Chapter Text
Chapter One:
A Winning Gamble
The following account consists of decades of research into the events which transpired during the resurgence of the dragons. Contradicting witness accounts and a lack of proper documentation means assumptions were made concerning certain people, places, and events. Some facts remain unpublished due to the sensitive nature of the material or by personal request. Despite these factors, this work remains the most accurate account of the truth surrounding the Last Dragonborn.
This work shall always remain incomplete, no matter how much time and effort is poured into it. Thus is the nature of trying to capture world-shattering events onto the page. Imperfect as it may be, it is my hope and prayer that all future generations shall rely upon this account. May it serve as a reminder and a warning to any who lay eyes upon it. By the grace of the Nine shall it be remembered. By the grace of the Nine shall such evil and chaos never be witnessed again.
When misrule takes its place at the eight corners of the world
When the Brass Tower walks and Time is reshaped
When the thrice-blessed fail and the Red Tower trembles
When the Dragonborn Ruler loses his throne, and the White Tower falls
When the Snow Tower lies sundered, kingless, bleeding
The World-Eater wakes, and the Wheel turns upon the Last Dragonborn.
-Head-Archivist Meriul Orva, 4E 270
The guards asked to see her teeth before permitting her to ride any further. Beneath their dented, steel helms, their faces were wet from the downpour and pale from fear as much as the chill. One had no gauntlets, allowing her to see his knuckles turn white around his halberd. The other was more relaxed in the way he fiddled with his cudgel, but his narrowed, flinty eyes betrayed him. Neither of them relaxed until she acquiesced, baring her teeth in a grimace before pulling the low-hanging cowl back in place.
"Thank ye kindly, my lady." The cudgel was tucked back away at his side. "Standard procedure. I'm sure you understand."
"I have never heard of such a procedure before."
He grimaced. "'Tis fairly new, my lady, I grant you that. A necessary one."
"I am sure. Shall you inspect me for weapons as well?"
"You have any on you 'sides the ones in front of me?" His gaze fell to the bow strapped to the side of her saddle, the edge of a shield peaking out beneath a blanket, the warhammer with its silver-wrapped hilt glinting at her waist.
"A hunting dagger in my pack."
"You plan on using any of them within city walls?"
"No."
"Then you should be fine."
Thunder rumbled ahead, the rain coming down harder in icy sheets. Her gelding tossed his head, snorting and huffing as she patted his neck. His distress was not at the storm -he was a well-trained warhorse bred for battle- but at the piercing wail echoing through the streets, a bone-chilling noise that made her sit up straight and her fingers twitch towards her weapon. She had not heard such a pained, grieving shriek in many, many years -if she was not already soaked, old fears would have made her break out in a cold sweat.
One of the guards mumbled a curse.
"Is someone hurt?" she asked, forcing her voice to remain calm.
"No. That'll be Indara. Half mad with grief, she is. Shor shelter her." He caught her glance and grimaced. "Bad business, my lady. Indara and Mathies are grieving. Ysmir's beard, all the city is. Today's a bad day for a funeral."
"My condolences. Who has passed?”
"Lavinia. Their only daughter."
"Again, my condolences. What a terrible thing to endure."
The guard holding the halberd continued chanting his prayer to an unfamiliar goddess of the heavens. The other looked as if he were about to be sick as the grieving mother wailed again. “Move along,” he said with a wave of his gauntleted hand. “Falkreath’s troubles are her own. Best take shelter from the storm and depart as soon as the sun returns.” He phrased it as if it were a suggestion. The look on his face told her it was anything but.
A nudge of her heels had her horse moving forward, passing beneath the wooden ramparts manned only by banners snapping in the wind, the stag’s head dancing to the beat of thunder. No more guards stopped to search her or demand her reasons for being in town. No shopkeepers beckoned from beneath the safety of their awnings to lure her inside. No children played in the mud or jumped in puddles. No pickpockets lurked in the shadows between buildings. The city of Falkreath, the first real city she had encountered in this backwater of a province, was dead.
She did not run into a single living creature until she found herself outside a thatch-roofed building barely large enough to be considered a rundown hut in the Waterfront. A sign depicting a dancing skeleton pouring a flagon of ale into his mouth and through his ribs told her she was at an inn called Dead Man’s Drink. Movement from the stables had her hand falling to her weapon, but it turned out to merely be a stable hand. The young man scrambled to his feet, forgetting his still smoldering pipe. “Shor’s saggy left tit. You some kind of knight?”
