csb

Thanks so much for your efforts and the confirmation, Trojan. :)

It just occurred to me it might be a .swf thing with HUD positioning, etc. Can any of you SWFers out there confirm that? :) Thanks

So far I've located the Game Setting Strings for HIDDEN, CAUTION, DETECTED etc. but I can't seem to find the setting to remove the brackets ( { and ] ) from the HUD. Any help with this is greatly appreciated. - C

BOSS can help you get a good handle on where to start with load order. BOSS, however, isn't perfect - but it'll get you close. Once you've gotten as close as you can get with BOSS and/or Nexus Mod Manager, you'll need a program like Wrye to create merge patches for those mods that stil do conflict in more subtle ways. There are times where it doesn't have to be even that: high poly meshes and HD textures can overwhelm Skyrim too, depending on what is going on in-memory at the moment. Remember, just because your PC is beefy and has greater than 4GB RAM, Skyrim as a 32-bit program has that 4GB limit ... if you cross that threshold, even for a second, CTD ... it runs out of room (within itself) to process all the resources a cell is trying to load. The reason it is more prevalent in the open world is because of the number of cells and sheer number of resources involved. If you know your mods are getting along pretty well, but you also know you're using hi-poly meshes and textures (all those "pretty" mods come with a price!) that come with some mods, entering the console periodically and typing pcb (purge cell buffer) can help free up some of that memory usage. That comes at a price too, as previously-cached cell resources have to be reloaded ... but it can help.

These sorts of crashes usually indicate a conflict between mods. You can use BOSS to help optimize your load order, along with using Nexus Mod Manager (NMM) to fine-tune it. For those more technically proficient, you can use programs like Wrye Bash to create merge patches to help with the perhaps more subtle conflicts. Lastly, don't forget to talk to mod authors on their discussion pages if you can narrow down the conflict to a few mods; mod authors generally will assist with (or create) compatibility patches if you go about asking nicely :).

It is Nexus Mod Manager that is using/adding to plugins.txt. So if you use NMM to launch SKSE or Skyrim, NMM will auto-update plugins.txt. Here's the sure-fire way around having NMM auto-update: 1. Once you have used BOSS and NMM (or just NMM) to order your mods, launch Skyrim (regular or SKSE). 2. If you get the WETrigger warning, exit out of Skyrim (odds are you'll be hung, so either CTRL-ALT_DEL and select Task Manager to close Skyrim that way, or ALT-TAB to your desktop and in the Task Bar, right click and select Close Window). 3. Open plugins.txt (in any text editor) and correct the duplicate skyrim.esm (by deleteing one of them) and the update.esm (by deleting that line*) entries. 4. Save the file and exit the text editor of your choice. 5. In the appdata/local/skyrim folder, right click on plugins.txt and select Properties. 6. In the General tab, check the Read Only option. Apply and then close the dialog box. 7. Start NMM, it will prompt you that the file is Read Only, click on the No button and TMM won't undo the Read Only status or update the file. If you add mods, you will have to repeat these steps (select Yes when running NMM, then repeat the steps above). A pain, I know, but until Nexus fixes NMM, you're stuck with this when adding mods * You may not need to delete this line; as long the update.esm is checked in NMM or the Launcher, it shouldn't matter if it is in the txt file, the game will load the plug-ins based on what is checked in the Launcher/NMM. Once your load order is set, if you are using SKSE, just create a shortcut to skse_loader.exe (in your steam\steamapps\common\skyrim folder) and launch Skyrim with that. If you don't use SKSE, just launch the game normally (without going through Nexus Mod Manager). (edit) Just a reminder: Once your load order is set and if you prefer starting Skyrim using Nexus Mod Manager, remember to click No when NMM prompts you for access to plugins.txt. Unless you are adding/removing mods, in which case, you'll have to re-do steps 1-7.

(deleted duplicate post)

According to Nexus experts like Duskdweller, you need the update.esm, not any skyrim.esms in your ini plugin file. If you run the most updated version of BOSS with NMM, it will set your plugin ini file in order. Update.esm being in the <user>/appdata/local/skyrim folder's plugin.txt (or .ini for those that created it) doesn't seem to matter; what seems to be more important (insofar as mods that list update.esm as a master) is that it is checked in NMM (or the Skyrim Launcher) as an active plug-in. In fact, because of whatever son-of-a-glitch Bethesda introduced with the Dawnguard DLC, having update.esm listed in the plugin.txt file does cause the error indicated. As far as what is causing the duplicate skyrim.esm insertion ... as mentioned in a post here, likely a script not doing what it is supposed to. I agree, though, that it is a good idea to use BOSS to get a good rough starting point for load order, especially for those not familiar with load order issues and how to resolve them. see my post above for my revised "solution" to this problem.

According to Nexus experts like Duskdweller, you need the update.esm, not any skyrim.esms in your ini plugin file. If you run the most updated version of BOSS with NMM, it will set your plugin ini file in order. Update.esm being in the <user>/appdata/local/skyrim folder's plugin.txt (or .ini for those that created it) doesn't seem to matter; what seems to be more important (insofar as mods that list update.esm as a master) is that it is checked in NMM (or the Skyrim Launcher) as an active plug-in. In fact, because of whatever son-of-a-glitch Bethesda introduced with the Dawnguard DLC, having update.esm listed in the plugin.txt file does cause the error indicated. As far as what is causing the duplicate skyrim.esm insertion ... as mentioned in a post here, likely a script not doing what it is supposed to. I agree, though, that it is a good idea to use BOSS to get a good rough starting point for load order, especially for those not familiar with load order issues and how to resolve them.

I was having the same issue. Go to the appdata/local/skyrim folder as previously explained and select the plugins.txt (and plugins.ini if it exists) and right click. Select Properties. Select Read Only. This is only a temporary fix, but after setting the file(s) to be read-only, I didn't have that updating problem that re-inserted skyrim.esm and update.esm. If you need to re-run BOSS, go back and uncheck Read Only. Run BOSS, then repeat removing the duplicate skyrim.esm and update.esm and re-setting the files to be Read Only. Also, I went to my steam/steamapps/skyrim/data/scripts/source folder and deleted the wayward WETrigger source script - this forced the file to be re-extracted from skyrim.esm. I'm not sure if that helped in my case, but it was an additional step that I took. (edit) ps: It is Nexus Mod Manager that is using/adding to plugins.txt. So my revised "solution" - 1. Once you have used BOSS and NMM (or just NMM) to order your mods, launch Skyrim (regular or SKSE). 2. If you get the WETrigger warning, exit out of Skyrim (odds are you'll be hung, so either CTRL-ALT_DEL and select Task Manager to close Skyrim that way, or ALT-TAB to your desktop and in the Task Bar, right click and select Close Window). 3. Open plugins.txt (in any text editor) and correct the duplicate skyrim.esm (by deleteing one of them) and the update.esm (by deleting that line*) entries. 4. Save the file and exit the text editor of your choice. 5. In the appdata/local/skyrim folder, right click on plugins.txt and select Properties. 6. In the General tab, check the Read Only option. Apply and then close the dialog box. 7. Start NMM, it will prompt you that the file is Read Only, click on the No button and TMM won't undo the Read Only status or update the file. If you add mods, you will have to repeat these steps (select Yes when running NMM, then repeat the steps above). A pain, I know, but until Nexus fixes NMM, you're stuck with this when adding mods * You may not need to delete this line; as long the update.esm is checked in NMM or the Launcher, it shouldn't matter if it is in the txt file, the game will load the plug-ins based on what is checked in the Launcher/NMM. pps: Once your load order is set, if you are using SKSE, just create a shortcut to skse_loader.exe and launch Skyrim with that. If you don't use SKSE, just launch the game normally (without going through Nexus Mod Manager).

It seems the editor to format the text of III.2 didn't work, so for the moment it is unformatted as a regular post ... hmmm.

2. Meeting on Monahven Despite my fervent and frequent prayers, Akatosh had yet to impart enlightenment. Was I on the right path? Was this my destiny? Why had I been chosen? All my questions and self-doubts went unanswered by the head of the Aedra. The Daedra, conversely, were all too frequent in their meddling on the mortal plane, reaching out from the bit of Oblivion in which they held sway. I have contemplated this frequently and at some length. Julianos' insight avoids me still. That is to say, I am as baffled now as I was when first asking such questions. I wonder if by their seeming absence at times, the gods tell us that by their gifts they give us free rein to use them. The Daedra, on the other hand, are more specific in the use of their gifts and the conditions of their use. In my travels I had encountered several of the Daedric gods: Meridia, Hircine, Boethiah and Sheogorath. Each had laid their quest upon me; each had set the conditions of their boon or lifting of curses. Each encounter had come with a price. This is not to say that bearing Akatosh's gift did not have its price. It most certainly did. But it left me wondering about the Aedra's purposes, terms and conditions. I make mention of this because as I reached Monahven's top with the Kel, I paused to pray to the Divines — or at least Akatosh and Talos — for strength and guidance. If their silence were a test of my faith, I readily admit that my faith was being sorely tested. At so crucial a juncture, I had hoped that some vision would appear to me and affirm that my path was the right one. But there was only the soft sigh of Kyne's breath upon the ice and rock and the swirl of drifting snow left in its wake. Rising from my knees, I made my way to Paarthurnax's perch. "Drem Nok Yol," he rumbled at my approach, "Greetings." I bowed deeply and said nothing, lifting the weight of the Kel from where it hung on my hip for his inspection. "I sense something different in you, Dovahkiin," he remarked. I sighed and replied pensively, "The Blades wish you dead." "The Blades are wise not to trust me. Orikaan ni ov. I would not trust another Dovah," Paarthurnax allowed, stretching his long neck to observe me closely. "Why shouldn't they?" I asked, eyes fixed on the unfathomable black of his. "Dov wahlaan fah rel. We were made to dominate. The will to power is in our blood. You feel it yourself, do you not?" he admitted. I nodded, "I do and it scares me." "Hinu onik kos wah zofaas. I can be trusted. I know this. But they do not. Orikaan ni ov dovah. It is always wise to mistrust a dovah. I have overcome my nature only through meditation and long study of the Way of the Voice. No day goes by where I am not tempted to return to my inborn nature. Zin krif horvut se suleyk. Which is better — to be born good, or to overcome your evil nature through great effort?" There was no anger or bitterness in his voice as he asked. I studied him a long while before answering Paarthurnax as I had answered Delphine, "As with the Altmer, not all are Thalmor. We all face our inner temptations, and sometimes we are fortunate enough to overcome them." "Even you, Dovahkiin?" he prodded gently. "Yes, even me. If I had forced the issue, I could have been Queen. That was the dovah in me rising, I suspect," I answered with a slow nod. A low amused snort rumbled forth from his snout as he commented, "As it is, you became Kulaas." "As we ought not to kill every Altmer for fear they are Thalmor; so, too, should we not kill every dov because we fear they may be aligned with Alduin. That you struggle and achieve goodness is sufficient cause to let you live," I chewed at my lip as I said this, trying not to arouse Paarthurnax's ire. "Such an enlightened view for a joor," his rumble was full of his humor. His tone turned serious then, "Krosis. Los tiid, Dovahkiin. It is time." "I believe it is," trying to keep my misgivings from inflecting in my voice. "Lahvra mulaag, little one." he offered as encouragement. "Komeyt mu dreh daar." I mustered what I could, stepping purposefully to the rend in Time. My stomach tied in knots, I lifted the Elder Scroll and began to read. The power of the Kel swirled around the top of Monahven. Even in retrospect, I have no words to describe it. Like the power of a Word Wall, it suffused me. But unlike that experience, I was left feeling disjointed from time — part of me was there upon Monahven and part was hurled back to the other ageless reach of the Tiid-Ahraan. Full of fear of the consequences, I dared not let my mind wander forward — such is the power of Elder Scrolls. There before my eyes, as if I had some omniscient view — which I suppose through the Scroll I did — I heard the heroes of yore discussing facing Alduin. They voiced every fear I was feeling, but seemed steadfast and confident that their Thu'um would bring an end to the dragon. They argued the use of the Elder Scroll. Then it was too late, for Alduin was among them. Long the battle raged, with the Heroes of the Nords faring the worst of it. It seemed for a moment as if they would fail; that as if by using the Kel in my day, I had changed the history of theirs. Fortunately, it was not so. The Thu'um of Dragonrend issued from their Voice and Alduin was brought down in their midst, finally assailable. Yes, I do not use the actual words of the Thu'um here — I am uncertain if I should ever reveal it; or if I should, that it should be in some place more secure than the leaves of a tome. Despite bringing Alduin down from the sky, the battle was still dire, and was on the verge of being lost. The Scroll was read in that distant day and Alduin was hurled from Tamriel with an outraged screech. They thought him defeated; but they did not account for the vagaries of Elder Scrolls nor of Time itself. I mulled the Thu'um revealed. Would it be enough? The doubt rang loud through the corridors of my mind. The Tiid-Ahraan closed and the glimpse of that distant day vanished. I felt drained, staggered by the immensity of the experience. I had no time to gather my wits or strength; for as in that distant day, seemingly from nowhere — and similar to that day in Helgen — one moment the sky was clear and calm, and the next it was filled with the scaled fury that was Alduin. Even now, I can scarcely remember the details. Most battles last mere seconds, or at most a few minutes. On a battlefield, there are many such smaller individual battles that may last longer; but each individual skirmish follows that rule of seconds or minutes. Even in so short a span, the exertion and danger leaves you exhausted, drained and aware of your mortal frailty as you exult in the simple fact of having survived. The fight with Alduin lasted hours. Spell and Thu'um and blade rang upon Monahven's battered crown. Lightning flashed, from spell and Thu'um and the electric smell of it surrounded me. Time and again, Dragonrend reached out to bring Alduin in his full fury to ground. Through it all, Paarthurnax was busy harassing Akatosh's first-born's flank. For all our fury, Alduin seemed invulnerable. Though Dragonrend repeatedly brought him down into my reach and Krii Lun Aus left him weakened to an extent, the dragon was more resilient than any I had faced previously. I have heard accounts from those dwelling in the Rift and Riverwood valleys, and from those across the rolling tundra of the White River, of the storm that raged from their distant view. The Throat of the World obscured in clouds, lightning and pummeled by the fall of meteors summoned by Alduin's Thu'um. Thankfully, Lok Vah Koor was sufficient to ward the worst of the meteor storms' impact. I had long lost sense of time, except in some distant way realizing that the sun had sunk from its midday perch to poise itself above the far western peaks. Every fiber of my being ached, my mind felt numbed and sluggish, and my arms were leaden. I was faltering and knew it. Just when I thought I could go on no further, Alduin let loose an angry and frustrated roar, cursing me as I had cursed him through our fight. Mighty beats of dragon wings bore him aloft and Paarthurnax was sufficiently wearied to forgo pursuit. Dragonbane fell from my numbed fingers and I sank to my knees, body quivering with exhaustion. Tears flowed freely down my cheeks and try as I might; I could not still the sobs that wracked themselves from my throat. "Briinah, kos ahraan?" Paarthurnax lit beside me, what passed for concern was etched onto his eye ridges. I was too spent and hurt to reply. Yes, I am injured. I vaguely thought it but the words could not escape through my sobbing gasps. "Har-hummm," the Master of the Voice uttered, his eyes scanning my injuries. Those there were in abundance, either fresh or the remnants of the rents, tears and scorches suffered in the battle. My armor hung in disarray and my sweat and blood flowed freely from it. "What ails you, Dovahkiin?" "I …" the words escaped between my gasps for air and the heaving of my sobs, "I … have … failed." "Ni, Dovahkiini kroniid. Alduin nivahriin bovulaan." Paarthurnax uttered, his words were full of weariness, and possibly hurt. "Why would he flee?" I managed while wrestling to stop my weeping and gain control of my wayward emotions. "Alduin was close to falling, Dovahkiin. He was beaten. More, he was being beaten by a joor — a mortal." His immense bulk came to rest next to my kneeling form and the weight of him pressed wearily into the snow. "But… he lives, and now there is no Kel and Dragonrend itself is not enough. I have failed," I wiped angrily at my tears with a blood-streaked and shaking hand. "Ahhhh." The sound was full of more meaning than Paarthurnax's utterance of it. "To fight Alduin to a draw was not a thing he expected, Kulaas. Alduin now knows that if he is to ultimately win, that the path to that victory lies through defeating you. Now he must wonder if he can do that. Drem. Patience. First we must both praan'haas ... heal." I looked down, finally the sight of the wounds that I bore sunk in; the battered condition of my armor seeping with my blood, the bleeding claw gashes on my arms and legs, and various burns and other injuries. The severity of my hurt finally announced itself past my previous shock. Each hurt screamed for attention that I had not the strength to give them. Dimly aware that Arngeir and the other Greybeards were approaching, I slipped into the embrace of darkness giving prayer to Akatosh. To be continued.

Part III is now underway. Enjoy!

