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Chapter Text

5th of Last Seed, Thalmor Embassy

The assassin perched on the rooftop, watching his mark walk down the street. Reaching up, the Shadow adjusts his mask, ensuring that it was still in place, before pulling back the drawstring of the bow.

Inhale…

Closing one eye, he aims where the target will be, and adjusts for winds and the arc of the arrow.

…and exhale.  

He releases the arrow, watching with satisfaction as it embeds itself into the skull of the Thalmor Justiciar. Faeved Thramire; main torturer in the Thalmor Embassy in Skyrim. Well. He was, anyways; before some Nords contacted him. The Shadows were neutral, but even so, an assassins place isn’t in taking pleasure from another’s pain. He had standards.

Well. Very few, but it was more than others could say.

Still, he watches with glee as the Thalmor dies. Quite a few of his own had been tortured by this one before being executed, even before the Great War, and Dunmer memories were long.

He crept into the shadows and quickly made his escape, digging in his gauntlets to the natural handholds in the rock of the mountains, making excellent time. An arrow embedded itself into the rock beside him, making him hiss in surprise and work on climbing even faster, making it onto a ledge where he ran, quickly.

He climbed onto Achlys and riding her hard, only stopping once they were several kilometers away and she was panting in exhaustion. “Good girl.” He murmurs to her, taking out a long leather strip and taking off his mask, and tying his hair up.

Callon got off of his horse and led her for a few more meters before finding a place far off of the trail and tied her to a tree there, before turning back and erasing their tracks for quite a bit. Making his way back, they set up camp, and the dark elf set up traps around the clearing and warded it against Clairvoyance. The spell was damned annoying and had almost gotten him caught a multitude of times until he had learned the ward. Mages in general were damn annoying .

Protection done, he built a small campfire and set up his tent, putting down his backpack nearby. He opened up a roll of good paper and his quill and ink bottle, and wrote a short note instructing his clientele where to send the gold, and informing them that it was done. He sealed it with black wax and his own unique seal, and carefully placed it back in his bag. Next, he stripped off his light armor, and carefully packed it up.

Stretching, he curled up in his bedroll, and Callon closed his eyes, and dreamt of ash and a broken land.

He snapped back into consciousness at the sound of the bone chimes being triggered, and the sound of a bear trap being triggered. He sat up, and grabbed an ebony dagger, and crept forwards, nearly silent on his feet. 

He heard a grunt of pain, and the noise of the bear trap being undone, and then a louder scream as the trap snapped back around the leg, due to his changing of the trap. He quickly grabbed his bow and arrow as the (presumably) Thalmor cursed. 

“Your leg bone is shattered. Stay here.”

He nocked the arrow in the bow, and slowed his breathing, watching where the voices came from. Right now, he had to get out alive. He could worry about how they found him later, when his heart was still beating and he wasn’t getting tortured.

An altmer stepped into the clearing, and Callon shot her, the arrow sinking into her throat. She fell with a gurgle, and he quickly redrew the bow when he heard the breaking of a stick from behind him, and he whirled, rolling quickly out of the way as a bolt of fire exploded where he was moments ago. He abandoned his bow and took up his daggers again, red eyes flitting around the treeline. Three Altmer emerged from where the bear trap was, and another bolt of fire set itself off right next to him. 

“You are under arrest for the assassination of Justiciar Faeved Thramire, as well as the murder of Warrior Corelas.”

“Not this time, I’m afraid.” He sneered, and assumed a fighting stance, angling himself towards the mage, and then rushes, sliding to the side as another fire bolt launches itself towards him. The mage looks surprised to see him charging towards him, rather than the warriors, but changes to a frost-based spell, noticing his Dunmer heritage.

Callon snarls, and reaches inside of himself into that wellspring of hatred and suffering, condensed into fire. He felt the comforting warmth of it curl along his skin and leap to the mage, who continues to cast towards Callon.

He leaps forwards, and slices along his wrist, causing the mage to grunt in pain. He whirls, and kicks the mage in the solar plexus and winds him, before putting a dagger through his throat. 

Callon rolls to the side, hearing an arrow slam into the ground next to him, and rushes behind a tree trunk, hiding briefly from sight. He hears them approach, and whirls, ebony dagger sliding along the golden armor. He grunts as the other slams her sword pommel into his side, and manages to stab deep into the hairline space between plates of armor.

He steps back quickly, and the sword slices along Callon’s chest, leaving a small cut. “Sonuvabitch,” he grunts, before pushing forwards and whirling his daggers into face of the warrior as the other crashes forwards, and only forward momentum makes him dodge the pommel. The warrior steps back and only gets a narrow gash, but the assassin pushes his advantage, and stabs the warrior’s throat as they stumble back, center of gravity off balance.

Spinning, he doesn’t manage to turn and step quickly enough as a sword stabs deep into his side, causing him to gasp in pain, and trying to push off the shock of it, but he stumbles back, his right hand dripping his dagger to clutch at it, and stop the blood flow. He grits his teeth, and leans away from the next swipe, and then dances forwards, the flames swirling into bat-like wings that snap forwards, an emberstorm swirling towards the warrior that catches on the padding under the metal. 

The remaining warrior screams in pain, and rushes forward, and Callon can’t move fast enough before the pommel is brought down upon his head, and is stunned for a moment, from the impact. The pommel is brought down again, and he feels the darkness coming to take him, and he pushes, and he feels something shift, and the warrior’s scream, and then nothing.

Chapter Text

17th of Last Seed, Helgen

Ralof frowned as they rode into Helgen, and sighed, looking around. “I wonder if Vilod still makes that mess with the juniper berries mixed in…” He muses, before he notices a few Thalmor riding behind their wagon, seemingly joining them right after they had rode in the gates. In front of one of them was a prisoner, tied tighter than a miser’s coin purse. And was a Dunmer—hardly surprising, knowing that the dark elves hated their Altmer cousins. He looked obviously out of it, and quite badly hurt, if the still-healing injuries were anything to go by.

He was also gagged by a thin woolen cloth, and he was slumped forwards slightly, looking half-dead if the glassy look in his eye was anything to judge by. Or so Ralof thought, until those red eyes noticed his Jarl, and sharpened with interest, and then turned ahead. He shifted a bit, hiding his face from his captors, and frowned as he noticed the Imperial soldiers all around them. 

The wagon came to a stop, and the Thalmor got off the horses a small distance away, pulling the dark elf roughly off with them. Two of them held him up, and he seemed to sag into them, and had the same glassy look in his eyes as before.

