. Their eyes met.

Something passed between them. Jo’kir wasn’t sure what, but whatever it was sent his hackles rising. The dragon’s own eyes widened, and then it roared.

Jo’kir found himself trying to meet the challenge, though what left his throat was more of a yowl. He threw the spells in his hands. A firebolt splashed across its face, the lightning ran up its tail, and the beast snarled. It flapped its wings hard, and Jo’kir scrambled back as it clung to the side of the  tower and stuck its head in the hole.

For its troubles it got a bolt directly to the eye, and it responded with fire.

The Khajiit dove behind a bale of straw, which went up instantly. It lasted long enough for Jo’kir to remember a spell, and he put up a ward just as the hay bale was reduced to ash. It barely held, eating up his magicka in an effort to protect himself.

The dragon suddenly cut itself off, jerking like it had been stung, and removed itself from the tower to face the guards below.

From what Jo’kir could tell after sneaking back to the hole, Zelda had shot it with one of her own arrows. Her bow was impressive, shining in the afternoon sun. It was also nearly as tall as she was, and yet she pulled the string back without issue. Where was she keeping that? Did she have an inventory too?

Or maybe she made the bow out of magicka, since a trio of arrows blazed into being a mere second before she loosed them. They flew unerringly towards the dragon even as it moved to dodge, punching a hole in each wing. The third arrow lodged itself in its tail, and the dragon roared; clearly those arrows actually hurt the beast.

Irileth shouted something down below that Jo’kir couldn’t hear. All the guards were using bows now, and some of them actually hit. None of them seemed to do half as much as Zelda’s but as the dragon flew back around there were definitely more than a few arrows sticking up from its scales.

“What just happened…?” Jo’kir murmured. Something had passed between him and the dragon. He could feel it. He didn’t know what it was--it didn’t feel like magic, and his body felt fine--but it had definitely happened. The closest thing he could compare it to… the closest thing…

Jo’kir frowned. The closest thing he could compare his current feelings to was when he was young, and his brother challenged him to contests. Do’Rasa was big and strong, and Jo’kir rarely won, but he rose to the challenge every time because the idea of not doing so was unthinkable.

It was the foolish impulse of a younger sibling wanting to show up his elder, and it was eerily similar to what the dragon made him feel. Why? Where had all the terror gone?

The terror, it seemed, had fled outside as one of the guards shouted in wordless fear. Jo’kir threw another bolt as the dragon swooped down, and nailed it in the eye again. It blinded the beast long enough for it to miss the Nord, claws pulling up earth instead of intestines.

The dragon had no intention of landing, Jo’kir saw. And now that it knew that Zelda could actually injure it, it was flying more fluidly. It dodged arrows with ease, and even when Zelda’s came for it, it yelled waves of force to knock them out of the air.

(It Shouted at the arrows, and they fell.)

“FUS!”

Fus. Fus…

Jo’kir shook himself. The dragon wasn’t going to land, and it wasn’t getting hit. It was only a matter of time before the guards ran out of either ammo or stamina. What to do?

He looked at the stairs up to the roof. “This one is about to be very foolish indeed…”

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

Mirmulnir was having a frustrating day. After centuries of being left to his own devices, his eldest brother had returned and forced him to put his hunt on hold indefinitely. He had been stalking a particular mammoth for some years now, a titanic specimen that made even he, Mirmulnir, look small. It was battle-scarred, and ornery enough that the giants had given up on taming it. Mirmulnir wasn’t actually certain that he could beat it in a straight fight, so he had been waiting. Waiting for it to drop its guard, to be preoccupied by something else, perhaps for it to injure itself and tip the scales more in Mirmulnir’s favor. It was a long and tedious hunt, but there was glory in this too. He was a dragon. He had time to wait for the best moment.

He had taken to calling it Sunvaar-Jun. A grandiose name, but one he felt earned.