Part III. Comes Dovahkiin 1. Merging Paths i. Dark Destinations I have alluded to Riften more than once and to the boy in Windhelm who sought out the Dark Brotherhood. Both led me to darker paths that may paint my portrait darker in your day. Be that as it may, it was not with dark intent that I walked those paths. Riften, at the time, was rife with corruption and thievery, and despite the best efforts of the Jarl and an itinerant knight, Mjoll the Lioness, Raven Black-Briar sat behind the scenes and spun her larcenous webs, untouchable and remote. Or so she thought. While the tribes of the Reachmen provided me with ample eyes and ears across the western wilds of the Reach, gaining watchful eyes in the towns and villages required another approach. The Forsworn were not welcome in any settlement save their own. So it was that I set about a two-fold path: to recruit those with the talents to gain information, people who were either completely unseen, or who blended into their surrounds. In Riften's Ratway was a dank and drear haunt, the Ragged Flagon, frequented by thugs and lowlifes in the main. It was also the province of Vex, a Cyrodiilac woman of the opinion that her feces was less odorous than the sewers that surrounded her. It was she that was the intermediary for Raven. Before setting about finding Esbern, I had already largely secured the loyalties — however tenuously — of the Guild's "associates." Once the reins were in my hands, in a manner of speaking, it was not overly difficult to steer them into raiding Imperial stores, spying on Imperial movements and the like. The Dark Brotherhood was another matter entirely. I confess that I was torn in how to approach the assassins. On one hand was the choice to eliminate them entirely and on the other was the dark — but often necessary — need to use subtle but lethal solutions in matters of politics. No matter what legends or myths of me may say, the choice was one of pragmatism. I could not afford at the time the white or black of the moral high or low roads. In avenging the poor young waif of Windhelm, I struck down the mistress of the orphanage that had wronged him and the other children in her charge. At the time, I gave the deed little thought, other than to commend her soul to Arkay's keeping. Not long after, the dilemma of what to do about the assassins became moot. I did not need to find them, they found me. I thought little of it when a courier approached and delivered a note, for already I had received several such that pointed me toward various Word Walls. But this one was different. We know. I went to sleep that night, my head filled largely with other matters and gave the mysterious note scarce thought. Like many a night, sleep proved elusive as my wearied mind struggled with the problems of the war and the dragons. Eventually, however, troubled sleep came to my over-taxed mind. I awoke in a sparsely furnished shack, my head aching in the aftermath of some incapacitating poison. I chided myself for my carelessness. When my vision cleared sufficiently, I noted a dark-clad woman perched upon a shelf watching me quietly. "Your killing of Grelod has pleased us," the woman remarked quietly. She did not pause for my answer, but continued, "However, you have interceded in a contract with the Dark Brotherhood. The Night Mother is displeased." "Did I?" I grumbled, still trying to clear my head of the poison's effects. Astrid — for that was the name she later gave me — inclined her head, dipping her chin briefly. Again she spoke in a quiet, almost casual tone, "Yes, Gerlod the Headmistress. But the Night Mother is willing to let you atone. A life for a life." I realized then that I was bound. It also became clear by Astrid's gesture that we were not alone; three others shared my bound state. "One of these poor sods has a contract out on their life. Which one is it?" she posed in a musing tone. "What is it you expect of me?" I asked, futilely working to free my bound hands. "Why, kill the guilty one, of course," Astrid replied. "And if I do not?" I replied, a hint of anger coming at last. "Why then I shall have to kill you," came the chilling but calmly and matter-of-factly given answer. My mind raced. With my hands bound as they were, there was no spell I could cast and no Thu'um that came to mind was suited to freeing myself and disarming Astrid simultaneously. As neat a trap as I could fall into, I admitted to myself with some grudging respect. "Hmm." I pondered, "How am I to tell which is the guilty one?" "Feel free to talk to them, Dragonborn, I shall abide your decision," she answered casually. Were it not for the topic and circumstance, the manner of our converse was civil and pleasant. "I do not bear any of them malice," I fixed her with a stare. "Malice?" she replied in mock surprise, "We bear no malice, it is simply business. The only malice that may exist is in the hearts of those who contract with us." I had no ready answer so gave a low snort instead, finally replying, "It is murder nonetheless." "Some deserve killing, do they not, Dragonborn?" Astrid answered calmly. Debating the semantics, it seemed, would get me nowhere and could I chance the assassin losing her patience? I stood and made my way over to the others. A Nord, a warrior by the look of him; a woman who bore the garb of a commoner; and last, a Khajiit, who of the three seemed least put out by the situation. Reluctantly, then, I questioned each of them. "Who would want you dead?" I asked the first after learning he was Fultheim the Fearless, a sword-sell. He shrugged, "In my line of work? There could be many who hold a grudge." "Maybe there were … times I got carried away? But war is war," he answered on my pressing him further. I did not press him on what he meant by "carried away." The woman, Alea Quintus, was an irritating mother of a half-dozen. She was adamant in demanding to be freed at once. As with the Nord, I pressed her why anyone would wish to hire her death. "Bah, do some people look down on me? Have I made enemies? You're damn right!" As deserving as her acerbic tongue made her, she was guilty at most of being a bitter wretch of a woman without the common sense to keep her tongue still in her head. "Vasha," the Khajiit said before I could ask, "obtainer of goods, taker of lives and defiler of daughters." He said it as casually as Astrid and I had conversed. Alea again demanded to be released at once. I was beginning to see why someone, most likely a bedraggled husband, would wish her dead. "If one of my enemies wouldn't pay to have me killed, I'd take it as a personal insult," Vasha answered when I asked who would wish him dead. So there it was. Which to choose? Of the three, Vasha certainly had less to commend himself to continued life. I began to empathize to an extent with the headsman at Helgen. Here I was to be judge, jury and, it seemed, executioner. My fevered brain still had not discerned a way to confront Astrid directly. I will admit, I had no desire to die in their stead; nor was I sure Astrid would not kill the three regardless. I took a deep breath and turned to the watching assassin. "Yes?" her brow crept up fractionally. "The Khajiit," I said simply. "The conniving Khajiit," she remarked with a nod as she freed my bindings, "Cat like that was sure to have enemies. It's no wonder you chose him." As the bonds came free, she pressed the dagger into my tingling hand. Commending Vasha's soul to Stendarr's mercy and Arkay's keeping; I slashed the Khajiit's throat. It was the first time I had murdered someone in so cold-blooded a fashion. It would not be the last. May the gods grant mercy to my soul. ii. Miracles and Magic Between Word Walls, Jarl jaunts and the multitude of tasks others wanted the Dragonborn's help with, I found myself early on in Winterhold. First, to meet the Jarl there — Korir — secondly, on a massive outcrop of rock at Skyrim's bleak northeastern coast stood the College, the only formal school of magic in the north; indeed, one of the few in all Tamriel. Even though the season was early in the fall, blizzards and snowfall were common and the eves were bitter cold. The winds howled in often from the ice-floe-dotted expanse of the Sea of Ghosts. Like High Hrothgar on Monahven's peak, Winterhold had little to commend it other than the College. Once the city had been a mighty center of commerce; but now it stood as a ruin of its former glory, the college rising to its north standing vigil on Winterhold's long decline into deterioration. Snow swirled about me as I made my way through what remained of the town and approached the arched causeway that led to the College beyond. Before telling of the events at the College, I should explain my application of the Arts Arcane. Superficially at least, there would be no way to discern my use of the Art. My hands follow the same somatic patterns and my voice utters the same mnemonic chants that any mage practitioner would. However, in my case, I have never evoked a spell without praying to one of the Nine. I argued my method with both Tolfdir, the wizard that primarily oversaw new students and Savos Aren, then-Arch Mage. Tolfdir, for his part, took my approach in his usual doting and grandfatherly way. The Arch Mage, on the other hand, on the occasion I broached it to him, was skeptical and aloofly distant. I know from my studies that anyone sufficiently gifted and who applies themselves can learn some basic magic. Magicka, as you may know, is that pool of magic that flows into us from Aetherius — the Immortal Plane — into Mundus by way of the sun and stars. Like everything else that distinguishes one being from another that pool we have varies between individuals. Perhaps it was my upbringing in Stendarr's temple near our home, but it has always struck me that this well-spring of magic power within us is a Divine blessing. Thus, over the years, my foci in the use of magic has not been some cold, dry device of science, but rather a vibrant reception and use of a gift granted by the gods. Perhaps in your future day you may know more of the aspects of this gift bequeathed us. If so, I envy you that knowledge. I had not intended so, but I remained at the College for some time. It was there I met the Altmer Ancano — a Thalmor agent and "advisor." By and large, the mages there, including the Arch Mage, suffered his presence, but not gladly. And it was by Ancano's doing that I went from being a content student adding to my store of restorative and conjuring magic to becoming the College's Arch Mage. As with becoming Dovahkiin, I never intended to become Arch Mage. I shan't recount the entirety of the path that I trod from skilled acolyte to master of the Arts. But as it plays a salient part on my path toward confronting Alduin, it is necessary that you know the pertinent parts. In many ways being Arch Mage was as much a hindrance — given the general distaste and distrust of mages among Nords — as it was a help. Through the finding of the Eye of Magnus, in which I played no small part to acquiring the Staff of Magnus to counter Ancano's treachery — which resulted in Savos' passing — I was set on a path of discovery of an all-important artifact: an Elder Scroll. Perhaps in your future Age you do not know or have scant knowledge of such things. Gods only know, the collective knowledge we now hold is scant enough. Or perhaps in your Age your knowledge of the Scrolls is full and complete. More so than with any greater understanding of the workings and origins of magic; I would envy you that. Regardless, there is no simple and short answer to what an Elder Scroll is. Perhaps Septimus Signus — a more than partially mad member of the College living a hermit-like life amid the ice floes — described it best in his work Ruminations on the Elder Scrolls. "Imagine living beneath the waves with a strong-sighted blessing of most excellent fabric. Holding the fabric over your gills, you would begin to breathe-drink its warp and weft. Though the plantmatter fibers imbue your soul, the wretched plankton would pollute the cloth until it stank to heavens of prophecy. This is one manner in which the Scrolls first came to pass, but are we the sea, or the breather, or the fabric? Or are we the breath itself? Can we flow through the Scrolls as knowledge flows through, being the water, or are we the stuck morass of sea-filth that gathers on the edge?" From Paarthurnax I learned a bit more, that such Kel — to use its name in the tongue of Dragons — exist both within and outside of time, and are a prophesy — perhaps of our very vision's inclinations — of all our futures linked to all our possible pasts. Intellectually and philosophically the thought of this still brings a throbbing ache to my head. I shall leave fuller knowing of Elder Scrolls to those willing to chance madness, blindness or both to gain the merest glimmers. So in following this path did I come across a Kel — an Elder Scroll — that I saw, after consulting with Esbern, Arngeir and Paarthurnax — as the only means to defeat Alduin World-Eater and the coming of the End of Days. iii. Trials and Tribulations There are times that I think that the many side trails I trod were an escape, really, from the burdens of being Dragonborn. At other times, I wonder if Fate — that manifestation of Divine providence — did not steer me on those paths to steel me for what was to come. Gods only know I weary of wearing this mantle. But what am I to do? If I could foist it upon someone more suited to defeating Alduin, I would. But despite my wishing it so, it is not so. So wear this mantle I must. Is that destiny or curse? I do not know, but I have that thought often. Mayhap there is truth in the saw that we are our own harshest critic. I would not argue against it. I do know that barely three-quarters of a year past that day in Helgen, barely past my twenty-first birthday, I was not the woman I had been. But that did not mean I was the woman that others thought they saw. I also do not argue that my skill with blade, spell and Thu'um had grown. Enough so that others paid heed out of respect or fear and my deeds — distorted as they may be — were spread across the width and breadth of Skyrim. However reluctantly, I had become someone of note in these lands and one whose words carried weight. It did not mean I was worthy of it all. Did all those others, from Queen Elisif to the common freeholder know my fears? I think if they did, perhaps I would not seem ten feet tall or able to smite dragons with a single blow. Or seem as epic as in any of the other plentiful and fanciful tales making the rounds in taverns, inns or wherever the folk gathered to spread news or rumor. Am I that insecure in my worth that I can still doubt myself? I certainly fear that I am. Events have proved Master Arngeir right. My unexplained ability to absorb various Thu'um without effort and to subsume the souls of dragons supports the assertion that I am Dovahkiin. But being Dragonborn does not make me Talos. My skill with the blade is not my doing, but that of the patience of skilled warriors in their teaching. Being skilled in battle and fortunate enough to survive them does not make me Talos. So too with my skill in the Arcane being the result of the patience of more knowing mages at the College. That my pool of magicka is deeper and broader than that of most does not make me Talos. The evidence and the accolades and deference of others tell me that they find me worthy. So why is it I fear it? Why did I not feel worthy? Why, despite all that has happened, do I still not feel worthy? Is it that I feel that I struggle against Fate and destiny in vain? That no matter my desires, wants or needs, I have no ultimate say? Or is it because that we all feel small when comparing ourselves to monumental tasks? Somewhere I have read that heroes are ordinary folk who rise to meet extraordinary circumstance. While I do not feel heroic, I suppose that amid the tumultuous events of war and the coming of dragons, others see me in that light. But it does not make me so in my eyes. Or perhaps that is the curse of being human and seeming small under the watchful eyes of eternity. Still, Elisif saw me off, hope glinting in her eyes. I am not Talos! I yearned to shout. I fear I sighed; I was no Divine, but they all expected the same sort of deliverance. iv. Dragons and Destinies As all the previous trails came together, converging at Solitude, I felt the weight of Dovahkiin in full. Until the battle's aftermath, I had had only fleeting and unworthy thoughts of the responsibility associated with Akatosh's bestowal. I had mustered what knowledge of Thu'um I could. I had trained relentlessly with blade and spell. With the help of many, I had played some role in bringing civil war in Skyrim to an end and taken strides to address the wrongs done by Nords to peoples of other races living within Skyrim's reach. I could delay no further. Scant few grains remained in the hourglass and it was time to bear the Kel to Monahven's heights and there, read it at the Time Wound — that rend in Time created by the ancient forebears when first casting Alduin out with Scroll and a new Thu'um, one of their invention — Dragonrend. It was this Thu'um that gave us all a glimmer of hope in avoiding the End Times foretold in the Sagas. I bid my solemn farewells and departed Solitude alone, bound for High Hrothgar. It was time to call again on Paarthurnax, the leader of the Greybeards. Unlike my first meeting, this one I dreaded for it meant coming face to face with Alduin. On my first meeting, Arngeir had been particularly upset with my association with the Blades. I did my best to try and placate him but his words grew ever-more terse. Finally it was Einarth's rebuke that assuaged the elder Greybeard's umbrage. "Arngeir. Rokaas los Dovahkiin, Strundu'ul. Rokaas fen tinvaak Paarthurnax." Other than his teaching, it was the first I had ever heard him speak and glad I am that he quietly pointed out, "Arngeir. She is Dragonborn, Stormcrown. She will speak with Paarthurnax." For all his dislike of the Blades, Arngeir is a reasonable and peaceful man and yielded graciously to Einarth's logic. I followed the four Greybeards once again to the inner courtyard of the Temple of the Sky. There I was instructed in a new Thu'um, Lok Vah Koor … or Clear Skies loosely, but literally Sky Spring Summer. This proved to open the way upward and I used it several more times to dispel the mystical mist that impeded progress further up Monahven. From the hints of others, chance readings of my own and from the graven Akaviri bas relief in the temple at Sky Haven, I had my suspicions about the nature of Paarthurnax. But having suspicions and being confronted with the reality are two different things. Paarthurnax, you see, is a dragon. By this time I had killed well over a score of them. But never had I approached one to speak. I was unsure what I would encounter and approached warily and nervously as he swooped from the clear blue sky and alit before me. "Drem Yol Lok. Greetings, wunduniik. I am Paarthurnax. Who are you? What brings you to my strunmah … my mountain?" "I have come, Master Paarthurnax, because it is said you may have knowledge of a Thu'um that is direly needed," I explained quietly and politely. "Drem. Patience. There are formalities that must be observed at the first meeting of two of the dov," he rumbled. "By long tradition, the elder speaks first. Hear my Thu'um! Feel it in your bones! Match it if you are Dovahkiin!" Upon roaring the last, his maw opened and he spewed flame upon the Word Wall there upon Monahven's crown. Did I say that Paarthurnax represents three words in the Dragon tongue: Ambition Overlord Cruelty? Perhaps you can understand my initial trepidation and caution. "Come, give me your tinvaak," the dragon urged, unfathomable ebon eyes fixed on mine. I was at a loss for a moment, for tinvaak means talk or conversation in Dragonish. He gave a flick of his head upon his sinewy length and there I saw the second aspect of Yol … and upon reading that rune, felt the dragon's power rush into me, much as it had with Borri and Wulfgar when they had imparted Ro and Wuld. As the power of Toor swirled and entered into me, Paarthurnax said, "A gift, Dovahkiin. Yol. Understand Fire as the dov do. Now show me what you can do. Greet me now not as mortal, but as dovah!" Yol … Toor! Flame rushed from me, engulfing the dragon's head. "Ah," he rumbled, "the dragon blood runs strong in you! For a joor. Come, ask me your questions." So I asked him of the Thu'um that had defeated Alduin, telling Paarthurnax of Esbern's interpretation of the panel in the Akaviri temple. "I expected such a question, Dovahkiin," he admitted with a snake-like bob of his head upon his neck, "Alduin and Dovahkiin return together." He allowed that he did not know this Shout, that Dragonrend had been the invention of Man, the ancient Nords who rebelled against the rule of Dragonkind. Upon my rush of questions, Paarthurnax patiently told me of the Dragon War and his role in it and of his belief that using a Kel should allow me to travel to the beginning of the Tiid-Ahraan — Time-Wound — that faintly shimmered there atop the Throat of the World. Thus would I hear the Thu'um and see it used as it had been. We spoke at length on many things. Truth be told, I began to like the timeless dragon more and more as we shared tinvaak. And for the first time, I voiced my fears and doubts to another. "Trust your instincts, Dovahkiin. Your blood will show you the way," he rumbled with conviction. I felt my feelings of my inadequacies abate somewhat. I realized with a start that the day had slipped away during our tinvaak and the sun was embracing the peaks far to the west. "Darkness comes, Master Paarthurnax, literal and figurative," I said. His head bobbed and he rumbled, "Before you go, I would wish to grant you greater knowledge. Upon which aspect would you desire to mediate: Fus, Feim or Yol?" I indicated that Fus would be my choice and he nodded, explaining, "It is called Force in your tongue. But as you push the world, so does the world push back. Think of the way force may be applied effortlessly. Imagine but a whisper pushing aside all in its path. That is Fus. Let its meaning fill you. Su'um ahrk morah. You will push the world harder than it pushes back." So we meditated there for a time as dark engulfed the eastern side of Monahven and the snow sparkled with rose and golden hues on its western face. In sun's setting, there was insight. I stretched to ease the numbing ache of sitting so long upon frozen ground and stifled a moan. Paarthurnax queried why I seemed so eager to go. "In truth, Master Paarthurnax, I am not sure I can. My arse seems frozen to the ground, so long have we spoken." My reply was given as half-grouse, half-jest. What I think passed for laughter rumbled deep in his draconic throat. I fear that far below the dark-shrouded heights of Monahven, the people of Skyrim heard the crashing roll of ominous thunder. "Ah, yes," he allowed, "Forgive me, but I forget that time passes differently for joor and for dov." "Far more forgiven if you warm my backside." I hoped that within their being dragons knew levity when they heard it. Evidently they did, for again Paarthurnax's laughing thunder exploded out into the world. This time accompanied by flickers of flame from his snout. I smiled at the ancient reptilian, bowing as well, "Sky above, friend and Master, and Voice within." What passed for an amused grunt met my ears. "So be it, Dovahkiin." He paused a moment and then surprised me with, "I know Arngeir has named you as the assumption of Ysmir, Dragon of the North. But you would honor me if you would permit me to give you your own name." I blinked my surprise, "In Dragonish?" His scaly head dipped briefly on his sinewy neck and I smiled wider still and replied filled with wonder and remnants of my humor, "But of course! Such a thing would be an honor. Ahem. Presuming it isn't Arse on Fire." He rumbled a chuckle and lifted his head then, neck fully outstretched and the Voice of Paarthurnax was heard in its full in Skyrim for the first time in countless years. The sound of it echoed from peak to peak and rolled across the plains and valleys. "Kulaas Zul Nahlaas!" My mind worked to translate it. My mouth fell agape as the meaning struck me. I was stunned by the honor this off-spring of Akatosh had just laid upon me. I was utterly speechless. His eyes fixed on mine, another laugh rumbling in his throat, "By Akatosh! That felt pruzah!" "But..." It was all I could stammer. "Let Alduin wonder, Dovahkiin." My smile widened and I bowed my head to him, "I suppose he shall, Master." Another rumble of amusement followed, "Do not keep him wondering too long, Kulass'Zulnahlass." "But that means..." "Yes. Lok Thu'um, little one." He fluttered his wings and launched himself skyward. My mind reeling, I had made my way back down to the Temple of the Sky. Though I could see the question in Arngeir's eyes, he did not ask nor did I say. So here I was returning, Kel figuratively in hand. My trek up Monahven went unimpeded by weather or beast. The lack of the later was due to use of Kaan Drem Ov as I soothed bear and wolf. The fairness of the former was due to the coming of spring and Lok Vah Koor. So ended the eleventh step of a long and trying journey. [To be continued.]