And then, Ralof turned his attention back to his own situation, as they got off, and their names were called. Empire loves their damn lists… He thought to himself, calling out after his Jarl, “It was an honor to serve with you, Jarl Ulfric.” 

Jarl Ulfric nodded back to him, before turning, unable to say anything through the gag. Ralof was called—“Ralof of Riverwood!”—after the horse-thief tried to run, and got shot down by the archers. 

He walked towards his death, head held high, and a determination to make his ancestors proud with what he fought for. Torsmor interrupted the priest giving them their last rites, stalking up, and died quickly. “As brave in death as he was in life.” He murmured, and prayed for a quick passage to Sovngarde for him.

Before any of their names were called, two of the Thalmor started forwards with their prisoner, and announced him. “Callon Dren* .” They didn’t mention his crimes, but it was probably worshipping Talos…though that didn’t exactly make sense, as he was a Dunmer, but Ralof shrugged it off. 

Callon perked up, and quickly stuck out a leg, causing the Thalmor on his right to trip, and slammed his elbow into the one on the left’s nose. But then he just walked towards the executioner’s block, determination and understanding and acceptance in his gaze. He wanted to walk to his death himself, and he knew that he couldn’t get out of. Smart man. Callon knelt, and turned to look at the executioner as the Thalmor got up, anger and hatred in their gaze.

An odd, haunting sound echoed around, and the Imperials began to mutter amongst themselves, and Ralof frowned. As the executioner lifted his axe, something flew above the walls and landed on the tower and turned its snout up to the skies and Shouted .

Oh, fuck, Ralof thought distantly, That’s a dragon.  

And then the dragon looked down, and Shouted something else at the executioner and the Thalmor, and they all flew back—unfortunately, the dark elf flew back as well, hitting his head on the ground. “Un vuzt los invak, Yolsos* .” It said, the unfamiliar syllables falling from seemingly the sky. “Do not get in our way.” It then took off, and circled once, and threw down fire with its Voice, all the while the Dunmer groaned, and sat up. 

Ralof shook himself off, and ran to a nearby dead Imperial, and cut his binds on the sword, and rushed back to the Mer, hauling him to his feet. He ran into a tower, shutting the door behind them. “Jarl Ulfric! What is that thing? Could the legends be true?”

Ulfric gave him a dry look. “Legends don’t burn down villages.”

The Mer reached up, pulling the gag off, and then looked down at the ropes binding his wrists. “Divines-damned Thalmor…” He began to work the ropes binding his wrists, slowly loosening them.

“We need to move. Now!” Jarl Ulfric says, and the Mer glances up, and looks back down at his wrists.

“Lead the way, Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak,” The dark elf says, gesturing with both hands, before going back to loosening his binds. “Seeing how I can’t exactly defend myself from a skeever at the moment.”

His Jarl narrows his eyes. “Follow me. I have question for you, Fireblood.”

Callon—the Mer—shivered a bit, before he nodded. “Agreed.” 

I have questions for you, Fireblood. Unfortunate, but Callon figured that he could deflect.

He hadn’t been having a good day until the dragon attacked. Unfortunately, he still wasn’t having a good day—he was stuck in a warzone , with no weapons and tied up. The Divines-damned ropes weren’t coming off, and he wasn’t sure if they weren’t enchanted to never come off except by a Thalmor’s hands. Gloves. Thalmor gloves. 

Adding onto that, he was all-but  forced into a group of Stormcloaks, led by the Jarl of Windhelm. The leader of a rebellion that he wanted no part in. 

Adding onto that , he was fairly badly hurt, and the first order of business was casting some Restoration magic on himself, to at least alleviate the still-healing wounds and allowing him to turn his full attention to survival.

Speaking of which—the Jarl tossed his head towards the door. “When I open this, run for the keep!” The entirety of the Stormcloaks here agreed with that suicide plan. 

And Callon sighed, and finally undid a knot, and managed to loosen it enough so he could slip his thumb out of place, wriggle his right hand out, and then his left hand, before relocating his thumb to its proper place. Ralof had watched him as he heard the pop, and Callon stifled a grin at the horrified expression on the Nord’s face. 

The Jarl swept open the door, and Callon was in the middle of the pack, and even managed to grab an Imperial sword on his way to the Keep. They managed to make it mostly to the keep—two or three died as the dragon used it’s Voice or caught them and flew up and dropped them—and Callon was the first inside, and killed a stray Imperial by running the sword through their ribs, before any other had made it inside. 

He tugged off the footwraps that the Thalmor had given him—out of the kindness of their cold, dead hearts he was sure—and quickly began to pull on the armor, turning as Jarl Ulfric walked in, shutting and locking the door behind him.

Turning, the Jarl frowned at him. “Are you an Imperial?”

Callon gave him a death glare. “No.”

“Why did the dragon say that it’s debt with you was paid? What did you do?”

“Did it say that? I heard something in another language, but I’m not sure—“

The Nord who’d picked up Callon puffed up in indignant anger. “Watch who you’re taking to! Mind your respect, elf. ”

“And mind your tone, Nord. ” Callon rolled his eyes and turned away, walking towards a gate, and crouched down in front of the locking mechanism, and studied it. Might be picked, if I had lockpicks. He grimaced, vaguely remembering the incident where he tried to escape from inside the Embassy, the only time that he had surfaced. But I don’t. Looks like it opens with that lever over there, which is just out of reach. Damn. Turning, he glanced over toward the large wooden doors. No locks visible on this side. We’re trapped like a mouse that’s being hunted by a cat.

Surprisingly accurate, considering the Thalmor likely survived, crafty bastards that they were. Callon wouldn’t be surprised if they could survive the Red Mountain exploding with them in the caldera. Interesting thought, and one helpful for ignoring the Nords for now. And to keep away the thoughts and memories, even if he had closed off his mind during most of his stay with the Thalmor.

He twitched, turning slightly, hearing footsteps echoing down the corridor. He whirled, hiding to the left of the gate, and heard as the Imperials spotted the Stormcloaks, and readied his swords. The first poor bastard through the door got a sword through his jugular, and the next one through his ribs. The captain swiped at him, but he danced away. Humans were slower than the Thalmor, and he had just spent a month mostly avoiding their blows. The Stormcloaks charged, and the captain died quickly, and Callon stuck to back, and swished his fingers, reaching through the Aetherium and plucking the strings that kept healing at the pace that was, and began to heal himself.