He was convinced the mammoth had become aware of him, and yet it seemed unperturbed, utterly assured in its own might. It was very draconic in that, actually. Mirmulnir had been seriously considering moving to a larger cave just so he’d have a place to properly display the beast’s tusks. Such mighty prey deserved the honor of being remembered.

And now all that work was wasted, because now Eldest Brother had returned, and demanded that he resume the ancient practice of hunting Man and Mer. It wasn’t fair. Joor were pitifully easy prey. And Sunvaar-Jun was long in the tooth, and had been greying the past few years. To lose such a worthy foe to old age was unacceptable… but he could not disobey Alduin. Mirmulnir followed the strong, and none were stronger than him that flew within the confines of Mundus.

So he attacked the city called White Run, the stronghold at the center of Keizaal. First, he would assault their outposts, give the joors time to react. As they recoiled in fear, he would return to destroy the tower utterly, and then move on to the tower to the north, then the farms. Let them know they were on assault from all sides, before he spiralled inwards and burned their horrible keep.

Mortals were easy prey, but he could find amusement elsewhere.

Except, his plan had encountered a snag already, at step two. White Run had sent reinforcements to the watchtower, and these had included a Dovahkiin and, even more inexplicably, a sister.

She carried the scent of Time and Light, powerful spheres both. Mirmulnir had completely overlooked her until her arrows had pierced his hide. Was she a jill? One of his sisters, taking a human form? No dovah he knew would stoop so low, but he would admit he did not understand the jills. Perhaps to them it would make sense.

But no, he did not sense a dovah soul within her. Not like he felt from the cat.

Had Father stirred from his sleep long enough to… consort with Meridia? Mirmulnir hoped not. Father could do better--

Mirmulnir ducked another arrow, snarling. Sister or not, he would not bow to anyone wearing the skin of a joor. Alduin would kill him just as thoroughly as a Dovahkiin would, if he tried to run.

The cat was hiding in the tower, and Mirmulnir could knock that down later. The White Run guardsmen were mere annoyances.

“Apologies, Sister,” he rumbled quietly. He banked around the stone tower and swooped to ram. He hit the ground hard, carving a trench in the dirt and stone directly towards the woman in the blue dress. When he didn’t feel himself hit her when he expected, he opened his wings to brake, pulling his head out of the ground to see where she had gone. Somehow she had moved to stand on a broken wall on the other side of the yard.

He snarled, barking a FUS to knock her arrows away as she fired, and took to the air again before any of the pathetic Nords could get any ideas about coming at him with swords.

This hunt was dragging on, and had ceased to be amusing. He had no more interest in playing fair.

Mirmulnir stopped, hovering in the air in front of the tower, and took a deep breath to douse the entire field in fire. He felt the Sister ready a spell--likely a ward, but no matter. It wouldn’t hold forever and she couldn’t protect everyone.

“Take cover!” the Dunmer shouted below, and Mirmulnir almost laughed. Hide behind the walls all you want, joor, you would still be choking on air hot enough to burn the lungs.

“Yol…!”

A pebble landed on his head, cutting him off. It didn’t hurt, obviously. In fact he barely felt it. But it was an odd thing to feel when you were forty feet in the air. Mirmulnir looked up.

Standing on top of the tower was the cat, an axe in each hand. For the second time that battle, their eyes met.

The way the dovahkiin’s fur fluffed up would have been amusing if he hadn’t then jumped from the tower and landed on Mirmulnir’s back.

The dovah screeched in surprise, losing altitude before he adjusted to the new weight. Then his wing locked up when one of the axes hit his wing, revealing a Shock enchantment. Lightning ran up his wings and he fell out of the sky.

He crashed to the ground roughly, bouncing off the broken walls and into the courtyard. The dragon’s ribs ached from the impact, but he twisted to keep his breath from being knocked away. He would need it to fight back.

The cat clambered up his spine, having somehow managed to cling on during the fall, and Mirmulnir got a chance to see him up-close before those axes met his eyes.