I went back and made some edits to Parts I and II. For the most part this involved punctuation, adding/removing a word here and there to clean up some changes made by Word before being ported here. I also increased the font size for readability. Now on to Part III, right? - C

I look forward to it! Thanks!

5. Uncivil War Once men have set their minds on war, I learned it is not so easily dismissed by moot or council. The last of the delegations, Jarls, the Queen and their retinues had departed High Hrothgar and I again stood overlooking the vastness of Skyrim to the west. Against the darkening purple of the distant mountains of the Reach, Kyne painted the sky in hues of gold, rose and orange. The wind tugged at my cloak as I stood quietly beside Arngeir, just as I had before the Moot. "You surprise me, Dragonborn," he finally allowed. "Hmm?" I responded, stirred from my reverie, "How-so?" "I did not consider that your path would be … so political," he answered, more as a musing than proper question of my course. "There was no other path that led to us united in confronting Alduin," I explained simply. He cleared his throat, "About the Blades…" "They play their part, as you play yours and I mine," I said softly with upraised hand. "I confess that I only now begin to understand what Talos must have been," he said with a quiet chuckle. I sighed. "I am no Talos, Master Arngeir," I said it with quiet dismissiveness. "No?" came the quiet of his voice beneath his cowl, "What course did you leave yourself after the council except south?" He paused and then added, "Once Alduin has been dealt with, of course." "I…" I let my voice trail away. He was right. I had trapped myself in that course by my actions. Is this what Talos had been forced to? Gods help us all, I am no Talos. "Your destiny is yours to discover," the elder Greybeard said. Putting an arm around my shoulder he said quietly, "Come, I think Borri has a marvelous stew in store for tonight." Later, with my belly full, I fell into bed enfolded in the dark and quiet of High Hrothgar and slept as I had not in far too many days. If I dreamt, I do not recall it. — From Monahven's heights, I traveled to Winterhold and spent some time there among the mages. For the answer to the last panel of Sky Haven's mural led me there. Before delving in full into what transpired there, I must conclude the account of Skyrim's civil war. For the war, though winding down, was one path and pursuing Alduin was yet another. I mention here a side path taken; one taken long before the council at High Hrothgar came to pass. For in my entire tale, I have not bespoke of affairs of my heart. And I shall not, except for this brief reminisce. In tracking down a band of Redguards in search of Saadia, a quiet woman who tended to chores in Whiterun's Bannered Mare, I found myself in Rorikstead. There, I first sought out the kin of Lorik and — with only the slightest embellishment — told them of his passing at Helgen. Telling of death is a hard enough blow and their memory of it would be far easier if it was offered in a velvet glove. I stayed the night, offering up a small service before a shrine to Talos, commending Lorik's soul to Sovngarde on his kin's behalf. It seemed the least I could do. The rosy hues of dawn washed across the purple-shadowed slopes of the western mountains that eventually led to Breton lands at High Rock. Key was feeling frisky that day and I laughed as he pranced and I had to rein in his eagerness to be off. I patted Key's neck, laughing and chiding him his friskiness when I chanced to look up. There, in the adjacent farm field was a begrimed young Nord man, leaning against his hoe and his clear blue eyes watched my equine antics with fascination and merriment "Hello," I said simply to hide my embarrassment for him overhearing me converse with my horse. He beamed and replied; somewhat surprised I had spoken at all, "Hullo, miss." His blonde hair was tussled and unkempt; he was awash in the dirt and sweat of his labors and dressed in simple burlap home-spun garb of the most common sort. In short, he was a common freeholder that would not catch a maiden's eye. Except he did. I had Key under full rein and was ready to head to Markarth, scarcely giving the farmer a second thought. His voice brought my head around again, "Pardon me, miss, but might I ask a favor?" And so he did. I mention this now, because already the tales of bards say that Erik is a stalwart knight of valor, noble of blood; of dashing looks and unabashed smile, with an easy manner given to all he encountered. Or so the tale goes. And so my Erik is, but he did not begin that way. Much as the Dragonborn was not a princess born with silver spoon in hand. — It was at the College in Winterhold that I learned of Tullius' treachery. A frantic ride across the rugged sweep of Skyrim followed. Key sensed my urgency and galloped at the full until he bore me lathered and spent to the stable at the bottom of Solitude's perch. There I found assembled Ulfric and his men — for Queen Elisif had spared him upon my recommendation he be allowed to atone for his crime. I vaulted from Key's back to face Skyrim's warlord, handing off the reins to a stable hand and turned my gaze to Ulfric. "So is it true? Tullius has seized Solitude and the Queen?" my voice was rather sharp and bristled. For mine had been a long ride; and I was tired and sore. "That is the short of it," Ulfric allowed. He showed me no malice for what had occurred at High Hrothgar, for I had spoken in his defense before the Queen and Jarls, and thus spared his life. Catching my breath, I said in less grumpy tone, "And the long of it?" "Tullius had gathered the remains of his Legion, those who wished to go already had. He sent a messenger to the Queen saying that he had important papers as well as matters to discuss before the Legion marched," he paused a moment in the rush of his account, then continued, "She came to his headquarters and Tullius had Queen Elisif captured. Her whereabouts are unknown, and Tullius' forces have secured Solitude — the b_stard Imperials swept upon the town and the guards loyal to Elisif before anyone knew what was what." I sighed and stared up the hill at the imposing walls of Solitude and the hazy outlines of Castle Dour within. "And our forces?" "Several hundred with more coming within hours from Markarth and Whiterun," he reported simply. "And Tullius' Legion … or rather the remnant of it?" I asked, gaze still fixed on the walls above. "Three hundred, perhaps four at most," he replied. I nodded, he did not need to say we did not have enough men yet to storm the walls. So I asked, "Has he offered ransom yet?" "Not yet," grunted Galmar in usual fashion. "I wonder what he hopes to gain by this?" I sighed, "He is surrounded and cut off from aid from Cyrodiil." Ulfric shrugged, "Who knows what plot is hatched in his treacherous Imperial head?" I mulled the situation, eyes still fixed upon the heights. I sighed again, "There is at least one Legion in the north of Cyrodiil, and yet another encamped near the Imperial City. Perhaps he hopes Titus will send them northwards to reclaim this … wayward province." Galmar grunted again and nodded, and after a brief moment, Ulfric did likewise and commented with a snort of derision, "As long as that b_stard holds the Queen, our hands are tied. So much for Imperial honor, hiding behind a woman's skirts!" "Were all of the guards taken or slain?" I asked, finally turning my eyes from the massive stone walls. "No. Most fled, I believe. Falk rallied them outside the main gate, but the gates were sealed before he could make a counter-sally." "Damn," I muttered, along with several other oaths. "Indeed. So what say you, Dragonborn?" he asked. "I would think, Warlord, that we must await reinforcements and at least send scouts to cover the ways north from Cyrodiil." He nodded his approval of my assessment. "We will be hard pressed to siege and watch the southern roads in force, Dragonborn," Ulfric allowed. Another oath escaped my lips, as well as a sigh, "Very well, I shall send word to King Madanach and request his aid. The Forsworn are excellent scouts and should Legions march north, can harry them to no end." Galmar snorted, "And why would that … ahem … the King aid us?" I offered a smile devoid of humor, "For several reasons. First, he likes Elisif; second, he hates the Imperials at least as much as Nords; and lastly … I am his niece." That opened both Ulfric's and Galmar's eyes, "Until then, we can do little but prepare to besiege Solitude and hope Tullius sees reason or makes some ransom we can counter." We broke counsel and Ulfric saw to the deployment of the men. Throughout the day, other forces arrived, with a large contingent from Whiterun arriving at dusk. I smiled, for there among them was Erik, resplendent in his armor at the head of the Companions. Days passed and a proper siege was begun. The soldiers constructed defenses and assembled engines of war. The population around was put to work cutting timbers and gathering large stones. There was no word from Castle Dour. Tullius, we all agreed, had sufficient stores to ride out a fairly long siege. If he hoped for a siege-break, he had ample time and resources. Outside the walls, life settled into a routine, and for all my desire to be off to find the Kel, I was also content to spend my eves with Erik. A week passed, then another. The stones thrown at the city walls were hardly making a dent in the defense. Frustrations began to mount as spring rains kept the camp dismal and wet. The adjacent farm had been turned into a headquarters and we had gathered there for the usual daily briefing. Which all too often was merely to dispense with logistics. But prayers to Julianos had left a glimmer of an idea in my mind. "There must be some inlet for the reservoirs of the city," I asked the assembled war chiefs. Murmurs swept through them as we poured —yet again —over Solitude's map. A voice allowed that this was possible, but perilous and a way open only to a handful of men. "We will need a Khajiit or two among them," I said, barely realizing I spoke aloud, "Torches will be useless, and Candlelight or Magelight will give us away … hmm, we will need potions of water breathing as well, most likely." Slowly the plan took shape and several Khajiit scouts were dispatched to discretely spy out the entry of water into the city. It took some persuasion, but it was agreed that I would lead the expedition; that our goal was to gain entry via the cistern and await the small hours of morning to overwhelm the forces at the gate. At our signal, several hundred men would charge the gate, and the engines of war would redouble their assault upon the walls with fire-bolts and hurled flaming pitch. What can I say other than the water was freezing cold with winter's melting? That the way was dark and narrow and that despite the potions, three men drowned? We made our way in only under-tunics, towing arms and armor buoyed by rafts made of small empty casks. But at last we found ourselves at the bottom of Solitude's war cisterns, frozen and numbed to our very bones. I frowned, for I had not allowed that our fingers would be so numbed as to be almost useless, either for bearing weapons or for climbing the ropes that hoisted vats of water to the city and to the castle. "I think, perhaps, I can climb these ropes, Dragonborn," a female Khajiit whose name I cannot now recall offered in a whisper in the dark. "To take a look, yes?" "Yes," was all my frozen brain would allow. Word was passed by whisper that all of us were to flex our fingers and so we did, sending pins and needles of pain through our numbed hands. It seemed a long while, but the scout returned reporting in a whisper, "No moon, is good. Soon guards will become sleepy and careless, yes?" Four massive ropes lifted the immense vats, and three of us were assigned to each. Rope was tied to each parcel of armor and weapons so they could be hauled up. Hand over hand I climbed in the dark, gritting my teeth against pain's cold and the strain on my arms. I heard a grunt in the dark that was followed by a splash and a short death cry. Someone had fallen. I froze where I was, suspended on the rope in the dark and held my breath for a time. Hearing no cry of alarm, I continued climbing. I could not feel my hands or my body, and it was all I could do to keep my teeth from chattering. After an endless time we reached the top of the cistern. After the utter dark of waterway and cistern, the cloudy night sky above was almost blinding to my eyes. Slowly I raised my head above the cistern's parapet. No one was guarding the water supply. Praise Stendarr's mercy! Two stout Nords saw to the hauling up of the parcels bearing our equipage. The rest of us huddled in the dark, flexing frozen limbs and fingers. Shivering among the massive timbers that supported the vats, we stripped from wet tunics into dry, donning armor over it and equipping our weapons. Each clink and rattle was jarring on my ear, and by the end my nerves were quite raw. In low whispers against each ear, I divided us in two; four to accompany me in search of Elisif, and six to secure the gate and signal the attack. The half dozen forms disappeared quickly into the dark. Crouched and numbed still by cold, I crept toward Castle Dour. I had ordered the attack for just as dawn broke, as we had no other means to track time or each other. That left us scant time to gain entry to the castle and to find the Queen. By the Divine's grace, the guards were lulled by weeks of guard duty against no assault, and their eyelids were heavy and ears muffled by boredom. Several times I cringed as some bit of armor clinked or weapon clacked. After an indeterminate time the gate to Castle Dour's bailey stood before us. Two guards lounged sleepily. One sitting and propped against the stone of the wall, the other standing, but leaning with eyes — apparently — shut. I pointed out the sitting guard to the Khajiit woman and she nodded. I pointed to myself and then to the one standing and she nodded again. The other three were to keep watch and be ready to spring into action should we be discovered. Shadows crept and so did we. Two daggers flashed barely lit by distant torchlight. Two Imperials died. And so easily we had our way into Castle Dour. I eased my man to the cobbled ground, murmuring for Arkay to take him into eternal life. I felt the stickiness of his blood on my arm and on my bared calf behind the greave where his artery had spewed his life's blood. And so it went for a timeless time. We made our entry nerve-wracking death following death as we encountered guards. Memory alone guided me toward where Tullius' operations were said to be centered. My nerves fully frayed, we reached that room. Fate was with us, for only Legate Rikke was in the room. The rhythmic rise and fall of her armored bosom and her low snoring indicated that she was alive. I silently cast the spell to muffle my steps and slipped up behind her, laying a dagger across her throat and a hand across her mouth. "Do not call out or move," I hissed a whisper into her ear. The others entered in, the Khajiit woman depriving Rikke of her weapons. I carefully loosed my hand from her mouth but not the dagger from her throat, "The Queen, where is she?" "The dungeons below," Rikke whispered back. "I have found a key, yes," the soft almost feline whisper of the scout whispered excitedly. "How many guards, Legate?" I asked softly into her ear. "Two," she answered lowly. With Rikke to guide us, we arrived at the stair down to the dungeon in short order. Daggers flashed, guards died. In short order I found the cell. Elisif was curled in slumber on a straw pallet. Good, if only the others have been just as successful. I cringed as the cell door squeaked open, its sound over-loud in the quiet of the predawn hours. I reached down and gently shook Elisif's shoulder, whispering, "Help has come, my Queen. Awake, we must escape this place." Elisif's pale blue eyes blinked open, her voice seeming a shout in the quiet, "Wha— Who? Dragonborn?" "Shh," I admonished quietly, "Awake, Elisif, we must get thee gone." "Ah, Yvelle," she said sleepily, "I am so glad you've come." "Not as glad as we'll both be when you are free of this place," I whispered into her ear.. "Come, we must go." Up the stairs we went, eventually emerging onto a rampart overlooking the castle's smithy just as dawn was breaking. In the distance a clamor arose and the sky above was filled with streaking flames. War had come to Solitude and it seemed the six had secured the gates. Off to the side two buttresses formed an alcove and I guided the Queen there, whispering to the Khajiit to stay there and protect the Queen at all costs. Elisif gave objection, calling for a sword. I laughed lowly, "We will make a battlemaiden of you some day, Elisif, but not today." The day was awakening to the chaos of war. What to say of that fierce fight for Castle Dour? Here a Thu'um, there a slash, and yet over there a spell cast. A larger battle is merely a sequence of scarce-remembered desperate fights, only dimly aware of friend and foe around you. On and on the Imperials came, lambs to Akatosh's slaughter; protected on either flank by Athis and the others, I was free to loose devastation on soldiers rushing to defend the gates of the castle. Fireball. A strike of lightning. The rolling Dragonish of my Thu'um. On and on it went. Arrows struck me. I took pause to heal. More of the same. I was aware then that the legionnaires were being pressed back. Dimly I sensed General Tullius below me, rallying his troops for a counter-charge. If they made the castle gates and secured them … I do not remember leaping from the rampart to the canvas over the smithy. One moment I was hurling Thu'um and spell from above, the next I was amid the Imperials, sword flashing, spells blazing and Thu'um resounding. I scarce felt weapons slash against my armor or against my flesh. I merely took pause from time to time to call upon Stendarr's Art to heal myself. Then there was Tullius before me, a snarl on his face and his sword swinging at me. It was parry, parry, parry. For in truth, by this time I was exhausted and barely upright on my failing legs. The wily veteran struck the sword from my hand and the blow staggered me back. He paused a moment, I could see the gloat in his eyes as his sword began its sweep down toward my neck. A whirling blur of silver struck Tullius' blow aside as I used the last of my magicka to call a blade into my hand. But I had not the strength to wield it. No matter, for another sweeping flash of silver that was blurred in my vision sent Tullius' head flying and the spew of his blood flowing over me. I sank to my knees, gasping for breath. Distantly, I was aware of the havoc that had been wreaked upon me. The wounds are dire, Yvelle-girl. Heal yourself, part of my mind observed. I cannot, answered the exhausted other part. I felt a massive hand under my arm and looked up to see Farkas of the Companions grinning down at me. "By damn, Shield Sister! That was a hell of a fight!" I was hoisted, swaying to my feet and Farkas' massive left hand smacked against my back. "Damn, they will sing of this for Ages! And imagine the free ales hoisted, eh?" The gleam of madness danced in his eyes and he tilted his head back and laughed. "I'll certainly buy you one," I allowed shakily. He laughed again. With their general dead, the remaining legionnaires began to drop weapons and surrender en masse. Most were spared, but some fell in the madness of the moment and the surge of adrenaline coursing through warriors' veins. My vision was growing fuzzier and dimmer. Farkas steadied me, guiding me toward the gate to the castle. There I met Ulfric, his surcoat was slashed, and spatters of blood bedotted his garb and skin. He, too, was grinning jubilantly. I pointed feebly upward and would have fallen if not for Farkas, "The Queen is there. See to her." Ulfric nodded and pointed to group of men, gesturing they should tend to it. They rushed to secure the Queen. The clamor and chaos of war was subsiding. Then my vision began to clear. The hurt and pain seeped away, and I blinked, surprised to see Danica of Kyne's temple in Whiterun there. "For the Tree," she said simply before moving on to tend other wounded. My eyes met Ulfric's across Tullius' fallen body as I let the magic ebb from me and sent my conjured blade away. He tilted his head slightly and he raised a questioning brow. Around us I sensed the other Jarls and soldiers, the varied people of Solitude, as the clamor of battle ceased and carried the cries of the wounded to my ears. The smoke and stench of war swirled among us. Feet shuffled, armor clinked, and a throat was cleared. A chance breeze pirouetted around me then, setting the mop of my hair all aflutter. Was it chance that the morning sun reached through the clouds in that moment, sending down a single beam to land upon it? I fear legend shall make more of it than mere happenstance. I did not speak loudly, but my tone and words were firm and carried in the reigning silence, "I entrusted the welfare of the Nord army to your keeping, Ulfric. The words and action of the Dovahkiin saved you for daring to shake off the insult of Empire to Talos. "The Queen will likely confirm it formally, but you have earned pardon. But hear me, Ulfric, and hear me well: Being a Nord is not a matter solely of birth and blood, it exists also in head, heart and soul." I gestured briefly around me, "Look around at the fallen, Warlord. There a Khajiit, there a Breton, an Argonian ... and there a Dunmer — they may not seem a Nord in size or kind, but they died for Skyrim this day and are every inch worthy sons and daughters. They, too, are Nords by right. For too long we have let past hatreds keep us separate, but today they have broken that cycle with their blood." I searched among those in the crowd nearby and saw Athis and Farkas, I singled out the elf, pointing with my finger, "That elf, a Companion and Shield Brother, said it best to me almost a year ago. 'Even an elf can be born with the heart of a Nord.' Would you argue his wisdom or birthright, Ulfric?" I paused for a moment, my eyes unwavering and took a breath, "Remember this always, and Skyrim will always be strong." He blinked, eyes gone wide, I took a deep breath and said softly but with force, "Forget this day and the lesson, and I shall come to you and your Voice will be swallowed in mine." He swallowed, the apple of his throat visibly bobbing, blinked again and finally nodded. But that he had heard and understood I clearly saw in his eyes. Perhaps it was the wind, but I swear I heard a collective sigh from those gathered around. "Look yon." I pointed to each corpse in turn and his eyes followed, "There lies a Nord, an Imperial and a Redguard. They believed us as wrong as we believed ourselves right. This divide must also heal or we risk a festering wound that will scar us always. "It is time for us to rejoin, finally free to be one people. We must break with the past and look to our common future. Let their blood and ours be the last Skyrim sheds upon itself." I paused to let the words sink into minds stung by a long and bitter civil war. "It is time also to face Alduin's threat. Today it is enough we collect all our dead, mourn their passing and take a breath. Tomorrow, all of us ... as Nords of Skyrim ... shall show our might united against the plots of Dragons." There was a pause as my words carried on the breeze and sank home. Then with one voice and mind, the crowd cried out with an approving roar. For long moments the exulting relieved voices, the clapping of hands and the bang of weapons against shields echoed from Solitude's stone walls. Do you hear that Voice, Alduin? We are Nords and we come for you. This is our Thu'um! I may have said it aloud, though I do not recall it. Then I spied Erik and collapsed into his arms. So ended the tenth step of a long and trying journey.