The wounds would scar—if they were deep—and luckily no bones were broken, but everything else healed well. Callon wasn’t vain, and he would be meditating quite a lot in the days to come, to settle the memories and help hea the mental damage that being kept with the Thalmor caused. His mentor had taught him Hadriman, or Mind-Shield—a long-lasting ward to protect the mind from traumas*** . It would wear down, and the memories and emotions would rush back, but he had a week to reintegrate the memories before the ward crashed completely.

With the worst damage taken care of—and his Magicka depleted; unfortunately, the Thalmor had kept him awake for long periods of time, to deplete his reserves—Callon could focus much more on escaping with his skin. He stalked forwards, blending into the shadows and half-light between the torch sconces. He was quicker than the Stormcloaks, and stole into a room, and waited for the Jarl and his men.

The blonde one who was on the wagon charged into the room, and Callon rolled his eyes, hissing “S’wit!” under his breath as the Stormcloak fought the Imperials alone, before the others charged in as well. 

Callon turned his attention instead to finding some salves and potions****  to heal his wounds and to help with the scarring, until he could make his way to a specialist. Perhaps he was vain?

The fighting died down just as Callon rustled through the first barrel, pulling out a red apple and bitting into it. Divines, he was starving. Fucking Thalmor.

He snatched a healing potion, tucking it away somewhere even as he tossed a stamina potion at Jarl Stormcloak. “This looks like their main storeroom. Might want to search through for anything useful.”

He hummed as he…commandeered…another healing potion and some flower salve. He sniffed it carefully, and nodded in approval when he could only smell the sweet floral scent of the blue mountain flower and the more musty, earthy smell of an imp stool. Quality work. 

He applied the salve to his still-healing wounds before drinking the healing potion and sighed in relief as his wounds began to close quicker. The crash of rocks outside suddenly made him startle upright, and the Nords to draw their axes and watch the ceiling.

Callon walked over to the doorway and peeked through, and saw that corridor from before had caved in on itself, presumably from the dragon outside. He could still vaguely hear it’s roars, and he looked to his left. Stairs. And to his right (back through the room and through the other door, which hadn’t been blocked, by some miracle) the place from whence they came. Damn. 

Still, there was one other way to go. Callon slipped down first, silent on the stairs, with the Nords being supremely noisy a few paces away. Callon could see down the stairs a torture room—a torture room—

pain-Fire-pain-pain-pain-pain-never-talk-never-it-hurts-please-stop-pain-pain-hunger-cold-pain

—and a torturer—

let’s-begin-today-questions-darkness-is-better-hurts-pain-no-healing-poisoned-food-unsafe-fire-pain

—and the ward was breaking down already, which wasn’t good. Callon stepped to the side, allowing the Nords first (blood right has been acknowledged from their perspective), and he recast it to the best of his limited Magicka ability.

The Stormcloaks had finished, and the Jarl was in front of Callon, trying to talk to him. “What?” Callon asked, blinking at the Jarl.

“I was asking if you were alright.”

Callon glanced to the side, and then nodded. “Yes. I am. I thought that a blòdgjed`  should be taken by you and your men, considering who this room likely housed.” 

“You know of the blòdgjed?” The Jarl sounded suprised, and Callon narrowed his eyes in amusement, before giving an answer verbally after a moment.

“Yes. I’ve made a study of the cultures of Tamriel in my free time, and have probably accumulated a few blòdgjed and weregilds over the years.”

“Blòdgjed haven’t been in use for a century.” It was stated quite firmly, and Callon pushed off the wall.

“Hmm…has it been that long? Time slips by so quickly…Either way, they are still applicable in the eyes of old Nordic law, even if the Empire prefers weregilds. Besides, I’m sure that at least a few of your soldiers have had someone that they knew pass through here. As their Jarl, it is your right to exact a blòdgjeld for them, if they cannot be here.” And then he pivoted on his heel and rustled through the knapsack, and grabbed another healing potion and some lockpicks. 

Glancing through the cells ( alone-stillnotsafe-can’tsleep-exhausted-whatdidtheydotome), he didn’t see anything useful, and was aware of the Jarl following him closely, causing him to hiss slightly in annoyance. “For the sake of the Divines, you are ruining the stealth advantage that I have, s’wit.” He said in a whisper to the Jarl who rolled his eyes but fell back, and Callon stalked through the keep, still irritated at not finding any bows or any hints of arrows. For the sake of the Divines, they very clearly had archers! Where was the additional ammunition or extra bows?  

Despite this, escaping from the Keep was going remarkable well. Or it had , until the Jarl had begun to keep a closer eye on Callon, and as such, he had begun to have been sucked into the middle of the Stormcloaks whenever he wasn’t walking at…hmm…Mer speed, so to say. Mers tended to be faster and naturally taller than men (ignoring that Callon rested at a mere 6’—the first few crucial years of nutrition and proper care had been pushed aside for survival), and Callon typically used this to his advantage. Unfortunately, the Jarl was taller than him, by just 2 inches.

Not a lot, but it meant that he could keep up with Callon. Which would have been annoying, but manageable.

However. The Nord that rescued him—when he was recovering from having his head slammed into the ground at high speeds—was also taller than him. Also by about two inches. 

And if they were annoying together, they were completely fucking irritating together.

Callon had come quite close to killing both of them quite a few times, as they fought through battles and ruined the stealth advantage that Callon usually enjoyed. Gods-damned Nords . Honor means nothing on the battlefield, when it’s kill-or-be-killed. Honors means nothing in the Shadow’s world, and it had nothing to do with his.

However, he had gotten his hand on a bow and a few arrows, after taking it from a dead Imperial, so even the irritating Nords weren’t too bad.

Ulfric had thought that he would die on that executioner’s block, and that the Imperials would have won, that the blood on his hands would’ve meant nothing , that brothers would have fought over nothing.

And then the Thalmor rose behind their wagon, and even after years of recovering he couldn’t help a little flinch, still feeling the pain , the burning , before he recomposed himself. The Dunmer he had originally dismissed, but considering how eager they were to get him executed…well, it had made him interested as to what he had done.

And the dragon came, and it all went to Oblivion.

When they were (relatively) safe in the Keep, and Ulfric had tried to question the elf—“Un vuzt los invak, Yolsos,” or “Our debt is paid, Fireblood.”—over the dragon’s words, but he had played on Ralof’s overprotectiveness, and expertly diverted his attention. And he had killed with ease and obviously knew what he was doing, before he had cast restoration magic for a shockingly short amount of time, before continuing forwards, exchanging the sword for two daggers, and had allowed Ulfric’s men to do most of the killing, and just taking what he could.