He roared, enraged, as he was blinded. It would heal, but he didn’t have time to wait for that.

He could feel the Dovahkiin hammering away at him, cutting into his scales. The guards must have joined in, because he felt more weapons as well.

In one last bid for victory, Mirmulnir lurched to his feet and spun on his heel. It was a most unwieldy move for a dragon, but it succeeded in tossing his foes off of him.

“Niid! Las Yah Niir!”

His eyes were ruined, but the Shout let him see regardless. His enemies became red ghosts, clamoring around him. The cat’s soul roared, already so sure of its victory. Hungering.

The Nords were weaker, barely worth noticing. The Dunmer was only slightly more impressive, a factor of age more than any real strength. The terrain was still invisible to him, but knowing where his prey was gave him a chance to go out fighting. This hunt was not over yet. He couldn’t see their weapons in the ghosts’ hands, but watching their arms was good enough. He felt the sword as he batted it out of the nearest’s Nord’s hand with his wing. The Dovahkiin tackled the guard as he tried to bite him, getting him to safety. How annoying.

Fire splashed against his face again, and that accursed shock axe cut into his leg.

He just had to kill one of them. Just one, and he could fly away. Say that he did his best. If he tried to flee without killing anyone, Alduin would kill him for his weakness, even against a Dovahkiin and a Sister…

Where was the Sister, actually?

He turned his head, trying to catch her aura in his ‘sight.’ She was nowhere to be found. Did she have some way of concealing herself? Or was she only a construct of some sort? No, impossible, he could smell her and the Divine all over her. So where--

An arrow planted itself between his shoulders, and Mirmulnir collapsed. His legs weren’t responding anymore. He craned his neck towards where it had come from, and saw--oh.

No, that wasn’t a Sister at all. He was blinded all over again, trying to look at her.

It was almost a comfort, actually. There was no dishonor in losing to that. And at least he wouldn’t have to face Alduin. He would have made it hurt.

“Pruzah krif, Dovahkiin. Pruzah nir…

The Dovahkiin hit him between the horns with that awful axe, and Mirmulnir died. And then he felt a pull…

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

Jo’kir took deep, gasping breaths as the dragon collapsed. Honestly, he felt close to collapsing himself. He was not built for long fights like that.

“By Ysmir,” Leather-helm said. “We actually killed it.”

“Yes, yes,” Jo’kir said, irritated. What had gotten into him? “Oh Magrus, what was I thinking?”

Horns clapped a hand onto his back, nearly knocking him over. “I don’t know, but it was a hell of a good look, cat! You sure you want to be a mage?” He poked the butt of his sword into Jo’kir’s side. “You can always trade those robes in for some proper armor.”

The Khajiit’s mouth twitched as he shoved the hand off. “Jo’kir will keep it in mind. Is anyone injured?”

“Just some burns.”

“Then here, let Khajiit take care of them.”

The broken-helmed guard staggered out of the tower, gawping. He broke into whooping laughter that Jo’kir ignored, focusing on his patient.

Zelda strode towards the dragon, expression pensieve. “It’s a shame. It was clearly intelligent, judging by the look in its eyes.”

“Yes,” Steel-helm groused. “I’ve seen the same look on sabre cats when they’re hunting rabbits.” He kicked the dragon’s head.

Zelda shrugged, and Jo’kir saw her produce a bottle out of a flash of light. “What are you doing?”

“Taking samples,” Zelda said. “The dragons of my homeland had all manner of useful properties to their scales.” She pulled a knife from her sleeve and attempted to slice off a few scales. To her surprise, they came away easily. A little too easily, in fact, and underneath was light. “What…?”

“Get back!” Irileth shouted. “Something’s happening!”

Jo’kir looked up and gasped. The dragon was decomposing rapidly. Scale and skin peeled off in motes of light, and only bones sat underneath.

The guards scattered, and Jo’kir heard the sound of strong winds whistle past his ears. The light leapt off the dragon’s corpse, weaving around Zelda and slamming into his chest with enough force to stagger him.