4. Moot Points Spring, at last, was prying back the icy fingers of winter. So there I stood upon a promontory of rock, looking westward and north from the heights of Monahven. A light breeze fluttered my linen cloak, pondering a not-too-distant similar day that had led my feet to Ivarstead and points beyond. From this height the simmering boil of Skyrim's politics was far removed from my sight, but not my mind. I chewed pensively at my lip. Whoever had said that waiting is the hardest part had the right of it. Stampedes of butterflies coursed through my stomach. I heard the shuffling crunch of snow and turned my head to regard Arngeir's approach. I said nothing as he came up beside me and turned my gaze to Riverwood far below. Smoke wafted lazily from chimneys and I could almost smell it. "What is it you see, Dragonborn?" the Greybeard said at last. I mulled the question for some time before answering, "Peace." "That is why Kynareth blessed us with this place," he said. "Come, all are gathered within and await your presence." "Hmph. That is miracle enough for any pantheon of gods." I groused giving a wry smile at his slight chuckle. "Peace. Do you think we will find it today, Master Arngeir?" I suppose the butterflies I felt finally found my voice. "I know you will not find it without trying," he said, patting my shoulder in almost fatherly fashion. "Come, it is time." Together we made our way into the Temple of the Sky. For the first time I heard the low buzz of conversations resounding from the walls of High Hrothgar. Various delegations stood in clumps discussing, I suppose, this historic moment. For here within the walls were gathered all the hands that stirred the pot in Skyrim. I felt the weight of their eyes as I entered in. "Su'um ahrk morah, Dovahkiin," came Arngeir's whisper to my ear. Breath and focus, Dragonborn. I stood, arms folded across my breasts watching as Borri, Wulfgar and Einarth led the first of the delegations to the council chamber. When, if ever, had it been used before? I had neglected to ask Arngeir that. My nerves were as taut as a bowstring overdrawn. The clink of armored feet upon the ancient stone sounded behind us. The Blades had arrived. I was rather surprised by Arngeir's greeting of them. "You were not invited here. You are not welcome here." A flare of anger touched Delphine's eyes and she retorted lowly, "We have as much right to be at this council as all of you. More, actually, since we were the ones that put the Dragonborn on this path." "Were you? The hubris of the Blades truly knows no bounds," replied Arngeir. I fear I sighed my frustration. Delphine snorted and answered, "If it were up to you, the Dragonborn would sit dreaming on this mountain doing nothing!" Esbern reached out and lightly touched Delphine's arm, "Delphine, we are not here to rehash old grudges." The elderly Blade sage turned his gaze and words to Arngeir, "The matter at hand is urgent. Alduin must be stopped. You wouldn't have called this council if you didn't agree, Master Arngeir. We know a great deal about the situation and the threat that Alduin poses to us all. You need us here if you want this council to succeed." Arngeir surrendered with a slight bow of his head. I touched his robed arm lightly to convey my thanks. The Blades stepped past and into the chamber beyond. The elder Greybeard eyed the next in line and turned his questioning gaze to me, "Madanach, leader of the Forsworn. Madanach, this is Arngeir spokesman for the Greybeards." "As if the pot were not already simmering," Arngeir murmured. Madanach gave a brief grin and said, "That is quite the trek up this mountain, Little Briar." "You get used it to it, Uncle," I laughed briefly in response. He nodded and headed into the chamber. "Any more surprises, Dragonborn?" Arngeir prodded. "Of course," I laughed. "Such is the nature of paths." He shook his head, but I suspect he gave me a rueful grin from beneath his cowl. He took my arm and guided me into the chamber proper. Already angry exchanges were ringing out. The Stormcloaks and Empire were at it in full voice. As we entered, Arngeir remarked quietly, "So, you've done it. The men of violence are gathered here, in these halls whose very stones are dedicated to peace. "They may put their weapons down for a moment, but only to gather strength for the next bloodletting. They are not yet tired of war. Far from it. Do you know the ancient Nord word for war? 'Season unending' … so it has proved." "That is why calmer heads must prevail," I whispered back. Arngeir moved to his seat and gestured for all to sit. I took my place at his right hand. The others took theirs, "Now that everyone is here, please take your seats so we can begin. I hope we have all come here in the spirit of…" Ulfric paused in sitting, pointing out Elenwen and interrupting angrily, "No. You insult us by bringing her to this negotiation? Your chief Talos-hunter?" "That didn't take long…" I heard Legate Rikke mutter on one hand. "Hear! Hear!" muttered Galmar on the other. Elenwen swelled herself with Altmer indignation, staring at Ulfric in turn; she said "I have every right to be at this negotiation. I need to ensure that nothing is agreed to here that violates the terms of the White-Gold Concordat." "She is part of the Imperial delegation. You can't dictate who I bring to this council," Tullius added. Arngeir sighed and held up his hand, "Please. If we have to negotiate the terms of the negotiation, we will never get anywhere. Perhaps this would be a good time to get the Dragonborn's input on this matter." I sighed and turned to Tullius, "Why must she be part of your delegation, General? Is not the Empire its own man?" He suffered me a stare, "What do you think? Are we going to let Ulfric dictate terms to us before this council even starts? She has a right to observe these proceedings under the terms of the White-Gold Concordat." I turned my eyes to Ulfric. "By Ysmir's beard, the nerve of those Imperial b_stards, eh? To think that we would sit down with that … Thalmor b_tch! Either she walks or I do. Bringing her here is a deliberate provocation! Tullius needs to know I won't be pushed around!" I sighed and announced, "Ambassador Elenwen may stay. She has no part in the proceedings, but what occurs here today may very well indeed have an impact on the Concordat." Ulfric threw up his hands, muttering, "Fine, she is to observe and nothing more. We are not negotiating with her, is that clear?" "Ulfric, why so hostile? After all, it is not the Thalmor that's burning your farms and killing your sons." Elenwen goaded with sugary sweetness. "She's supposed to be on our side?" Rikke murmured to Tullius. "Now that that's settled, may we proceed?" Arngeir asked the assembled. "Dragonborn?" I rose, praying to the Nine for them to steady my knees and voice. "I wish to introduce my delegation," I said pointing first to my uncle, "This is Madanach, he is the leader of the Forsworn…" "What treachery is this!" Ulfric shouted, jumping to his feet. "Sit Jarl Ulfric. You cannot dictate my delegation. You will learn in due course why he has a right to be here," my eyes met his full of ice. I then gestured to Delphine, "This is Grandmaster Delphine of the Blades." "What treachery is this!" Elenwen screamed and leapt to her feet, her face masked in an angry snarl. "Indeed, what treachery? General Tullius, restrain your delegation from further outburst," I admonished. Tullius' eyes narrowed, "What sort of council is this?" I turned and whispered in Lydia's ear, "Now, Lydia." She strode to the entry of the council chamber and beckoned. With Jarl Elisif leading, the Jarls of Skyrim entered in with their Thanes, taking up a semi-circle behind me. "I fear I mislead you all, General, Ulfric. This is no mere council, it is Moot." I admitted. "This is an outrage!" Ulfric stormed. "What is the meaning of this?" said Tullius angrily. "Are you both so vain that you think the affairs of Skyrim are about either of you solely?" I admonished. "This war will end not because either of you decree it, but because it is the decision of the Jarls and Thanes of Skyrim." The halls of the Temple of the Sky returned to their usual state … deathly silent. A pin drop would have resounded at that moment. "You dare…?" began Ulfric after a time, "By what right?" "Mine," called the eight Jarls in near-unison. Their voices resounded from the ancient stone. "You can't…" Tullius said finally, voicing his objection. "I can. The Jarls of Skyrim have given me that right." I turned, offering my curtsey. "Jarl Elisif, the Moot is again now in session." "What has this to do with negotiating a truce?" Tullius said, rising. "Everything," I replied. "And do sit, General. Titus will want to know what Skyrim decides." Elenwen's eyes darted about the chamber, her lips compressed into angry lines, but she said nothing. "Why was I not informed?" Ulfric seethed. "Because, Ulfric," I said quietly, "you are no longer Jarl of Windhelm. The thanes have given support to …" "They cannot do this!" Ulfric exclaimed in anger, Galmar leaping to his feet to stand beside his Jarl. "They can and have," Elisif announced softly. "Jarl Brunwulf speaks for Windhelm." Ulfric's mouth opened and I could sense the Voice rising in him, "Do not even think it, Ulfric. Here? Among the halls of the masters of the Thu'um?" He glared and slumped into his seat. "Sit, Galmar," I said, "You make a much better general than you do corpse." "Jarl Elisif, you should leave the negotiations to me," said Tullius, who seemed blind to the writing on the wall. "I have done that for far too long, General Tullius. The Empire …" she paused then to stare at Elenwen, "and the Thalmor are no longer welcome in Skyrim." "By what right?" hissed Elenwen. "As High Queen of Skyrim. With the consent of my Jarls, I hereby sever all ties to the Empire," she announced quietly. I could see that behind her back she held both fists clenched. "We stand with the Queen," intoned the gathered Jarls and Thanes. "An outrage," Elenwen also came to her feet, "The Aldmeri Dominion…" "Is finished here in the lands of Talos," Elisif said, her voice still soft spoken. "This means…" the Ambassador went on. "War," I finished Elenwen's sentence, "We are done killing ourselves by your machinations, Elenwen. Hammerfell is already sending a delegation to meet with Queen Elisif." "What of the Empire?" Tullius asked, thoroughly shaken. "If they are wise," Elisif said evenly, "Titus will move to ally himself with Skyrim and Hammerfell … as equals, not provinces … before the Thalmor pounce." "What is the old saying, General," I interjected, "Titus Mede has made his bed. Now he can lie in it." I turned to Elenwen, gesturing to Delphine, "Here is the message you will bear to Summerset." Delphine opened the sack she bore and the heads of the second and third emissaries fell onto the stone surface of the round table before her, their eyes wide in the final shock of death. The Altmer's eyes opened just as widely with shock and outrage. "In Ivarstead you will find a wagonload of the same. Barring a few fugitives still being hunted, the Thalmor presence in these lands is over," I stated icily. "And the Blades have repaid in kind for what the Dominion did to them. You will leave here and drive that wagon, under escort, back to whence you came." I turned then to General Tullius, "You will assemble your legion, General, and march unarmed through the pass to Bruma. You have a week to do so. Those Nords who wish to stay in Skyrim may do so, fully pardoned for their service to an Empire no longer welcome here." "You can't…" he began. "I can't alone, no." I said mildly, "But Skyrim can. You can march your legion, General, or see them buried to a man. I would see this end without bloodshed, Tullius, we have dragons to fight." "Now this I did not see coming," Rikke allowed quietly. "Lastly," I said, "I present King Madanach of the Forsworn. The Reach has graciously ceded the lands currently held by the Reachmen to them as an independent kingdom. The King has graciously accepted Queen Elisif's offer of alliance." I saw Igmund wince, but he said nothing, for he dearly wished to keep Markarth and his head. "Henceforth, the lands ceded are sovereign to the Forsworn and they shall deal with trespassers at their leisure." "Well," Madanach rumbled, "Not bad for a King in Rags, eh, Little Briar?" I turned to Elisif, "Is there anything else, my Queen?" "Yes," she said quietly, "By the consent of the Jarls and Thanes of Skyrim, I name you, Yvelle Torhold, Jarl of Skyrim — Without Hold, but in service to the Crown." I opened my mouth in surprise. I had merely asked she make formal my "thane of Skyrim" self-title. She smiled and allowed, "A Queen … or King … deserves more than a thane, I think." I took a deep breath, "Then by the Queen's leave, I declare this Moot and Council over. May the gods watch over you all." "This means…" Lydia asked quietly at my ear. "That you are housecarl of Skyrim now," I said with equal quiet, and with simplicity, as I did not wish to overtax her thinking. So ended the ninth step of a long and trying journey.