Callon Dren, the Thalmor had called him, but Ulfric thought that he moved through the shadows too easily to be just some poor bastard. No, Ulfric thought that the Dunmer was either:

1. A leader of a rebellion against them
2. A thief or a spy

or, and perhaps most exciting of all:

    3. An assassin, who had killed the Thalmor in some capacity.

After all, if he had killed the Thalmor, he wasn’t a friend of them. And therefore he could become useful to the war, to fight for them. 

But the elf had seemed off at seeing the torture room, and Ulfric had a creeping suspicion that the Mer was hiding a few cracks beneath that unimpressed and annoyed façade. Sure, he had talked at length about a blòdgjed, but it was the most he had talked in the entire time that Ulfric had seen him. So he was either unsettled or…he wanted to impress Ulfric with his knowledge of old laws? The second didn’t make sense, so it was likely the first.

After that, Ulfric had managed to keep pace fairly well with the Mer, much to his obvious annoyance. He was also taller than the Dunmer, which he was curious about. Usually Dunmer were 6’ 2” at the shortest, but most were between 6’ 4” and 6’ 6”. Callon was 6’, if Ulfric were to guess.

It made Ulfric even more curious. Ralof managed to keep pace as well, and was taller than the elf as well. It obviously irked the smaller elf, and so Ulfric asked, as they were walking through natural caves. “Why are you so short? Most elves are much taller.”

The elf threw him a dirty look, “Divines help me, are they making small talk now?” He muttered, before sighing, and pressed his lips together. “Yes, most are. However, I was…hmm..born in a time of unrest. Survival came before proper nutrition and rest, both of which are necessary to become tall.”

Ralof snorted. “You don’t look young enough to have been born in the Great War.”

Callon smiled, all teeth, and Ulfric felt uneasy. “How old do I look these days?”

“Perhaps late twenties, early thirties. No later than forty.”

Callon smirked a bit wider and carried on in silence, sticking to the edges of the cave..

Ralof huffed in annoyance, “How old are you?”

Callon looked back, amusement lighting his red eyes. “Hmm…I think I’ll leave you to guess. After all, everyone should know their history.”

“Dunmer haven’t had easy lives for the past few centuries, since the Red Mountain erupted!”

“You mean since the Ministry of Truth crashed into Vvardenfell, which caused the Red Mountain to erupt?”

“Yes! Their land is always half-starved, and refugees are still coming through.”

“Hm. Skyrim is too cold for my tastes. Cyrodiil was better.”

“Was?” Ulfric asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Until the War, of course. Bloody Thalmor were everywhere. Made it impossible to, ah, work.”

“But how old are you?” Ralof interrupted, scowling at Callon.

“Now that would be telling, little Nord.” And the Dunmer smirked wider, and didn’t talk again until he suddenly gestured for them to stop, just a few minutes later.

“Shh! There’s a cave bear up ahead. Give me a moment.” Callon leaned down, and took an arrow from the quiver strapped to his back, and drew the bow, and slowed his breathing.

He narrowed his eyes, and inhaled, and then shot the arrow, hitting and killing the bear in a single shot. Straightening, the Dunmer brushed off the dirt, and rolled his shoulders, stretching out the muscles in his arms. “By Azura, that feels good.” He sighs in relief and hops down from the ledge, and walks forwards. “A bit boring, but having a bow again feels execellent.”

Ulfric snorted, and hopped down. “Axes are superior.” He stated simply, and the elf turned to give him a Look .

“That is a lie. Bows are superior, as they allow you take aim with care and precision , rather than the rough chops of axes. Not to mention that, if crafted well enough, and wielded by someone who knows what they are doing, one can pierce armor and most wards in a single shot.” He gestured with his hand animatedly as he talked, “It allows you to keep your enemies at a range and to keep injuries to a minimum. Even with an inferior bow, you can still kill bears and such.”

“An inferior bow?”

Callon sighs, shaking his head. “You are lost.”

He turned, and walked through the cave, towards the (presumed) exit of the cave system, and Ulfric followed, keeping his axes ready for any other surprises. Callon paused and inhaled deeply, smiling, and raced ahead, all but running out of the cave entrance.

“Fresh air. Trees. Earth.” The Dunmer’s head shot up and he rushed to hide behind a rock. “A giant fucking dragon, ” he muttered, and Ulfric stopped just at the cave entrance as the huge dragon from before flew overhead, and slowly became out of sight.

Callon straightened after another minute, and nodded at Ulfric. “It was good to fight with you, Jarl Stormcloak.”

Ulfric raised an eyebrow, “Are you not coming with us to Windhelm.”

“No. At least not right now.” He paused, before moving closer, and said in a low voice so only Ulfric could hear, “But every good king has an excellent assassin, hm?” Stepping away again, he studied the Stormcloaks. “Send me a letter through courier if you need me. It’ll eventually find me.”

And then he walked away, into the woods.

Chapter Text

17th of Last Seed, woods near Riverwood

It was minutes or hours later when Callon came to, clutching his head in agony as the mental ward finally failed, crashing down and his memories forcibly reasserted themselves. He has cast it when he saw Jarl Ulfric for the first time, as they were riding into Helen, but it shouldn’t have crashed but his magicka was so weak and he was sohungrysotireddarknessissafe

And he remembered ropes tied around his arm and he was dropped and the crunch as it was forced out of the socket—

And the fire spells that they used, just to see how great his resistance to fire was—

And how he had quickly began to stop fighting back, and the whip cracks—

And it was agony .

But he came to. He forced himself up, and he forced himself to walk to the nearest town, finely trembling the entire way, and not dwelling on any memories. He needed to focus. He could…deal with everything later. He needed sleep, food, and gold.

From looting the Imperials bodies, he had enough septims for a few meals and a few nights at an Inn, but they would deplete themselves quickly, especially as he didn’t have access to materials and a forge reliably, and needed to buy his arrows. 

He opened the door to the Inn in town; and stumbled towards the bar, and looked at the barkeep. “I need a room. 

“Go talk to Delphine, then. I take care of the food.”

Callon inhaled deeply to avoid the urge to murder. “Where is this Delphine?”

“Should be on that bench over there.”

Callon nods, and turns and walks over, looking at the other Inkeep. “I need a room for the night.”

She nods. “Ten septims a night.”

He counted out twenty septims, and handed them to her. “Which room is mine?”

“The second room on the left.” 

Callon walked into the room and shut the door, and curled up on the bed, and passed out, exhausted from being kept up for too many nights in a row.

Line here

Callon woke up, his hands locked in manacles above his head, his back pressed against a stone wall. He flexed his hands, wincing as the iron pressed into his skin. 