FUS

Fus?

FORCE

It was almost involuntary, the way Jo’kir Shouted “FUS!”, acting on an instinct he’d never felt before. A wave of pure force knocked the dragon bones away, sending them tumbling. He grabbed his throat, as if that would help. “What just… what was that?”

The guardsmen murmured and muttered in shock, climbing back over the rubble to see what was happening. Jo’kir saw Zelda corking her bottle, then Horns ran over, looking awed.

“I can’t believe it. You are… Dragonborn.” He spoke reverently, and it made Jo’kir uncomfortable.

“Dragonborn?” he repeated. “What is that?”

“In the very oldest tales, back when there were still dragons in Skyrim, the Dragonborn would slay dragons and steal their power. That’s what you just did, isn’t it?”

“I…” Jo’kir rubbed his throat.

“That was Shouting, what you just did! You must be Dragonborn.”

“That’s right!” Leather-helm chimed in. “My grandfather used to tell me stories about the Dragonborn. Those born with Dragon blood in ‘em. Like old Tiber Septim himself.”

“I never heard of Tiber Septim killing any dragons,” another argued.

“There weren’t any then, idiot.”

The guards started bickering about what this all meant, while Jo’kir considered it himself.

“Dragonborn? I am… What does that mean?” he whispered. Shouting. He almost thought he recognized the term. Had he read something about it somewhere? He must have at some point. Some obscure spellcrafting discipline, only taught in Skyrim. And now he could do it. After killing a dragon.

He wanted to laugh, and he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to stop.

“I’ve been all across Tamriel,” he heard Irileth say. “And I’ve seen plenty of things just as outlandish as this. I’d advise you all to trust the strength of your sword arm over tales and legends.”

“I don’t know about that,” Zelda hummed idly. “Legends always seem to have a nugget of truth in them somewhere.”

Irileth nodded, conceding the point, and turned to address Jo’kir directly. “That was the hairiest fight I’ve ever been in, and I’ve been in more than a few. I don’t know about this Dragonborn business, but I’m sure glad you’re with us.”

“Khajiit isn’t sure what to think about it either…”

“You better get back to Whiterun right away. Jarl Balgruuf will want to know what happened here.”

“Of course, housecarl,” Zelda said, grabbing Jo’kir by the shoulders. “We’ll go there right away while you get things sorted out here.”

“Thank you.”

“Do you think they’ll let me keep the skull?” Jo’kir heard one guard ask another as they left. “It would make a great trophy.”

“You should ask the cat, Jorn. It was his kill, after all.”

“How are you feeling?” Zelda asked once they were back on the road. She let go of him and walked to his side.

Jo’kir didn’t answer right away. Zelda let him gather his thoughts, which he was grateful for. They were just passing the Whiterun stables when he finally tried to put it into words.

“This one--I am unsure. I have never--”

A sound echoed off the mountain. Windows rattled, the horses panicked, and the ground itself quaked. The sound hit them like the blast of a cannon, and Jo’kir and Zelda both felt their eyes drawn unfailingly to the Throat of the World and the temple they could just barely see from where they stood, as four voiced Shouted in unison:

DOVAHKIIN

“...” Jo’kir sighed. “How likely is it for that to be coincidence?”

“Not good odds, I’m afraid,” Zelda said, sympathetic.

“Well, whatever that was can wait until after we talk to the Jarl.”

Zelda hummed again, agreeing, as he sped off ahead. In her off hand, she held the bottle from earlier. Inside a glowing wind swirled, tapping against the glass. “What to do with you, now…?”

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

Link, in Whiterun

DOVAHKIIN

Link twitched, looking towards the source of the sound. Up on the tallest peak, the clouds had parted from the force of the sound. All around him the townspeople gasped and gossiped, trying to figure out what the shout meant.

“...?”

Link agreed. “We definitely just missed something.”