3. When First We Practice to Deceive i. Parties and Politics I felt naked. Standing as I was in a tight-fit gown, armed with naught but a well-scribed invitation. Beneath the veneer of civility and gaiety, watchful Thalmor eyes looked on with suspicion. Had I my choice of attire, I would have preferred being swathed in plate armor. Just as restrictive, perhaps, but offering far more protection. I tried to take a deep breath to chase away the gathering butterflies; however with bustier providing an uplifting but uncomfortable feeling, there was no deep breath to be had. Bereft of a calming breath, I swallowed instead. Thankfully, the crushing non-weight of the gown allowed for that. The doorman read my invitation and announced with formality to the room at large, "Thane Torhold of Whiterun." The butterflies forced my hands to flutter, smoothing away imagined wrinkles from the skirt. I felt the eyes of many regard my entry. The soft velvet shoes at least allowed me to glide past the doorman. Encased in the gown like a sausage as I was, there was no other means of locomotion. Wuld came to mind but I thought it rather inadvisable. An ensemble of bards were providing chamber music, my heart providing percussive accompaniment as I made my way into the room proper. I knew many of those present: Both Balgruuf and his steward Avenicci from Whiterun; Maven Black-Briar of Riften, aloof as always; Idrod of Highmoon Hall was off to the side, holding whispered court with Vittoria Vici; but the trio that caught my eye was Jarl Elisif and General Tullius speaking in low but urgent tones with a high elf woman in Thalmor garb. Oh to be a fly on the wall. I presumed that the elf was the Ambassador, Elenwen. Seeing Tullius brought a lump of fear to my throat and the sheen of sweat to my palms. Would he remember me from Helgen? This foray into the heart of the Thalmor web would be short-lived if he did. The elf's attention was fixed on me and as I stood uncertain amid the party-goers, she raised a finger to excuse herself from Jarl and general, and made her way before me. I gave her a forced smile and a slight dip that was somewhere between bow and curtsey. I could do neither fully without rending the gown. "Ah, Thane Torhold, I am pleased you could attend …" she began, her voice filled with Altmer honey. "Yvelle, please, Your Eminence," I interrupted softly. "You have been a busy woman, Yvelle, by all accounts." My heart skipped a beat or two. I forced a pleased-but-humble smile on my lips, "I trust those accounts have been good ones, Ambassador." "I have word from Winterhold that your mastery of magic is … unparalleled." "Master Ancano is too kind, Ambassador," I answered with forced humility. Yes, Elenwen, I learned this game in Cyrodiil … I am not some rustic Nord or vacillating Cyrodiilac ripe for your picking. I merely hoped that Ancano wasn't given to frequent reports, for if such were the case, his would now be long overdue. She smiled, raised her finger to excuse herself and glided on to her next prey. My bustier-squeezed sigh followed in her wake. I noticed that General Tullius was busy with Balgruuf and Avenicci and made my way to Jarl Elisif. She gave a polite inclination of her head at my approach. "Pardon my intrusion, milady," I said lowly for her ear only, "but there is much I wish to discuss with you … privately." Her chin lifted and she replied in a reserved tone, "And you are?" "Yvelle Torhold, Thane of Whiterun. But it is not as thane that I wish some of your time," I whispered quickly. Gods only knew what ears were lurking. "I see," she replied. "If we have chance to speak, you shall indeed see, Junaas Elisif. I can say no more here." Her eyes widened slightly and she whispered back, "Junaas … that, that's …" "Dragonish, milady," I whispered and glided away, seeing that Maven Black-Briar stood alone. But I felt Elisif's confused stare follow my withdrawal. "Ah, my dear Maven," I said softly at her ear as I came up behind her. Startled, she fairly whirled to face me, her eyes opening wide in recognition as my gaze fixed hers. She hissed, "You!" "Quiet your voice, Maven, you will draw attention," I answered in a commanding whisper. "The Listener has words for you, and listen you shall." Her face went deathly pale, her mouth agape and speechless. I continued, "I require a distraction and you will provide it once I leave your side." "Why should I?" the question was hissed lowly and angrily. "Because Cicero is unhappy that his dagger has not slash, slash, slashed lately," I replied evenly but menacingly next to her ear. Now listen …" She listened white-faced, her features a blend of anger and terror. A short distance away I spied Jarl Balgruuf regarding my whisperings with Maven with upraised brow. Leaving the shaken Maven in my wake, I made my way to him. "Good eve, my Jarl," I repeated the almost-bow, almost-curtsey. "Enjoying the party?" he queried. "About as much as wrestling a dragon with an arm tied behind my back," I offered with a low laugh and wry face. Both he and Avenicci chuckled. The Jarl allowed, "It is indeed strange company to keep." "Indeed so," I whispered with a nod in Maven's direction, "Beware the snakes, my Jarl." At his nod, I slipped away, hoping that Delphine's man Malborn had been successful in his part. I reached the bar and our gazes locked for a brief moment. He gave me a slight dip of his chin. "Ahem. Yes, the privy, milady," he said aloud for the benefit of the guards lingering near. He pointed the way. "Just past the kitchen … Tsk. Let me show you, 'tis easier than explaining it, milady." As I followed, I heard Maven exclaim loudly, "My emerald ring! It's gone!" The Khajiit cook chastised Malborn for breaking the rules, bringing a guest to the kitchen. He returned the favor, wondering if using moon sugar were within the rules and if he should ask Elenwen. That settled, we entered the larder, the Bosmer closing the door behind us I opened the chest Malborn had brought in to the embassy and with a relieved sigh, undid the bodice's lacings. "Mara's mercy, avert your eyes, Malborn!" I sighed contented as the clinging silk and lace came free, and I reclaimed my gear hid beneath a false bottom of the chest containing the bar stock. Malborn busied himself unlocking the door that granted access to the rest of the embassy as I donned my more accustomed "dress." ii. Lessons in Loyalty As was always the case when I entered into Breezehome, Lydia paid me homage as her thane. I sighed. Nothing I have said has ever dissuaded her from her unswerving and formal duty. This time was no different. "Honor to you, my Thane," she said as I entered in. "Ah, Lydia, ever loyal and ever formal," I gave her a vexed smile. "I must needs ask you something and wish your forthright and honest answer." "Of course, my Thane," she answered as she always does. "If a thane puts Skyrim before their Jarl, what is a housecarl to do?" My tone hopefully indicated that I was putting forth a hypothesis. Her forehead crinkled and her lips pursed. I could almost see the Dwemer cogs grinding in her mind. Logs crackled in the fire pit as I waited patiently for her to answer. For a Breton, Lydia was perhaps the most unimaginative one I had ever met. Not that she was a dullard, but anything outside her duty was cause for long deliberations in her mind. "You mean to break the oath, my Thane?" she asked at last. "I mean: Where does an oath ultimately lead and end, Lydia," I answered patiently. "I see." Again she mulled the question for some time. I let my cloak fall and slumped wearily into a chair by the fire. "The King," Lydia said at last. "Indeed," I replied, relieved that she had reached that conclusion in her own plodding way. "I had hoped that is what you would say." In the morn, I shall give to you messages to be borne to the thanes I will indicate. I am entrusting a matter vital to Skyrim and our past and future king … or queen, depending," I explained to her. Her smile split her features almost from ear to ear at being given so vital a task by her thane, "You can trust me to do so, my Thane!" "You have never failed me, Lydia. For that I am eternally grateful; I could ask for no better housecarl." If possible, the expanse of her smile doubled; my praise worth more than any measure of gold to her. "I shall return shortly, Lydia, I have a quick errand at the market," I announced. "I shall gladly run your errand, my Thane," she replied with her usual enthusiasm. I smiled and held up my hand, "This is one thing I must do." "Of course, my Thane!" There were times, such as this, that I truly hated the word thane. I found Ysolda by Carlotta's stall. She smiled at my approach and I returned her pleasantry, "I fear I have a favor to ask, Ysolda." "Oh!" she exclaimed happily, "I am honored that you would think of me to ask, Yvelle!" I whispered with her at length, hoping that her neck would not snap from all the bobbing. "I shall see you at first light then, Ysolda." "I can scarcely wait!" came her enthusiastic reply. With that task done, I returned to Breezehome, my shoulders slumping with my weariness. I trudged tiredly up the stairs, shedding armor as I made my way to my small writing table. I knew that come morning it would all be piled neatly on my nightstand, cleaned and mended as necessary. Lydia is nothing if not conscientious in her duties. I sighed and reached for quill and parchment. I had many letters to scribe before my head would lie upon my pillow. iii. Sowing Seeds As the sky began taking on the rosy hues of eve the next day, I dismounted from Key before Solitude's stables and gave his flank a friendly pat. I instructed the stable hand to curry him well and to make sure that the horse was given only the best oats and corn. Giving Key a final scratch between his perked ears, I made my way for the second time up the hill to Solitude. I hoped my entry into the city was not like the last. Seeing an Imperial execution again had left my nights filled with the memory of a Nord's final mocking smile from that day in Helgen. Unlike the other Holds, I had little time to spare for seeing to the needs of the people of the city. Not because I was not concerned about their welfare, but because Castle Dour controlled the city and was the Imperial's stronghold in Skyrim. The proximity to General Tullius and the occasional Thalmor coming or going made it far too risky to tarry long. Hid beneath my snow bear hood and the purpling of the day to night, I passed without incident to the Blue Palace to pay call on Elisif. I paused in the entry to remove the bearskin cloak and its accompanying hood. Torchlight sparkled from the dragon scale links of my armor. Lydia's attentions had the armor well gleaming and spotless, and my usual red mop of hair had been braided in Nord manner by her critical hands. Assured that I would make the visual impression I desired, I mounted the curving stair to the throne room where Elisif held court. I paused at the head of the stair, listening as a man pleaded his case for support for a local matter regarding a cave. Elisif immediate called for a legion to investigate. Her mage counselor, Sybille Stentor, dismissed the claim as groundless, as her scrying had found nothing. Elisif's steward, Falk Firebeard, called for a more measured response, promising the man that a few extra soldiers would be posted to Dragonbridge and that he would have someone look into the matter of the cave. In itself it was a mundane exchange, the sort one saw in the courts of Jarls throughout Skyrim. But I was troubled by Elisif's exuberant over-reaction. The rumblings of her youth and inexperience seemed to have some basis. I approached as the man passed me at the head of the stairs. Three sets of eyes regarded me closely as I neared: Elisif's casually, then with sudden recollection of the stranger at the party; the wizard with cold suspicion; and the steward Falk with protective and dutiful appraisal. I stopped just short of Elisif upon her throne and curtsied more properly this time, "Milady Elisif." "Ah. Thane of Whiterun, wasn't it?" Her lips pursed for a moment as she tried to recall. "Yvelle Torhold, milady," I interjected softly, "Though I suppose it would be more proper to say Thane of Skyrim." "Of Skyrim?" her brows knit in puzzlement, "I am not aware of my husband appointing such station to anyone as High King." I offered a soft smile and light laugh, "He did not. It is self-appointed, as I am a thane in seven of the nine Holds, it is true enough." Her head tilted slightly to the side so she might examine me more closely, "And by what right do you assume that title unto yourself?" The question came from Falk, not Elisif. "I claim it as Dovahkiin." I said it simply and with a slight shrug. I heard the word repeated in whispers by the mouths of the court hangers-on. Falk's eyes widened some with surprise, as did Elisif's, but not as widely nor as surprised. I said nothing. "You have proof of this spurious claim?" Sybille interjected forcefully. I turned my gaze calmly on her for a moment, "The last time a Thu'um was loosed in this palace, the High King lay dead." All three blanched, Elisif turning ghostly white. I heard the clinking of armor as the guards came to full alert. I raised my hand, "Fear not, that is not my purpose in coming." For all her youth, Elisif recomposed herself the quickest, "And what is your purpose, Dragonborn?" "As I said at the embassy, milady, I wished to speak with you. Here in public and in private," I said it without thought to guile. "Preposterous!" Sybille snapped. Firebeard said nothing, but his face was set sternly and his lips pressed tightly. "For a wizard you have narrow views," I said evenly. "You should speak more often to Farengar; his mind is far more broad." Elisif leaned forward on her throne, placing her chin on her fist, regarding me closely, "You have my attention, Dragonborn. I shall allow this public discourse but reserve the right to any private counsel." I nodded and said quietly, "Fair enough. As to my purpose; I have met the Jarls of the other Holds and thought it fair that we should also meet. That I am thane in seven of the eight should avouch my standing. That the Greybeards name me Dragonborn should mean far more." "And why," Elisif mused, "does meeting the others mean that we should?" "To judge and be judged," I sighed. "As you can see, I am not ten feet tall. Nor do I gout flame or sprout wings." The courtiers gave a collective, but nervous, laugh. "You would dare judge me?" Elisif said without anger. "I would," I replied honestly. To my surprise she laughed and followed it with a smile. Her reaction surprised both her wizard and her steward. I returned her smile. "So ask, Dragonborn," she allowed at last. "Skyrim is torn asunder in civil war. I wished to hear your thoughts on it away from General Tullius' thumb. How do you see the current state of things?" I asked. And not standing upon ceremony, I sat at the foot of her throne. My feet hurt. She pondered my words and her shoulders slumped, "The people suffer greatly. As Torygg's widow, I have a strong claim to be High Queen. But we must have the support of the other Jarls for this to be so." "By right she has a legitimate claim to be High Queen," Falk interjected "We honor the traditions of our father's fathers; you'll do well to remember that." "Ulfric Stormcloak says likewise," I said. "That murderer! I shall not see him upon this throne!" Elisif said forcefully, her eyes narrowing with anger. "There are varying accounts of what happened, Jarl Elisif. To my knowledge, the Stormcloaks at least do not behead those with contrary views or loyalties." I said the words softly, trying to minimize their sting. She took a deep breath to recompose herself, "There are other reasons as well!" "I know," I nodded my agreement. "And of what of General Tullius? Are you his lackey as some say? That you would take the throne behind Imperial swords and Thalmor plots?" Again I tried to take what sting I could from the words by my unimpassioned and sincere tone. "She would 'take' it because tradition gives her the right!" Falk interposed. I turned my eyes to him and set my mouth sternly, "For all your talk of tradition, Firebeard, you give your support to Tullius and the Thalmor readily enough. What of Talos? Is He not also a tradition of your father's fathers?" The steward was a seasoned politician and he gave pause before retorting angrily, "That tradition is a battle for another day." "I say otherwise," I countered. "In that regard, Jarl Ulfric is correct." I held up my hand before the gathering words could angrily escape his opened mouth, "I am not here to make Stormcloaks of you. Ulfric's faults are legion." I turned my eyes to Elisif and she replied carefully, "What choice is there but to rely on the General's leadership? That he is the Emperor's chosen governor has strong standing." "That is the question, isn't it, Elisif?" I asked softly, "Does our blood remain tied to the decaying corpse of an Empire?" She opened her mouth to speak, but could find no words. "I know, Elisif. Those questions lie without firm answer in my own mind as well. So what is the answer? "Time, I fear, is running short. Not only because of the Thalmor and Imperials, and this war that rends our hearts and bleeds us dry. But there is the matter of the return of the Dragons to consider. I fear the last grains of sand are about to fall from our hourglass." I said this to her with our eyes locked and with all the sincerity of my heart. She swallowed and nodded, "Come, Yvelle. What must be said now we must share in private." She knew her counselors well — she gave both a stern look that brooked no argument. Their objections went unvoiced. I rose and followed her to her apartment. iv. Meeting by Moonlight The more I have interacted with the Khajiit, the more I have come to like them. Not that I would ever wish to out-haggle one. But by and large they are industrious folk that see much but reveal little. In my crossing and re-crossing of Skyrim I had opportunity to interact with many of them. I looked around the campfire at Ri'saad, Ahkari and Ma'dran. Evening sup and pleasant converse were done and I could tell that they wished for me to get to the point of me calling them here via Ysolda. But they are patient traders all, and would never rush to the heart of any haggling. So they waited patiently, content in their Khajiit manner to play the game. The time had come as Secunda began her climb into the night sky. "I am glad to see you all here, my friends." They murmured their like sentiment. I had traded fairly with each of them over the past months and had played no small part in securing their caravans against bandits. "I am honored that you all would respond to my summons. The moon arises and beyond that, a new day," I told them. Ma'dran chuckled, "That is the way of night and day, Mistress Yvelle." "I meant in regards to Elswyr," I replied softly. Both the words and tone grasp their attention as a magnet grasps iron filings. "I need your caravans and wagons to move weapons and armor to Elswyr," I explained to their rapt ears. "You are becoming an arms dealer now?" Ahkari jested. I laughed softly, "No, my friend, but your people will need them to throw off the Thalmor yoke. I will not presume to ask who in Elswyr opposes the Altmer, but I am sure you all know who they are." "At what cost?" Ri'saad interjected. "Blood. That is always the cost of rebellion," I answered simply. "Why?" asked both Ma'dran and Ahkari together. "Because like the Nords, Cyrodiilacs, Redguards and Bretons, you have felt the sting of Aldmeri aggression and the choking yoke of their oppression. Skyrim, and I am sure in time, Hammerfell, will gladly supply you arms. We can talk of price when Elswyr is free." I sighed and sat back on my haunches. All three rushed their thoughts upon my ears. As Secunda rose higher in the heavens, the means to move weapons, armor and perhaps even men began to solidify. I rolled into my bedroll tired to the bone, but feeling happy with the results of the night. v. From Dungeon to Dragonguard Riften sits atop a twisted maze of tunnels, passages and sewers collectively called the Ratway. I had experience enough with the place from my previous visits to Riften. Upon learning that Esbern was likely in Riften, I suspected that he was hid (or captive) somewhere in the Ratway. After talking to Delphine's contact Brynjolf, return to its fetid depths went from prospect to certainty. I shan't recount the details, finding and retrieving Esbern and getting him to Riverwood was a straightforward mucking about in the sewers, fending off various thugs, hirelings and Thalmor. Not that such a thing is trivial when blades are ringing against one another, but it was in no wise epic. I arrived in Riverwood with Esbern in tow as darkness engulfed the valley. The old Blade and Delphine shared a heartfelt but brief reunion in the basement sanctuary before settling to the business at hand. I shall spare you the details and give you the distilled version. The Blades were descendants of Akaviri warriors left stranded in Tamriel in the Second Era, many of whom became the personal guard of Reman Cyrodiil after his defeat of the Akaviri invaders. Only fragments of history remain of that time, but it is acknowledged that these warriors were peerless dragonslayers. The Blades, of course, were the secret arm of the Emperor during the time of the Septims. Though the Great War and Aldmeri persecution left them — like the Empire itself — a shadow of their former glory. I had been half convinced that Esbern suffered from delusions, that his apocalyptic warnings were a sure sign that he did not have both oars rowing together. The evidence in Sky Haven Temple, that ancient Akaviri fortress of the Blades, proved him right. The old man fairly pranced with glee from panel to panel and Delphine was as giddy as a maiden smitten by first love. But ice flowed through my veins. Alduin World-Eater was real. He was loosed upon Skyrim and the End Times were upon us. I admit to suffering the trepidations of doom. However, the priceless treasure of the ruin at Karthspire was found in the last image-graven panel in Sky Haven Temple — for the bas relief showed Alduin's defeat by men, ancient Nords, using a Shout. Though if such a thing existed, it was a Thu'um I did not know. I voiced as much to the two Blades. "Perhaps the Greybeards know of it," Esbern remarked. I prayed fervently to the Nine, and to Akatosh and Talos in particular, that they did. There were fewer grains of sand in the hourglass than I had assumed. For if Esbern was right — and he had been thus far — for every soul lost in this civil war Alduin gained strength as he consumed them. All too many had fed his strength already. The dragons grew stronger as we grew weaker. So ended the eighth step of a long and trying journey.