He instinctively shut his eyes and slumped like he was unconscious, keeping his breathing even, and trying to keep his heartbeat steady as well, hearing footsteps come and stop in front of his cell. The door opened.

“Come, now. Don’t insult me by pretending that you’re still asleep.”

He stayed pretend-asleep.

The footsteps came closer, and then—

CRACKLE

His eyes flew open and his back arched, and he bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to bleed. Callon wouldn’t scream, even as the intensity of the spell increased, the sparks curling around his skin, and then they stopped, and he slumped down.

He glared up at his captors, bearing his teeth in a snarl as two of them stepped closer, and unlocked his manacles. He tried to launch himself forwards, but he was caught by the other Thalmor agent before he got close.

He struggled as he was lifted up, and his hands were tied in front of him with rope. He was dragged forwards and out of his cell, held between the Thalmor like a misbehaving dog. He was helpless and powerless like this.

“I will kill you all,” He hissed, red eyes flashing angrily, and the new Justiciar turned to him, amusement glittering in his eyes.

“Oh, I believe that you think that you will. Now hush, the Emissary is having a party upstairs, and we wouldn’t want to disrupt it, hmm?” He produced a cloth gag from somewhere, and Callon was stopped briefly so the Thalmor could gag him.

He pressed back, shut his mouth firmly, and glared at the Justiciar, even as a hand wrapped around the back of his neck and another pinched his nose closed.

They stood there for a few minutes before Callon gasped for air, finally opening his mouth and the Justiciar forced in a piece of cloth, before wrapping another piece of cloth around it, creating a gag rather simply. The dark elf was then carried forwards towards a larger room, and he breathed in and out, trying to focus on his breathing.

He was tied to a whipping post—he recognized it from vague, hazy memories of Vvardenfall as a child—and was left alone for a few moments, before he heard the crack of a whip behind him. 

Inhale. Exhale.

The ragged tunic that he had on was ripped away from him before the first strike came down, and his breathing stuttering as the pain burned through him and kept burning, and then the next crack sounded right before the whip crashed down on him—

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Callon woke up, biting through his pillow in his panic to withhold a scream. He untangled himself and felt his breathing and heartbeat spiking, and he curled up on his bed as he began to tremble, and breathing was much harder than it normally was.

His chest hurt, and he felt dizzy and he was having trouble breathing and the darkness in the room pressed in around him comfortingly, as used to darkness as he was. He felt himself trembling, and he curled up a little tighter, feeling his shoulders ache, and he tried to focus on that, but he felt an overwhelming sense of panic, and breathing shouldn’t be that hard—

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When he next awoke, he pushed himself up, and sat forwards, feeling his still-healing wounds pull slightly. He ran a hand through his wild hair, and tried to tame it even slightly, before he gave up, and got a leather strip and tied it up into a high ponytail.

He was firmly Not Thinking about the nightmare-memory or the panic attack that followed. 

Instead, he swung out of bed onto the fur rug under it, and grabbed his small pouch of potions and salves that he had commandeered, and began to apply them. Callon sighed in relief as the pain faded from his shoulders as they finally healed fully, and he frowned as he had trouble reaching all of his back. Eventually he finished rubbing in the salves, and felt his wounds start to heal faster.

Pulling on the well-oiled armor, he slung his bow and the arrows that he was using onto his back and walked out of his room, and walked towards the bar, where the first Innkeep was. “What do you have for…whatever time it is right now?”

The Innkeep chuckled. “Bread, cheese, some brook trout and venison…mead.”

“I’ll take the lot. Where should I go for work?”

“Lucan Valerius had his golden claw stolen by some bandits a few nights ago. Word around town is that he’s offering quite a bit of gold for someone to retrieve it.”

Callon nodded. “Excellent. Where is he usually?”

“Inside of the Riverwood Trader.”

The Innkeeper handed him a plate with Callon’s meal, and tankard full of mead. Callon paused. “What’s your name?” He asked, cocking his head to the side.

“Orgnar.”

Callon nodded and moved off, quickly eating his food and making his way to the Riverwood Trader, marked by the typical merchant scales above the door. He opened the door, and glanced around, noticing someone at the counter. “Are you Lucan Valerius?”

The man straightened up, and said, “Yes. Who are you?”

Callon laughed softly. “Well, I’m hopefully the one who’s going to bring back your golden claw. But before that I need some supplies.”

“We can do that. What do you need?”

“A few week’s worth of rations, any arrows that you have, and perhaps some camping supplies.”

“Alright…” The merchant began to move around, gathering the various items. “That’ll be 40 septims in total.” 

Callon quickly counted them out and gave them to Lucan, who handed him the supplies. “I’ll be back in a few days. What’s the reward, again? Also—do you have any leads as to where they may be?”

“Well, we believe that they went to the old Nordic tomb, up on that hill. It’s called Bleak Falls Barrow, I believe. As for your reward, it’s gold from my last shipment—it’s about 500 or so gold.” 

Callon nodded, and exited the building, going across the street to the blacksmithy. “Hello. I was wondering if you sold backpacks..?”

The blacksmith glanced up, and nodded. “Aye. What type do you want? Black, brown, or gray?”

“Black would be preferable. Also, whatever arrows that you do have, I would be willing to purchase.”

The blacksmith pulls out a black backpack, and turns, before pulling a few quivers from behind a workbench. “We’ve got iron, steel, and even some orcish arrows. All together, with your backpack…320 septims.”

Callon sucked in a sharp breath, before counting out what gold he had left and handing the rest to the blacksmith. “That should cover it. Do you know the best way up to Bleak Falls Barrow?”

The blacksmith sat back. “Hmm…there’s a small footpath up, I believe. Shouldn’t be too hard to find, although it hasn’t been used in a while.”

“Thanks.” He shouldered his backpack and walked away from the forge, and paused just outside of the town, and filled up his pack with his supplies. Glancing up, he grimaced, and began to work his way over towards the hill.

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Ducking behind a broken stone wall as an arrow skidded where was a moment ago, Callon grinned fiercely, drawing an arrow on the Imperial bow that he had snagged from some other bandits. Whipping around, he shoots it, and watches as the bandit stumbles back, the arrow having shot their shoulder.

He quickly nocks another arrow and watched it fly, before it hits the bandit directly in the neck, and they go down, chocking on their own blood. Whistling a merry tune, Callon strides over and pulls out his arrows, causing the bandit to gurgle more. 

He turns, plucking arrows from the other two corpses and makes his way into the barrow, pushing open the doors with a little effort. What is it with Nords and giant doors? He asks himself, shutting the door behind him.

Hearing voices ahead, he drops into a crouch, and creeps forward, sticking to the shadows as he goes.

“…just supposed to sit here while Arvel runs off with that golden claw?”

“That dark elf wants to go ahead, let him. Better than us risking our necks.”

“What if Arvel doesn't come back? I want my share from that claw!”

“Just shut it and keep an eye out for trouble.”

An arrow finds itself in the neck of one bandit, then two.

Callon stands up, and walks over, stepping over the rubble and skeever corpses on his way. “So the rumors were correct. That’s a relief—means I wasn’t wasting my time.”

Collecting his arrows and turning his attention to the chest, he grins as the chest pops open. Reaching inside, he pulls out a small pouch of gold, and a few vials of frostbite venom. It’s not too much, but it’ll be useful if I have to fight this Arvel. 

He dipped a few arrows into the frostbite venom vials, and then washed them out with water from his waterskin. Grabbing one of the pots, he filled it with snow before putting it over the fire, letting it melt before refilling his waterskin, and his secondary waterskin. He didn’t know how long he may be in there; it’s always better to overestimate than to underestimate, get lost, and starve to death.

Turning to focus on the doors, he grunts as he pushes them open, the heavy iron material making it difficult to move. The hinges were fairly rusted, so it didn’t move more than a few feet, but it was enough for Callon to slip through, slim as he is.

Shutting it behind him, he turns to the crypt, and sighs and walks forwards, keeping an arrow loosely nocked in his bow. He creeps forwards, keeping a good pace, and eyes the corpses dubiously. Most were skeletons or desiccated, but one had armor and wasn’t as desiccated. He eyes it warily as he stepped forwards, but relaxed as it didn’t move. 

Pushing forwards, he jumps as several move, pushing out of their alcoves. “What in the name of the nine Divines is this fucking bullshit!” He asks rhetorically, shifting backwards as he fully nocks his arrow, and shoots one of the not-quite-dead, square in the neck.

It stumbles back and he grins, drawing the bow again, and then stares in horror as it moves forwards again, talking in (presumably—it could’ve been bloody Dwemeris for all that he knew) Ancient Nordic. They swarmed forwards, he kept stepping back and shooting them, the sheer fucking terror of what the hell were they and why were they moving? causing him to reach into the wellspring of ancient hatred, flaming wings opening and flapping, sending an emberstorm up, burning up the corpses.

Except for one. 

Callon kept shooting it, and it eventually collapsed, the bright blue— Magicka blue —eyes dimming to a dark cobalt.

Oh. Ok. They were like…tougher skeletons, because they had flesh, versus just bones, which could be easily separated. They were like…very old reanimated corpses, with too much magicka. Good to know.

Perhaps they were Skyrim’s version of bonelords and bonewalkers?* That would make sense.

Either way, they were…something.

Scowling, he continues on. Seriously. Couldn’t a townsfolk have warned him about the ancient dead sleeping in their tombs?

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Callon hissed as he broke the damn not-dead-corpse’s hands, before flinching as he came close to breaking…whatever that stone was. It looked important, so perhaps he could sell it for a few gold? Either way, he had the golden claw, and he had as many valuables as he could take, and he had this weird stone now as well, as he pulled it from the alive-corpse’s cold, newly actually-dead hands.

Turning, he walked up a path, having noted a big, important-looking chest on it. He opened it, and pulled out the old, nearly-crystallized (but still usable!) potions and poisons as well as a nice bag of coin. It wasn’t exactly septims—the designs differed slightly—but it was gold, and roughly the same size. He also found a few arrows that were usable that he took, adding them to his ever-growing collection.

Getting his waterskin and carefully pouring water into each of the crystallized potions, he watches as they dissolved and became drinkable again, and he attached some of them to the potions belt, and others he carefully placed in his bag.

Continuing up the path, he came to a secret door, and opened it. It opened…near the entrance. Interesting. Perhaps the ancient Nords had built it like that to…hmm…quickly get out after they had laid their dead to rest, if they were deep into the tomb? 

Shrugging, he walked through it, and out the entrance. Sunlight was beautiful, especially reflecting off of the white snow, and the blue sky had never been prettier.

Making his way back down the mountain was precarious, but he quickly made his way back to Riverwood, but the Riverwood Trader was closed for the evening. Shrugging, he turned and made his way to the Inn, where he should have a room still.

He did, indeed, have a room.

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Callon was released from where he was tied up for the night and forced forwards by the Thalmor soldiers. He didn’t resist. He knew he would die here, and wasn’t that a bitter thought?

The slowly-forming scabs across his back were pulled on as he was forced forwards, to his knees, and a mage stood in front of him. He glared up at her, but some of the glare’s fire had been snuffed. He knew. He knew.

“Hmm…and the Justiciar wants me to heal his pet project?” Perhaps Callon would’ve bristled at being referred to as such, but…he had been called worse. 

The soldiers shrugged, the clinks of the metal of their armor enough confirmation of their movements. “He said so. Just enough to avoid infections. Not enough to scar.” The other answered.

“He does know that this one is slated for execution with the Stormcloaks that the Imperials captured a few days ago, yes?”

Executed with the rebels? Was he going to see sunlight again? Or were they going to die down here too?

“Mage Aurion, perhaps he wants more time with his ‘pet project’ before he has to give it up, hm?” 

The voice made Callon’s blood run cold and he had just enough control over himself to maintain the glare and to not tremble. Boots stepped closer to him.

“Justiciar Cuileril, I am not a healer. Are you sure you want me to fix it?”

“Do your best. As you pointed out, it is slated for execution in about a week. There is plenty of time to get to Helgen. And besides, I plan to ride with it, to ensure that it all goes…according to plan, so to speak?”

“Fine.”

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Callon focused on his breathing, forcing himself to calm as he surfaced from the dream, and sat up into a lotus pose.

Inhale…

…exhale.

He wasn’t an it. He was his own person, and Callon wasn’t broken. This was expected from those who had suffered through traumatic events. Legionnaires’ disease was common, especially after the Great War.

He knew this, but his emotions were pleading another case. 

No matter; he had overcome other traumatic events before. It may take him time, but he would overcome this too. It has only been over the course of a month, versus the Argonian invasion, or even the Red Mountain and it’s aftermath. 

Had the Thalmor tortured him? Yes, they had.

As much as he wanted to flinch away and avoid the question, he also needed to at least lay the foundation of healthy coping mechanisms. It was made more difficult by not being around anyone that he cared for and could talk to…getting off the thoughts he needed to have.