I would encourage writing it! For me, writing is another way to step away from my mundane real life, if even for a while. Writing about a character I have or am playing in a game - particularly RPG-immersive ones - helps bring the character even more to life; to understand their motivations, dreams and even fears. Good luck on the Morrowind tale, I look forward to reading it! I'll take a look at your writings here in a bit (it's in the wee hours and my eyes are a bit too droopy to do it now) - C

As Heritage and Heresy nears the mid-point, I thought I'd start this so you all would have a place to comment, question or such. I hope you are enjoying the tale as much as I am writing it! - C

2. The Tangled Webs We Weave As paths converged, crossed, doubled back or came to a dead end, two main things concerned me. The two paths that I kept returning to time and again were the civil war and, of course, the coming of the dragons. However, as time and my feet went on, in trying to reach the culminating path to each end, other intermediary destinations kept revealed themselves. As I pursued first one thing and then another, I realized I had to give priority to one or the other. I decided that the sooner the civil war was ended, the more attention that could be brought to bear on dragons. Now in my travels from Whiterun and High Hrothgar I had had occasion to visit most of the Holds already and knew it was time to make my way to Windhelm in Eastmarch Hold and Jarl Ulfric. Or to Solitude in Haafingar Hold and Jarl Elisif; northeast or northwest, both were the centers of the Stormcloaks and Imperials, respectively. As I was in Ivarstead — having just returned the Horn — it was an easy choice to make, for of the Hold centers, only Riften and Windhelm lay nearest. Of Riften I shall relate later, as I have already alluded to having spent some time there. i. Weathering Windhelm To a lesser extent than my trek to High Hrothgar, each step of my trip to Windhelm grew increasingly colder. The hiss of snow stung constantly at my numbed face. That it was not as cold as the raging storms on the face of Throat of the World was small comfort. Freezing cold is freezing cold despite degree — it was still damn cold. I arrived shivering, but without major incident, at Windhelm's outskirts as the dawn of the second day grayed after leaving the relative warmth of Ivarstead. I paused amid an outcropping of boulders to change from my distinctive armor to common garb. Already the tales of dragons and the Dragonborn were beginning to spread like skeever throughout the Holds, and I did not wish to draw undue attention to myself. I smile some now at that. I shouldn't have bothered so much, perhaps, as I am not ten feet tall nor am I quite as wide as a giant. I crossed the long frigid stone causeway into Windhelm proper, entered in but did not make my way immediately to see Jarl Ulfric. Despite Ralof's open invitation to join the Stormcloaks, I wished to see first-hand how this Jarl managed his Hold and people. Though, I'll admit, I was tempted to go straight to the Palace for I hoped to see Ralof there. It was quickly apparent that non-Nords fared poorly in Windhelm. Incognito and dressed in rough traveling garb as I was, and apparently a Breton, I met a reception that was unrelated to the season but just as icy. Dunmer and Argonian folk, I fast learned, had it far worse. The elves were relegated to the slums of the Gray Quarter and the Argonians forced to live outside the city proper in squalid conditions down by the docks. It was only slightly better for Khajiit, tolerated only for the trade they brought via their caravans. That Ulfric allowed this state to exist did not rest well in my mind. It was this that kept me from immediately paying call on the Jarl and joining the rebellion formally for a good part of winter. That left me ample time to intercede indirectly on behalf of many of the city's residents, regardless of the skin they wore. It was in undertaking these intercessions that I first met Brunwulf Free-Winter. Of him, I shall speak more in due course. Unlike a good many Nords of Windhelm, he was very vocal about his thoughts on the treatment of non-Nords. Curious, I made my way to the Gray Quarter, wending through its tight alleys with gutters reeking of sewage spewing from the other quarters, the palace included. There I found the New Gnisis Cornerclub. Despite the ostentatious name, the Cornerclub was as barren a tavern as the hopes of the Dunmer who frequented the place. Most of the gray elves were refugees from Morrowind and Windhelm was as far as their resources had taken them. Here they sat amid the harsh winter, not of season, but of treatment; and mostly they bore it well, if grudgingly. So as winter wore on, I tended errands, mixing among the common folk, coming to know the plight of voiceless Mer and Argonians for myself. Among the tasks, I investigated a rumor about a small boy who was locked away in his family's house conducting rituals to contact the Dark Brotherhood. This, too, I shall discuss later. Around me the worst of winter raged. But Kyne's storms were no more viciously cold than the storms of Men; and the day came when I could no longer postpone paying visit to Ulfric. Misgivings in hand, I trudged the frozen steps and ice-encrusted way to the Palace of the Kings. I arrived amid a blizzard, a storm that ranged inside and out. My thoughts swirled just as cold in my head as the weather that raged around it. On one hand, I sympathized with Ulfric's cause. On the other, I found his lacks a major cause for concern. I should make mention at this juncture that by this point I was already considered a thane in several Holds. I held station and property and all-in-all I was well-regarded among the ordinary folk throughout Skyrim. I say this so that you in some distant day understand that I came to Ulfric not as some commoner or foreigner, but as a person of more than modest influence in Skyrim. Snow and ice dripped from my heavy bearskin cloak as I trod the long well-appointed hall toward the Jarl's throne. As I strode purposefully toward where the Jarl and his right-hand man Galmar Stone-Fist stood discussing Jarl Balgruuf and Whiterun, I could feel the history of the great hall press in on me. Voices of Harald and other kings of yore pressed barely discernible against my ear. The sound, real or imagined, was not quite like the power of a Word Wall. But it served to steel my resolve. As I neared, both men turned to regard me with curious eyes, pausing their conversation to appraise me fully. Encased in ice- and snow-rimed hooded bearskin cloak, I appeared no more than a chilled, slight woman. I stopped before them, and for a moment the Jarl's eyes locked with mine. "I wish to join the rebellion," I said the words evenly and firmly, but my voice was not raised. Ulfric's lips pursed and he retorted firmly, "Only the foolish or courageous approach a Jarl without summons." He paused for a moment, trying to peer into the shadows of my hood. I lifted my hand to push back the hood, and he squinted at my obviously Breton face, "Do I know you?" "We met at Helgen," I said simply. Thus far Ulfric's manner had done nothing to brush aside my misgivings. "Ah yes." The Jarl's voice was tinged with dismissive arrogance. I felt my scar throb. "Destined for the chopping block, if I'm not mistaken." "As were you," I answered evenly but softly. A growl escaped the lips of the massively-thewed lieutenant and he exclaimed angrily, "Who are you to dare speak to Jarl Ulfric so?" I lifted my hand again, undoing the clasp of the bearskin cloak and letting it fall. Today I wore my distinctive armor; the hall's light glinting off the dragon scale links as the rugged cloak fell to the floor. His hands, I noted, were moving to grip the mighty axe upon his back. "I am Dovahkiin. And if your hands move another inch, you shall taste my Thu'um." His hands moved. Fus … Ro … Dah! His massive frame was sent tumbling across the tiles of the floor. Quickly I turned my gaze to Ulfric as he rose from his throne, his sword coming free as he did. "Was that the Thu'um you used upon the king, Ulfric?" I asked evenly. Timing is everything, and as his weapon drew poised to strike, he paused long enough at my question for my Voice to again resound in the hall. Zun Haal! Ulfric's sword leapt from his hand and skittered loudly across the ornate floor. By Talos' amulet, the timing had been close. "Or was it that, and you killed the king not in fair combat, but cold blood?" My narrowed eyes met his. I heard Galmar Stone-Fist rise from the floor and knew he was again reaching for that mighty axe. "Stay him, Jarl, or my next Thu'um will end this with finality. Do you wish the power of Dovahkiin at your side or at your throat?" My words were as ice cold as my eyes. Ulfric was nothing if not a seasoned and wise warrior. He raised his hand and called out to Galmar, "Hold, my friend. Let us see what this … what Dovahkiin has to say." "Witch!" the warrior hissed. Albeit, I think the first letter he used made the word much more vulgar. I know he wondered at my short, sharp laugh in response. I positioned myself so I could keep an eye on both men. I noted as well that the Palace guards were gathering, their captain's eyes fixed on their Jarl for some sign. "You did not answer my question, Jarl Ulfric. Did your Thu'um stagger our former king or disarm him? I will not ally with a murderer." Though it was a question, my tone made it clear I expected an answer. "King Torygg was staggered," Ulfric allowed tersely. That he did not like this current state of affairs showed clearly in his narrowed eyes. "Then I repeat my offer, Jarl. I wish to join the rebellion …" I paused for effect. "With conditions." "I am listening," he said sullenly. And so he did. ii. Forsworn Fealty Secunda provided enough light for me to enter into the Reach as a shadow flitting across the lea. This night at least the harsh bite of winter was abated and while the night was cold and crisp, it was more than bearable. It was my first return to the region since escaping Cidhna Mine with Madanach. To make a long tale shorter, suffice it to say I had been imprisoned after being falsely accused of murdering a man named Eltrys in Markarth. As for Madanach, he was known as King in Rags, the leader of the Forsworn Rebellion and was also held prisoner in Cidhna. Yes, I know, yet another rebellion. If details have not survived of the Forsworn or the rebellion into your future Age, suffice it to say that they were of Breton stock, had once ruled and held a good portion of what is now the Reach Hold and fostered a long-held hatred of the Nords, the Empire, the Thalmor and anyone else who were not of one of their tribal clans. It would be somewhat fair to think of them as feral Bretons. Or, as some would say, they were two pints short of a meadery. During the Great War, Madanach saw a chance — with the Imperial forces off fighting the elves of the Aldmeri Dominion, along with a goodly number of Nord conscripts — to reclaim the Reach and declare independence. He gathered the Forsworn tribes and struck at the Nordic defenders of Markarth and held the region for almost two years. In contrast to brutal Nord tradition, the Forsworn's rule was generally peaceful and the former Nord masters were treated fairly well, with the exception of a few who had been especially brutal and hateful in their dealings with the Reachmen. However, that all changed in 4E 176, the son of the deposed Jarl struck a bargain with a much younger, but war-seasoned warrior named Ulfric Stormcloak. Igmund promised the young Jarl free worship of Talos (never mind that this was a violation of the White-Gold Concordat!) if the Jarl's militia would assist in retaking the Reach and Markarth and driving the Forsworn back. Ulfric succeeded, his Thu'um driving the Forsworn from the walls of Markarth and led to the quick retaking of the city. A bloodbath followed, the militia forces torturing and executing captured Witchmen of High Rock. For a quarter century hatred of Ulfric, Nords and Imperials have festered; for all but the past half year, Madanach was secretly (supposedly) held prisoner in Cidhna prison. A bitter irony of the Markarth Incident was that Ulfric was himself betrayed by Igmund into Thalmor hands for his support of the worship of Talos, causing a rift and political fissure that would eventually materialize as the Stormcloak Rebellion. Upon helping Madanach escape, I spent some time among his people at Druadach Redoubt. Why, you ask? In those long hours imprisoned in Cidhna, I spent many hours, when not at forced labor mining silver ore, speaking with the mockingly-titled King in Rags. Over time, some bit of bond grew between us and he shared his tale and I mine. In the telling, I spoke of my mother. He asked a few questions regarding her and I had scant little to offer him about her, except that she was Breton and worked as a healer among the Nord contingent after the retaking of the Imperial City. He asked after my father and I had much more to tell him. He sent me away that night, brows knit in thought. A few weeks went by and a message was passed word-of-mouth among other prisoners that Madanach wished again to speak to me alone. "Little Briar," he said — for that is what he called me, "I have news regarding your mother." I gasped my surprise and urged him to continue, he nodded and regarded me, head tilted and studying every bit of my face, "I knew your mother." "What?" I cried, "How can this be?" "It is simple, my Little Briar. She was my sister." I stared at him mouth agape and he went on to explain how my mother, so gifted in the healing arts that even thick-headed Nords were willing to overlook her "primitive" upbringing recruited her to tend to the fallen in the Great War. And she, of course, met my father. Who, as I learned was not from Helgen as I had supposed, but from Markarth. Uncle Bjorn, I learned, had moved to Helgen from Markarth after father's departure to fight in the Great War, hearing of need for a blacksmith there. It was then that he confided that it was time to escape Cidhna — which was an unheard of thing, no one had ever escaped confinement there. But we did. So I slipped through the night, timing my arrival so that dawn broke red upon my shoulders as I approached Druadach Redoubt yet again. I eased my horse from a thicket and into plain view of the camp's guards. An arrow whizzed past my head and embedded itself in a juniper tree. "Ai!" I cried toward the barricade, "You have the aim of an old woman! I am Little Briar and I seek parlay with Madanach!" "Show yourself!" was shouted back. So I did, dressed as a proper Forsworn scout would be dressed in full tribal furs of the finest crafting. In short order I was bade to enter beyond the barricade and was met by … well, I suppose the proper term would be my uncle. "Still alive, Little Briar?" Madanach called out with mirth, for he knew the path I had to walk as Dovahkiin was a perilous one. Neither of us expected to see the other again at our last parting. "Still the King of Squalid Mud Huts?" I jested back. "Only the finest hides!" he retorted, head back laughing. His humor was short-lived as he leveled his serious, penetrating brown orbs on me. "What brings you to Druadach, Dovahkiin?" "Rebellion," I answered with equal gravity, my blue eyes locking with his brown ones. "Unseat your arse from that beast and explain, Dragonborn," he said gruffly, but his raised brow told me my answer had struck the chords of his curiosity. The two of us moved aside from the warriors and guards hearing, and I spoke with him in low tones about rebellions and independence for a time. "And you expect me to trust that … that butcher?" he fumed after hearing my words, angrily spitting out the last word. "No, Uncle, I expect you to trust me," I said with simple sincerity. He nodded. "Then you have my word, Little Briar. Merely name the hour." I nodded in turn and spun away, vaulting into the saddle. I was exhausted, but the result of this meeting had me exhilarated as well. "Will you not rest here, at least for a little while?" he asked with almost paternal concern. "No," I answered, putting heels to my horse's ribs, "I have miles to go before I sleep." iii. Blade and Bustier The mists of early morn rose thick and damp, the clop of horse's hooves echoing eerily amid the ghostly tendrils of vapor. Before me, Delphine's form was a ghostly one in the fog. By my estimation we were almost to Kynesgrove. My every muscle was stiff and sore from too many hours in the saddle and my mind insisted on wandering back to the room beneath the Sleeping Giant and what Delphine had revealed to me there. For there, beneath the inn, Delphine hid her real self and purpose. A steep stair had led to a concealed room beneath the Sleeping Giant. The space was simply appointed, the center given to large table on which rested a tome or two and a large map. Various colored pins marked this place and that, though their meaning was lost on me at the moment. So now here we were, plodding through the morning mists. If Delphine were correct, just beyond Kynesgrove we would come upon a dragon burial mound. And further, it would be the site of the next dragon's resurrection. That she had been right about the locations of the Word Walls led me to believe her. Did I trust her? No, not yet and not fully, for there was much that Delphine still had to explain. As much as seeking out this dragon was her test of me as Dragonborn, it was also a test of her veracity. As it now stood, I knew only that we shared an equal dislike for the Thalmor and dragons, and that her information had proven useful in the past. But was it true, were dragons truly being resurrected? Aye, that was the crux of the matter. Tiid fen tinvaak. 1 By the time we reached the outskirts of Kynesgrove, the morning mist had turned into a light drizzle. I confess that my mood had grown as gray as the weather. The weight of the mantle of being Dragonborn was weighing as heavily on my shoulders as the sodden bearskin cloak. Why me, Akatosh? The question echoed without answer in the gloomy recesses of my mind. And not for the last time. At the edge of town we were greeted by a panicked woman, screaming Dragon! at the top of her lungs and pointing frantically uphill. I put heel to Key's2 ribs, urging him up the tor at a gallop. The road was slick with mud and wet, Key's hooves sending geysers of brown liquid flying. From the sound of it, Delphine had similarly spurred her mount. I heard the rasp of her sword coming free from its scabbard. The rutted trail switched back on itself near the top and against the scudding gray clouds my eye beheld the Dragon of Helgen. His immense wings were outstretched and he hovered against the gray drizzled background and his zul — that is, his non-Shouting voice — called out over the dragon cairn that took up most of the hill's top. "Sahloknir, ziil gro dovah ulse!" The air about took on the tingly electric feel that one gets in a summer storm. The very air was being charged by power — the dragon's power. I reined in Key and vaulted recklessly from his back, pulling forth Zahkrii3 and splashing across the sodden ground at full charge. If the Dragon of Helgen saw me, he paid me no heed. "Slen tiid vo!" The power of the Dragon's Thu'um caused the ground of the dragon mound to swell upward. I stumbled and let loose a profane oath. Impeded by my cloak, I paused long enough to unclasp it and let it fall to the ground. In the blink of an eye the ground rend itself and disgorged yet another dragon. Oh gods! Akatosh, Talos, give me strength! Two dragons! One by itself was a daunting confrontation … but two? I felt fear clutch at my heart. The second dragon roared out with his zul, "Alduin, thuri! Boaan tiid vokriiha suleyksejun kruziik?" "Geh, Sahloknir, kaali mir!" The dragon named Alduin roared back. My feet seemed glued to the clinging mud at the top of the hill. It's ebon dark eyes finally fixed themselves on me, "Ful, losei Dovahkiin? Zu'u koraav nid nol dov do hi." The one named Sahloknir took to flight, a single mighty beat of his wings bearing him aloft to join with Alduin. I felt fear's bile gather in my throat. Get me closer, feet, to use my Thu'um! "You do not even know our tongue, do you? Such arrogance, to dare take for yourself the name of Dovah." Except he spoke, of course, in Dragonish. Alduin's zul was full of his mockery. Fear left me voiceless, but I thought it. Oh yes, Alduin, I spent all those extra days in the Temple of the Sky learning to knit doilies for Jarl Balgruuf's dinner table. Oh yes, I understood full well what the dragons were saying. A mighty beat of Alduin's wings bore him higher and he called out, "Sahloknir, krii daar joorre." "Zu'u drun dinok, Alduin!" I finally found my zul and let my challenge fly. Too late, for Alduin's wings carried him beyond the range of my feeble voice. Thank the gods! Only one dragon! As if one wasn't enough. Malign glee gleamed in Sahloknir's eye as he swooped down upon us. For in pausing to answer Alduin, Delphine had caught up and stood poised with blade beside me. Fear still gripped me but faint fingers of hope pried at the grasp. Bolstered, perhaps, by Alduin's dismissive disdain, the dragon's approach seemed reckless and disregarded any danger we might pose. Foolish dragon. Calling upon Kyne's blessings, my Thu'um caught the dragon as his wings outstretched to break his descent. Strun Bah! Thunder rumbled from the leaden skies and as Sahloknir open his mouth to spew or give Voice lightning lanced down from the heavens and rippled across his new-born scaled flesh. The malice in his reptilian eyes changed to shocked surprise. Delphine fell upon the beast with her blade as I moved to the side. "Your shield, Delphine! It is about to breathe!" I yelled as I struck against the scaled armor side of the dragon. A gout of flame erupted from Sahloknir's maw, engulfing Delphine. From my vision's periphery I noted that she had gotten her shield up and most of the flame rushed around it. It's wings uplifted, preparing to take to flight to recover from its surprise. Fus Ro Dah! My Thu'um struck at Sahloknir and his wings fluttered but did not bear him aloft. Again and again Delphine and I struck at him and Sahloknir cried out with anger and pain. Lightning danced over him yet again, as Kyne and Thu'um bent their fury on him. Tiid Klo! Time slowed. I could see the muscles of the dragon's wings swelling, surging to take flight. My blows and those of Delphine struck him time and again. Dragon blood seeped from between sundered scales. Krii! I could feel his life force ebb and the scales gave way more readily beneath our blows. Another gout of flame washed over Delphine and Sahloknir turned his attention to me, crying out in pain and dismay. "Dir, dov!" I yelled, thrusting home with my sword. With a screeched curse, the dragon shuddered and died. Gasping for breath, I let his soul enter into me, subsuming his power … and to Krii was added Lun. Delphine fell to her knees and I turned to her, calling upon Stendarr's mercy, I let my healing magic wash over her, also falling to my knees. Not because my wounds were grievous, but because they gave way in the aftermath of battle. "So, Delphine, you owe me an explanation." I said between gulps for air. "I do, Dragonborn," she said simply, by her words and the dip of her head, accepting that I was Dovahkiin. She told her tale concisely and without embellishment. A Blade. Ah, that explains the Thalmor and the hatred of dragons. She voiced her suspicions that the Thalmor were either behind Alduin's awakening or knew more of it. "And what is it you propose I do, Delphine? Capture and interrogate every Thalmor in Skyrim?" I said it only half in jest. She shook her head, "No, Dragonborn. There is to be a formal gathering, a party, at their embassy. It should be a simple task to get an invitation." She paused briefly and smiled slightly, "I hope you have a formal gown." Oh bother. No, I did not own a gown. So ended the seventh step of a long and trying journey. ________________________________________ 1 Time will tell. Literally: Time will speak. 2 In the Dragon tongue, Key literally means horse. A feeble pun on my part, but what else was I to call him? 3 In the Dragon tongue, Zahkrii literally means sword. I confess that my naming of things is rather unimaginative.