Had he almost died? Also yes—via the hand of the Imperials. Callon was almost happy for that; the Thalmor would have likely made it a far more painful death. 

Had the dragon said that it had owed him? According to the Jarl, yes it had. Callon was leaning more towards trusting him as well—honor ran heavily through Nordic culture. Of course, the man was also a politician, but he had no reason to lie about this in particular.

Despite this, Callon had memorized the words that the dragon had used, to research on his own. “Trust, but verify” was his guiding principle, and it had saved his neck more times than he cared to count, and quite a few of those were literal.

After finishing up his meditation, he stood, and pulled on his armor (he had managed to find some nice leather armor in Bleak Falls Barrow, courtesy of Arvel the Swift. It was the least the bastard coudl do for him after he tried to cut and run), and made sure that he had everything. Today he was planning to go to Whiterun; he had been asked by a few of the townsfolk to ask the Jarl for help regarding more guards for Riverwood. He also wanted to inquire with the Steward about any jobs that he could perform. 

Nodding to Delphine as he left, he began to walk the road, and shivered a bit. Divines, was Skyrim always this bloody cold? It was bordering on autumn, which meant that it would only get colder. Even though his body temperature ran higher than other races, he was still bloody cold. 

Shivering, he pulled his fur cloak tighter to his body and glanced up, hoping that it wouldn’t rain today. He had a few hours to walk, after all, and he didn’t want to be cold and wet. He could still get sick.

Actually…he could probably get sick easier, seeing as he was still unfortunately thin and some of the deeper wounds were still healing. Gods-damned Thalmor.  

Shivering, he crested the hill and looked out upon the hills, smiling as he saw the fortress city, curled in the middle of the plains, built around a hill. Smart, defensively speaking.

He gathered his cloak closer to him, and breathed out, huffing when he sees his breath puff out in front of him. Why is it always this bleedin’ cold? He asks himself, beginning to pick his way down the slopes. Morrowind was warm.

…and then it got blown up.

Callon snorted at his own thoughts. He was making decent progress when he heard the howl of a wolf behind him, and he turned around, eying the three wolves dubiously as he drew his iron dagger. They charged at him, and he kicked one in the neck, grabbing it and stabbing it through the eye.

The other two attack as one, and Callon caught one jaw open with a dagger, stabbing through the jaw and stepping forwards and left, the forward momentum of the other wolf carrying it into the now-cooling carcass of its pack mate. Callon kicked its head up and slashed down with his dagger at the same time, creating enough momentum to (nearly) painlessly kill the wolf, via severing its spinal column.

He sighed, looking down at them, before taking out a smaller knife and getting the pelts from them. Might as well make their deaths mean something. Perhaps a new fur cloak, until he can get a better one?

Or just some gold. Either way, they won’t rot here—not completely, at least, as Callon can’t bring himself to butcher them. Instead, he hides them behind some vegetation, and continues onto Whiterun.

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Approaching the city, Callon eyed the almost-crumbling walls with a dubious eye. They aren’t in repair. I wonder why? Perhaps the Great War? But the Thalmor never made it this far North, right?

Memories of the Great War were hazy at best, and blank at worst. Presumably because as the Empire was thrown off, so was Tamriel, and thus so was Callon’s job. It became a daily battle to live, without just feasting off of skeevers and corpses—he just didn’t have enough brainpower to keep up with current events beyond when the Thalmor invaded the White-Gold Tower.

(He remembered that very well—the Thalmor searching through the streets for Imperial spies, the smell of burning flesh as purges were carried out, screams of terror as the Thalmor killed anyone who got in their way. Barely evading capture after a job gone almost-wrong.)

(Gone almost-wrong.)

(Gone wrong.)

( Pain-fire-burning-silenceneveranswer-crackofthewhip-atleastilldieintheend)

Shivering, he pulls the almost too-short linen cloak tighter to him, and walks into the walls, red eyes cast down as he re-centers himself in his mind, and tries to shake off the memories.

“Halt! By order of the Jarl, Whiterun is open to official business only.”

Callon looks up at him, “I am here on official business. I come from Riverwood, who requests the Jarl’s aid.”

The guard stared at him, and he could practically feel the suspicion. “They sent someone from outside of Skyrim, rather than one of their own? Please do not—“

“I am not lying. Or, rather, if I am that’s an issue for the Jarl to decide, isn’t it? Not just a lowly guard, relegated to watching the front doors?” Of all the times for the Nord’s racist tendencies to pop up, it’s when I’m trying to actually do a bit of good. Of course it is. Why wouldn’t it be? This is why we can’t have anything good.

“Fine. Go in.”

“ Thank you.” Callon said, exasperated.

The guards pushed open the doors, and he walked through, hearing them shut after him about a half minute later. Instantly the noises of a busy city washed over him, and he sighed. Well, it’s quieter than the Imperial City, at least. He continues forwards, smoothly avoid those who almost run into him, on purpose or otherwise. 

Turning to eye the Jarl’s Palace— Alvor called it Dragonsreach, right? —he pushed onwards, walking up the steps and relaxing a bit as the crowds thinned out, allowing him to walk without risking brushing into others. The aversion to touch was new. It wasn’t…bad, just…something to be aware of. 

He shivers a bit the higher that he gets, drawing the linen cloak closer to him. Yes—I do believe that a new wolf fur cloak is next up on the to-do list. He pushes open the doors to Dragonsreach and pushes them closed, hissing a bit as the ache in his shoulder made a reappearance at opening the giant wooden doors.

Turning, he walked through the hall, looking up and admiring the lighting before carefully edging around the firepit, making his way towards the Jarl. 

Only to be stopped by another Dunmer, sword drawn and pointed at him. “Who are you to approach the Jarl?” She asked in accented Trader’s Tongue, to which Callon rolled his eyes, eying her. She was younger than Callon was, perhaps by a century or so.

“I am here to speak to the Jarl. What I say comes directly from Riverwood, velk**.”

She glared at him a bit harder, and Callon just smirked at her. “I am not a child, s’wit.”

“Ah, but you are to me. You’re what…a little over a century old?” He guessed, and his smirk grew a bit wider. “You’re younger than I am. Probably didn’t even experience the Oblivion Crisis.”

A cough from next to the throne drew both of their attention away. “What business are you here for?” 

“Like I said to this one, I bring news from Riverwood to the Jarl. They also for some guards, as the—“ He paused for a moment, rolling words through his mind, picking one and going with it, “ events have led to a dragon flying over their village.”

The figure on the throne sat up straighter. “So the rumors are true, about Helgen?”