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Part II. Desires, Dragons and Destiny 1. Horny Dilemmas For the longest while I have merely stared at this fresh pile of parchment. My thoughts rush forward and back, filled with events, people and realizations. The pale light of a new day flows in the open window and the air is full of the lingering chill of winter but bears the hint of spring's promise. Much has changed since I saw the path's beginning looking out over Skyrim from High Hrothgar's refuge. And yes, I admit to enticing you to continue reading by alluding to something racy and prurient. I suppose I could have entitled this collection of vellum sheets The Lusty Argonian Maiden, but that title was already taken. I quit the tranquility of the Temple of the Sky reluctantly, but knowing fully what must be done. Needless to say, first-most was recovering the Horn for Arngeir, to pass his final test. Perhaps to prove to him, and to myself, that I indeed had the discipline and temperament to be Dovahkiin. Though, in honesty, I did not know then what that fully entails. In truth, I still do not. As with all things related to dragons, it was no simple task. Before relating the events that transpired let me say that Arngeir did not press me for details. In fact, he has never pressed me for a full accounting of any of my actions. That I had given oath to follow the Way of the Voice has always seemed sufficient — it still gives me pause to reflect, that my destiny and my path are mine to determine. It seemed then, as it does now, that he was content that the test was done. I was Dovahkiin. As I departed the Temple of the Sky that second time, I asked of Master Arngeir one last thing. I must laugh, for it was only the last of that particular visit — I think, mayhaps, he dreads my visits now and the relentless questions that ring about his aged head. If silence is indeed golden, I have squandered a fortune upon his ears. "Tell me, Master, what did you and the others just say to me?" I was eager to know, but also eager to be off. So I fear I was hopping from one foot to the other as I asked, adjusting my kit for the trails ahead. He regarded me for some moments, perhaps amused by my antics. It is hard to tell with Arngeir, he is harder to read than the eyes of a Dunmer; though I do think that his lip twitched with a smile deep in the recesses of the shadow cast by his hood. "As closely as I can translate, Dragonborn, what I said was this." Then he recited, "Long has the Stormcrown languished, with no worthy brow to sit upon. By our breath we bestow it now to you in the name of Kyne; in the name of Shor; and in the name of Atmora of Old. You are Ysmir now, the Dragon of the North. Harken to it." The rich rolling timbre of his voice filled my ears, but the words themselves rang hard upon my mind. I fear my heart skipped several beats. It borders on blasphemy that he names me as Talos was named. I opened my mouth to make retort to that, but stopped at his upraised hand. "Think upon it, Dragonborn. Sky above, Voice within. The meaning will be clear enough to you in time." I closed my mouth and nodded, for it was all I could do. For all the seven thousand steps down to Ivarstead those words echoed in my mind with haunting reverberations. Master Arngeir had to be mistaken; either in the translation or that I was even Dovahkiin. For against the immensity of all that is Talos I found myself coming up very small. Upon the last step, as I crossed the bridge into Ivarstead proper, I think is the moment that the full weight of being called Dragonborn fell crushingly on my shoulders. Why me, Akatosh? I am not worthy. It was not the last time I would have that thought, but by my recollection, I believe it was the first. When I left High Hrothgar that first time, I had thought my return would be quick. That I would travel to the ruin where the Horn lay, retrieve it — albeit, no doubt, with great peril — and return. That is how my mind saw the path. It is not how my feet traveled it. The road to Oblivion is paved with good intents, Yvelle-girl. Ah, now to the Horn's retrieval itself. From Ivarstead I made my way to Riften. Not because it lay between me and Ustengrav, but because I hoped that there I could purchase a horse. Walking to Riften was a far shorter distance than crossing the width of Skyrim on aching feet. I shall forgo my experiences in Riften for the nonce, except to say that the events there may account for some tales regarding my "belonging" (for lack of a more apt word) to the Thieves Guild there. Instead of purchasing a horse, however, I hired transport by carriage instead. For the most part the weather for once was agreeable, and though the roads were bumpy, we passed without incident — which itself is miracle enough — to Morthal. Again, I omit several dealings while within Morthal's hold for the moment. Suffice it to say that in time I reached Ustengrav. In retrospect, I am not sure which was worse — traversing the marshes, constantly cold and damp, or plumbing the depths of Ustengrav itself. The place itself is an old Nordic ruin — with all that entails. Before descending into Ustengrav proper, there was a pair of bandits and necromancer standing watch outside to contend with. May Arkay grant them eternal rest and forgiveness of their mortal transgressions. Dispatching them was a trivial matter; I only mention it because of events within the ruin itself. So I entered Ustengrav wary for any manner of encounter. Only fools rush in where Dovahkiin fear to tread. Only by virtue of long standing suffrage of my bents of humor did I refrain from laughing at my own joke. Such caution served me well, as I was by and large content to let the draugr, and the bandits and the accompanying mages wreak havoc each upon the other. I was content to tidy up by dispatching the survivors. I pressed afterwards into the ruin's depths. The depths of Ustengrav — like so many other ruins and places in Skyrim — proved to be a world-within-a-world. That is to say, it was an immense cavern-like expanse open to the world above here and there, mixed with the stonework of antiquity. Trees grew amid the dusky gloom, vegetation was busily wreaking its vengeance on the works of Man and all-in-all there was a musky fetidness to the place. At the far end of the cavernous expanse, I encountered my first real impediment. Three stone posts stood before a passageway blocked by three stout iron gates. I cautiously crept by the first pillar, expecting any number of things to happen. The first gate groaned its way open. Likewise, the second gate rose upon passing the second stone. Before I could reach the third, the first closed itself. Then the second closed as the third opened. I tried again, this time sprinting past the trio of stones and toward the gates. I skid to a halt before butting my head against the first as it squealed shut. There are advantages to knowing various Thu'um. The third time I sprinted past the three stones, which triggered the gates open. As I cleared the third stone, I gave voice to Wuld Nah Kest. I was propelled in the blink of an eye past the gates before they could shut. Yes, you note well: I had learned more than Wuld since my first time at High Hrothgar. I shall get to my learning of such words shortly. Beyond the threesome of sentinel gates, was a smaller cave, set with flame traps and replete with a duo of frostbite spiders. Wuld Nah Kest again served me well, propelling me past the traps before they could ignite. The spiders, however, were not so fortunate. I came at last into the inner sanctum of Ustengrav. It was a large room, largely filled with water. As I crept in, dragon-headed stone pillars rose from the water's depths. Ware, Yvelle-girl… Expecting the worst, my blade rang free. My experience with such places had me prepared for the worst. Despite my trepidations, I reached the dais bearing Jurgen Windcaller's horn without incident. Except that there was no horn in the statue's embrace: just a folded parchment where it had once rested. I quickly unfolded it. With a murmured prayer to Julianos, I cast Candlelight to read by without straining my eyes in the gloom of the place and let my eyes take in the scant words of the note: Dragonborn— I need to speak to you. Urgently. Rent the attic room at the Sleeping Giant Inn in Riverwood, and I'll meet you. —A friend It was yet another note from "A friend." Unlike the previous ones, this one had not come by courier. I mulled its contents for some time before concluding that I could suppose and conjecture all I wished, but the answer would only be revealed by traveling to Riverwood. I sighed, backtracked and wend my way down a side passage to the cavern bearing Ustengrav's Word Wall. There it was that I learned Feim. Determined to solve the riddle of the note and, of course, to retrieve the horn, I left Ustengrav and made my way without delay to Riverwood. As if to match my clouded thoughts, it drizzled for the entire journey. — I mentioned notes being borne to me by courier. During my travels in Skyrim several letters had been handed to me by courier. Each had been signed by the mysterious "A friend" and the first, as with my thought of unworthiness, found me at Ivarstead. The message spoke of the amazement of the loosing of my Thu'um at the Western Watchtower and hinted that I ought to turn my attentions to a certain place. In each instance, the phrasing was the same, merely changing where I had used my Voice and bearing a hint of where to look next. I read the note and realized that the place was not far from where the Horn was said to rest. Two birds with one stone, my feet will be glad of it. How wrong that thought proved to be. My path was intent on the retrieving the Horn and I thought to head straight to it. But I had not allowed that paths are generally not straight; they twist and wind, often double back upon themselves. As I had at Whiterun, I found my steps tracing and retracing Skyrim. Because of this, a chronological account would be far too confusing, for my purposes shifted as often as the path did and many side paths revealed themselves and led me astray. So from this point, I shall keep this account to various purposes. Bear in mind as you read it, that many overlap in time or proximity. Thus, on my way to Ustengrav, I detoured many times. To Riften and Morthal, as I made previous mention, but also to those places where the mysterious notes pointed. And so it was that the litany of my words grew from Fus, Ro and Wuld. At Ysgramor's Tomb, Raan. At Angarvunde, Mir. And so on, and so forth. As I learned new words and subsumed their power — at the cost of a dragon's life and soul — their use prompted new messages from the mysterious friend. Now, for whatever reason, this friend had entered into Ustengrav and taken the Horn. First, doing so was not a trivial matter, thus this friend was no neophyte; and secondly, was the matter of this erstwhile friend's motives. Conjecture as I might, I could not pierce the veil of the unknown person's reasons despite prayer or contemplation. As the gray of rainy day gave way to black of rainy night, I arrived footsore and thoroughly soaked and chilled in Riverwood. I dripped my way past the door and stood shivering for a time before the fire pit. The Sleeping Giant was devoid of its usual patrons on this chill and stormy eve. Both Delphine and Orgnar said naught; he busying himself restocking the bar, and Delphine swept at the floor with an unenthusiastically-wielded broom. Finally dry, I approached her and quietly asked for a night's lodging in the attic room. Delphine's eyes revealed nothing and her terse reply left me baffled. "We have no attic room. The usual room is available for ten septims." I fished the coins from the purse at my belt, her reply leaving me chewing at my lip. If there were no attic room, why did the note specify to ask for one? At Delphine's dismissive gesture and resumption of her listless sweeping, I made my pensive way to the room and closed the door. Too tired to stow my gear in the provided wardrobe or chest, I let it fall piecemeal to the floor. With a weary sigh I slipped under the bearskin and closed my eyes. Sleep avoided me for a time as the questions What code or signal did that note contain? and What is Delphine's role in this? kept echoing in my tired mind. Eventually, sleep came, even though the answers to those questions did not. A floorboard creaked. With that thought I was instantly awake. I kept still beneath the bearskin and let my eyes open slowly. Startled, I made out Delphine's form in the gloom of the room. She stood just inside the door — Why had I not heard it open? — and seemed to be quietly regarding my sleeping form. Damn it all! My sword was out of reach amid my jumbled clothing and gear on the floor. I readied Zun Haal in my mind and sat up quickly, swinging my bare legs from under the covers. Unperturbed by my sudden wakefulness and springing upright, she simply raised both hands slightly at her sides, palms upward. Instead of using my Voice to disarm an intruder, I let the pent-up power seep from me in a long sighing breath. She waited stoically without uttering a word as I stooped to gather my armor and equipment. As I dressed, Delphine offered her apology for the deception of the note; but that she had to be sure that I was indeed the Dragonborn. "And why," I groused, being in foul humor for lack of sleep and such a rude awakening. My dark-rimmed eyes fixed firmly on hers, "did you have to be sure I was Dovahkiin?" "I had to make sure it was not a Thalmor trap," she answered. From her manner, I sensed there was more to it than that, but let it lay for the moment as I accepted the Horn from her. So, my dear Delphine, how is it a …" Here I paused and ahemmed, "simple innkeeper must be wary of Thalmor traps? I find it rather curious as well that a simple innkeeper would dare enter into Ustengrav and take the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller." "I will answer your questions and more in good time," she said while staring unwaveringly into my eyes. She gestured that I should follow her. Displeased but eager to get to the bottom of it all, I followed in her wake. What followed rightly began other steps of my journey. Do not fret, all shall be made clear to you in time; but what was revealed to me by Delphine was but one more thread in an emerging tapestry of hands that stirred the pot. So ended the sixth step of a long and trying journey.