“Yes, they are. Well. The rumors about the dragon, anyways. A huge black dragon interrupted the executions,” And good thing or I’d be dead already— “And let the Stormcloaks loose.”

“There were also rumors about a prisoner of the Thalmor’s getting loose.”

Fucking shit he knows doesn’t he. Can’t kill him here, too many witnesses. Smooth it over. “Mmm…perhaps. The Thalmor did bring a single prisoner to the block, but in the chaos with the dragon attacking…I lost sight of the Thalmor in general.” Callon glanced over the Jarl. “Why are you so interested in a prisoner that is likely dead now, anyways?”

“Just curiosities. You said that Riverwood requires more guards, yes?”

“My lord, I advise caution.” The one who interrupted his and the other Dunmer’s conversation broke in before either could say one way or another. “The Jarl of Falkreath May think that we’ve finally joined Ulfric, and are preparing for an attack!”

“Enough, Proventus. I will not stand idly by while a dragon burns my hold and slaughters my people! Irileth,” The Jarl says, turning to the Dunmer that Callon had been bantering with, “Prepare a regiment to send to Riverwood. I’m sure some of our guard would enjoy going there.”

The Dunm— Irileth bowed at the waist, sheathing her sword. “It will be done, my Jarl.” She turned after one final glare to Callon, and stalked off.

Damn. Why is my type always the dangerous ones? He asked himself, staring after the Dunmer. I may have teased her—and she may be younger than me, though not by much in our standards—but she is fine .

“My friend, I must thank you for bringing this news to my attention. Please accept this gift from my armory.”

Turning, he sees a guard who presents him with leather armor. “Ah, thank you, Jarl…Balgruuf.” Jarls were changed out every few decades, so it was a bit difficult to keep up unless they were politically important (such as Jarls Elisif and Ulfric). Callon turns, and dips his head towards him. “It is greatly appreciated.” 

“Good. If you aren’t busy, I may have a job fit for you, if you are interested?”

“It depends on what it is. If it is delving into one of your hellish tombs, I must humbly decline.”

Balgruuf raises an eyebrow at Callon, and gestures for Callon to continue.

A bit pretentious, but he seems to be a good Jarl. “You have…hmm…Nordic equivalents of Bonelords in your tombs. I do not deal with the dead.” He shivers, remembering that time that he took a job to retrieve something from a tomb on Morrowind. “I.” He paused. “No. They should not move as they do.”

The Jarl starts laughing, and Callon stares at him, smile a bit more forced. “Ah. You met the dustmen.”

“…they weren’t made of dust.” He says, cocking his head.

“Perhaps not, but the Dragur tend to have a large cloud of dust billow from them when they’re hit. Some day they were cursed to wander the halls of our tombs forever. Some day that they volunteered to guard them. Either way, they are typically in the way. The job that I’m proposing requires entering a tomb. Come, at least talk to Farengar, my court wizard; consider it. I’m willing to pay a fair bit of gold for this task.”

Shit. Gold. This is starting to look more tempting. “I’ll listen, but I may not take it.”

The Jarl shrugged, standing up and making his way towards a side room. “At least consider it.”

They walked in comfortable silence, and a mage looked up as they entered. “Ah! My Jarl, have you found someone to help me locate the Dragonstone?”

“Perhaps. Farengar, describe it to him, please.”

“The Dragonstone is an ancient stone that lists all of the old dragon burial sites in Skyrim. It is just a map, but it would be extremely useful in locating burial sites, to keep an eye on them and see if dragons come out of them.”

“What does it look like, and where is it?”

“According to my research, it should be in Bleak Falls Barrow. It’s about…this wide and this tall, and has a map on it…” Farengar trailed off as Callon began to dig through his bag.

Pulling out the odd stone that he had pried from the newly-dead corpse of the Draugr, he places it carefully onto the table. “Is this it?”

The mage gave Callon a delighted grin, and pulled it closer. “Yes, it is! You are far better than some others that the Jarl has sent before…”

Someone entered the room, and Callon pivoted, allowing him to see both Farengar and the others at the same time. “My lord,” Irileth said, staring at Jarl Balgruuf, “You must come quickly; a dragon has been sighted at the Western Watchtower.”

Well, this day gets better and better.

Chapter Text

21st of Last Seed, Palace of the Kings, Windhelm

The Jarl of Windhelm had been walking back to his throne when he heard the Greybeard’s summons.

“ DOVAHKIIN! ”

It resounded through his bones, and he took a step in direction of High Hrothgar–and for an instant, he felt a longing to return to the Way of the Voice, to be peaceful, to have never gone to the Great War—and then Ulfric shuts down that line of thought.

No. This was worth it. It was worth all of it.

And then his mind catches up with what the Greybeards had said. Dovahkiin. Dragonborn. The Last Dragonborn was among them.

And Ulfric…Ulfric could only hope that they stayed neutral in the war. That they would be too busy with Alduin to bother with them. Or that General Tulius didn’t turn them against their true homeland.

After all, they had to be a Nord, didn’t they?

21st of Last Seed, Dragonsreach, Whiterun

“ Hell no. I am not being summoned like a fucking dog up a giant Divines-forsaken mountain. Perhaps I am Dragonborn. That means nothing; I didn’t want this.” Callon said, glaring all of the Jarl’s…servants, and the Jarl himself. “I have suffered enough , thank-you-very-much, and I am not getting in the way of the World-Eater. If—whatever—released it wants the world to end, and the Divines do nothing, then that’s on fucking them. I am not getting involved. ”

“It’s your duty—“ Jarl Balgruuf tried, and Callon snarled at him.

“No.” He turned and walked out. Fuck that. Fuck them. I am not fighting anymore dragons. This is going to stay buried. No one besides some guards, the Jarl, his steward, and the housecarl know. 

Control. He breathed in and out, regulating his breathing until he had calmed from fire-anger-ancient rage , to embers-sparks of anger which smoldered into annoyance. 

Fuck them and their expectations. I don’t need to do anything.

But I do need gold—perhaps the local Thieves’ Guild branch will let me have a few jobs? I’ve helped them out before. Sighing, he reshoulders his pack and pulls his cloak closer to him, and prepares to walk to Riften.

21st of Last Seed, Thalmor Embassy

Elenwen startles, glancing out of her window as the summons echoed. Her lips curve into a smile, the first one in days, after the disaster of the executions. First Tulius not giving her Ulfric, and then the prisoner escaping. Everything was going wrong.

But now…but now, if they managed to capture and break the Dragonborn…they would be an incredible asset.

And she would ensure it. Nothing would get in the way of the Thalmor again.