5. Blooded Brothers I did not leave High Hrothgar immediately. I paused there for some time. Partly it was to absorb what Master Arngeir had shown and said to me, partly to weigh the landscape that swept in every direction when not obscured by all-too-frequent storms, and perhaps in larger part to set aside a crushing weight that I was beginning to feel settle upon my shoulders. So there I stood on a fair morning, the wind tugging whimsically at my cape and ruffling the fur of my raiment. Skyrim unfolded before my eyes, laid out in its splendor in a rare unimpeded glimpse. From so lofty a place, all seemed tranquil in the lands of the Nords below me. Being so removed from the grit of the details, I took pause to reflect on matters that were not obvious from such a height. Thus far I have made little mention of my faith and only scant mention of the Divines. Indeed, I have sidestepped the two topics that halt most sensible converses: politics and religion. If I could avoid them now, I would. Yet both are central to understanding that moment from your perch in some distant day. In speaking of the fate of peoples and nations, as in anything having to do with Fate, one cannot speak of just one part and yet still clearly see the whole. As in the old fable of the five blind men and the mammoth, if you touch but one part and accept it as the whole, there is a lot of mammoth you shall miss. So it is in understanding Skyrim's three aspects: Dov, Divines and Dealings — or politics rather, but in a moment of literary license, indulge me the sibilance of the three D's. Skyrim's nine Holds — yet another irony! — were evenly spread between those that supported the Empire through Jarl Elisif, and those that supported Ulfric and autonomy. Whiterun was balanced precariously upon the fence politic, with Jarl Balgruuf teetering toward supporting King Torygg's widow. That was the larger picture, perhaps, but its larger scope did not paint the details. As things stood, the rebels had the poorer hand. While many grumbled about the Empire, about Elisif or their local Jarl; that is the nature of people in general. We gripe and grouse about our lot in life, but most often do little to change it. While Ulfric's forces were fierce in their beliefs, they were the poorer equipped, supplied and lacked the numbers. Without some great equalizer, the Empire would continue its rule of its northern province. Were it a matter of some temporary discontent, Ulfric was doomed to fail. But storm-tossed as the surface waters were, the undercurrents were equally treacherous, as many interests stirred the pot of discontent. The painting of it, therefore, was not solely in all black or all white, for the political palette was sufficiently muddied by a multitude of grays. On one hand the white/black of Ulfric or Empire, but over that base lay the grays of disaffected Bretons in their redoubts near Markarth, the suppressed voice of the Gray and others in Windhelm and mostly, in the pent up frustrations of all who lived in Skyrim's folds. The pot simmered and bubbled, stirred by this hand and that, ready to boil over into something beyond any individual control. "Generals like to plan at war," father once said to me, "but never seem to account that such plans go awry when the first shields bash and swords clash." That is the way of war. There is no accounting or planning for its vagaries and who shall live or who shall die. So as the pot politic heated to a boil — each chef trying to flavor the stew to their ends but ignoring the fires that roiled around the kettle — the concoction threatened to erupt beyond anyone's making or wishes. I am speaking allegorically of the dragons, of course. They were the fire that was mounting, quite literally, beneath the pot. That the pot was flavored by the bitter histories of all concern worked more to the favor of the dragons than against. This, to me, is what drove my decision foremost, and I say it to refute whatever account survives into the future regarding my motives. All fear the dragons to one extent or other, for the memories of their tyranny and oppression of mankind, regardless of heritage, lingers still despite the passing of Ages. We were their chattel in a distant day, perhaps a day as distant to us now, as these words are of a day far distant to you. It is important only to know that their tyranny was brutal and thorough. Fragments, myths and legends are what we have now, but the hatred is seared into our souls: be they Nord, Breton, Cyrodiilacs or Yokudan, the oppressive fires of dragons have molded and shaped us all to an extent. The Merfolk as well are not unscathed, and for all the bitter history between the heirs of Atmora and the elven folk, the bitter hatreds of dragons are more bitter still. I do not profess to be a scholar of such histories, I merely recognize that the shapes we see today have been wrought by many hands and purposes. So as I stood there atop Monahven's crown, the unfolding beauty of Skyrim was seething below the idyllic surface of distance. There was history enough and hatred enough on all accounts to keep it ongoing to Age after Age. Unless, perhaps, a larger hatred could meld the bitter spices that simmered to a greater purpose. And there was only one larger, collective hatred: that of the mortal races against dragons. The wind ruffled the stray strands of my hair and my lips pressed into thinner lines as a sudden resolve set in. What I found most unsettling in that moment was that perhaps it was I who could make a difference in some fashion. Master Arngeir knew something and had alluded to some destiny that he would not clarify. Dovahkiin. At that moment, gazing up into Kyne's clear blue sky at the Throat of the World, I felt small and inadequate. And while I certainly saw no clear path, I began to see a destination. I had then an inkling of what must be done as I saw it. I could but pray to Akatosh that what I saw was clear and untainted. Forbear for a moment, as I feel I must now set the matter straight in regards to my faith — indeed, the faiths of us all. From our parents' knee as children we are told of the Nine. If we are fortunate, what we learn at that first temple suffices as the foundation of our faith in something greater than ourselves. Blind faith some call it, but not I. To believe and hope in something beyond knowing, that can lift you from despair of daily drudge or circumstance, is a precious gift. I would not call it blind, therefore, but simple — a wholesome kind of simplicity not born of feeble minds, but rather is born of clinging to a child-like purity and innocence that trusts its fate to the all-knowing. It is an aspect that resides inside us all to lesser or greater extent. Some, like I have been, are blessed further by formal instruction. As with the politics of men, religion too simmers with discord. Discord seems to be the way of Mundus. For is it not discord itself that is central to the affairs and politics of beings that are beyond our mortal comprehension? Each race has its views of the Gods, of course, and the composition and roles within the pantheons differ. But for all the differences, there are so many similarities. Semantics in religion, as in politics, spark fierce debates here in Tamriel and wars have erupted from those interpretations. Faith cannot be argued, it is a personal thing we each hold — our individual relationship between ourselves and our Creator. Religion, though, is argued constantly. Indeed, argued to the point of blows being struck. But among the major religious interpretations; each race's creation story shares commonality. In simplest of terms, the Divine spring from two brothers — which has a certain irony when applied to the political situation in Skyrim now. I speak, of course, of Anu and Padomay. All accounts basically agree that it was their coming into the Void that began Time. It was the act of Anu and Padomay walking among the Void that began it all, for their interactions gave creation to Nir. It came to pass that Anu and Nir came to love one another and Padomay retreated in jealousy and bitterness. From Anu and Nir, Creation was born. That birth, however, was a tragic aftermath of Padomay's jealous rage. For before the birthing, he returned to profess his love of Nir, and when his advances were rejected and she professed her love of Anu, she was struck down in his rage. I know I restate what is known, but it is important, I think, to recount it again here. Creation was born as we all are, amid strife and bitter contention. Is it any wonder then, all these Ages past, that we mirror that aspect? Is it any wonder then that the children of Anu and Padomay — Aedra and Daedra respectively — mirror the struggle of the original brothers? Beyond all semantics of the races, that is the root of it: On one hand creation, love and hope; and on the other, jealousy, hate and despair. That is largely what I saw simmering beneath the flowing form of Skyrim's body spreading outward from my eye. We exist as they were and are. Time, many scholars assert, is a wheel and follows cycles. In all honesty, I do not know this as fact, but I have seen enough now to suspect there is merit to that claim. Amid the tumultuous history of Tamriel such cycles have been borne out: From their common beginning, Mer and Man have been as Anu and Padomay — jealous and bitter of one another, and that conflict continues still, most recently "resolved" (for lack of a better word) by the White-Gold Concordat. To this bitter bubbling brew I must now add Akatosh, one of only two Divines acknowledged by all races in essence of being, if not in name. Further, it is Akatosh — or Arui-El if you are Mer — who is associated with dragons, for is He not also known as the Dragon God of Time? I do not pretend to understand it. That on one hand Akatosh would grant to some mortals dragon blood and yet on the other have created through his first-born Alduin Man's oppression by dragons is beyond my understanding. Lastly, the matter of Talos entered into my thoughts. It was in my contemplation of and prayers to Talos that the beginning of my path was revealed. As with Fate itself, Talos has three aspects. Or rather, three major ones, all of which come to bear at this point in time. First and foremost, he was a true Nord — that is to say, the last of those who came to Skyrim from Atmora. His very name meaning Stormcrown and it is here in Skyrim that he learned and mastered the Thu'um. Master Arngeir has not been specific in details, but I know that as I appeared in answer to the Greybeards' Voice, so too did he. Like me, they named him Dovahkiin. Yet, unlike with me thus far, the Greybeards told Talos — or Ysmir, Dragon of the North as he was oft called after being revealed as Dovahkiin — that his destiny lay to the south. Meaning, of course, Cyrodiil. It is Talos' aspect in Cyrodiil that is more widely known. I shan't recount that, as his rise to power, ultimately as Tiber Septim ushering in the Third Era, has entire library collections devoted to such history. What is important at this juncture, I think, is to point out the ties of his Nord roots and his gift of Dragon Blood by Akatosh. It was this that led the Empire into its Third Age and marks the beginning of a new age of prosperity. After his eighty-one-year rule, that it was his Nord and Dragon Blood that was bequeathed to his progeny and that firmly established the Empire in its full glory. Lastly, and most importantly, is the apotheosis itself. The ascension of Tiber Septim to join the pantheon of Cyrodiil and, of course, Skyrim, as Talos as the Ninth Divine; transcending his mortal origin and achieving divine immortality established a long peace. But his divine nature has never been accepted by the Mer, particularly those of the Aldmeri Dominion and, specifically, the Thalmor. In their eyes it was and is a blasphemy and a heresy that a Man could be elevated so. But as the Empire held sway under the Septims, Talos gained his divine seat and, for four centuries, all flourished. For almost a century and three quarters, the Empire struggled on in the aftermath of the Oblivion Crisis; and in the wake of the loss of the last Septim and the Amulet of Kings, the lustre of its previous glory grew ever-more dull. Lands were ceded, the Mer rejoining the Isles and Valenwood, and the Aldmeri Dominion again rose. All this changed thirty years ago. As with the history of Tiber Septim, I shall not recount the Great War except to note two things that arise from the White-Gold Concordat. In order to preserve the Empire, Titus II sacrificed two staunch allies: Hammerfell and Skyrim. And here I must say that the Redguards have shamed us — for rather than abide Imperial betrayal by the ceding of much of their land, they broke from it and stood their own ground. Yet we Nords remained bound to the ailing Empire, despite the grave insult done by sacrificing Talos' divinity to the demands of the elves. Worse than ceding our land, we were willing to cede our souls and our heritage. The insult of Titus II was graver still for ignoring the sacrifice of Nords in defending Cyrodiil itself from being swept aside. It was in defense of the Aldmeri counter-attack in reclaiming the Imperial City that my father lost most of his left arm and thereby met my mother while she tended the wounds of the Nord contingent. Five years later, ironically as Hammerfell forced the Aldmeri Dominion to withdraw from its lands, I was born on the 12th day of Evening Star 4E180 and my mother passed from her mortal life in Tamriel to share in Talos' eternal glory. It is why, for all his many faults, I swore oath to Jarl Ulfric's cause. His shortcomings I hoped to deal with in a future day close at hand, the Divines willing. Need dictates that I set this account aside for a time. Beyond the ice-encrusted windows there are more urgent matters than setting my account straight. I am surprised somewhat looking at this pile of completed pages. It brought a faint smile to my face that for someone who is so vocally laconic that I have had so much to say in writing. I shall take up the rest in the next volume and tell of the three aspects of my particular Fate. Until then, may the Nine watch over me so that I am free to tell of that Fate. So ended the fifth step of a long and trying journey.