“Not quite.”
“Could’ve fooled me. Your armor gleams brighter than the silver on the Jarl’s table. And that horse-!”
Her gauntleted fingers squeezed tight around his wrist as he reached out to stroke the gelding’s neck. “I would not. He bites.”
The stable hand gulped and pulled his hand back.
“Is there someone I can speak to about getting a room for the evening? Food and supplies, enough for a few weeks worth of travel?”
“Sure there is. Mistress Valga could help you with all that, but she’s out at the service. Everyone is.”
“You aren’t,” she noted coolly.
“Had to stay behind. Horses would go mad if left on their own in the storm.”
“I see.”
“If you wait inside, I’m sure Narri could take care of you until the mistress comes back. It’s a lot warmer in there than out here.”
“Very well.” She tossed a silver septim towards him, swinging herself out of the saddle. “Do not feed him sugar. Touch nothing save his reins. Treat him well and you will receive another.”
He bit the coin before tucking it away, giving her a wide grin and grandiose promises. She had to soothe the gelding and mumble a few quiet orders in his ears before he would allow himself to be guided into the stables; the bow and shield she left behind, but she made sure to sling her travel pack over her shoulders before she marched inside the inn.
Dead Man’s Drink made most coffins appear large. Dark and gloomy, the firepit running the length of the room offered little light and less comfort as it had been neglected and left to smolder. Candles sputtered on the low tables huddled around the ashes, flickering as the flames sank low into the wax stumps. An unpleasant combination of smoke, unwashed bodies, and vomit hung heavy in the air, a pungent perfume only found far away from the comforts of civilized society. She counted less than half a dozen souls scattered about the common room, all in varying degrees of sobriety.
The serving girl needed little convincing to put off the task of mopping up a drunk’s vomit from the flagstones to fetch her a hot meal and something to drink. She directed her to sit down on the opposite side of the room from the pile of sick and vanished in a swirl of skirts.
She sat and sighed.
For the first time since leaving the Imperial City, she felt as if she could breathe.
How long has it been now? she mused, tugging off her gauntlets and flexing her cold fingers. Two, no, three months? Three months since proper civilization? If this town can be called proper, that is.
An avalanche and the destruction of the only main road for a direct route between Cyrodiil and Skyrim had delayed her progress considerably. She had been forced to travel through Hammerfell, a route that had cost her even more time due to the treacherous navigation of inhospitable sands full of men and women with little love for the Empire.
Yet she had managed to arrive safely to the northernmost reaches of Tamriel, a feat she had at times believed impossible. Now it was just a matter of finishing the second half of her journey. Then her work could truly begin.
Narri came back with a flagon of mulled wine, a bowl of what looked like venison stew, a plate of cheese and bread, and a still warm apple turnover. She accepted the handful of copper coins with a rather pretty smile and went to perch herself on a burly townsman’s knee, conveniently forgetting about the mess from before. The stranger nibbled at the cheese, sniffed the wine with a grimace, and ignored everything else in front of her. The woman’s wails echoing through the empty streets had ruined any appetite she had.
She only had a few minutes to pick at her food when her meal was interrupted by a clatter of dice bouncing on the tabletop.
“Ah, my most sincere apologies!” The words were crooned with a voice that sounded made for singing rather than speaking. “I did not mean to let my bad habit intrude before proper introductions. Sometimes I am convinced the dice have a mind of their own. They make me wonder if my losses are due to general bad fortune or their dislike of me.” The bench on the opposite side of the table scraped against the rough stone floor as the owner of the dice sat down, smiling as if he were an old friend.
The Bosmer shared an uncanny resemblance with the colorful birds found in the exotic coastal ports of Hammerfell. She had encountered a few on the long journey north, always perched behind iron bars of a cage and squawking at the merchant trying to pawn it off on her. Both man and birds held the same amount of grandiose importance in their eyes and puffed out their chests as if expecting applause for the simple act of existing. The man even looked like one of those birds. His clothes were finely made; rich fabric dyed an outrageous shade of blue, vines of green and gold entwining his sleeves and branching out across his chest, and enough ruffles and embroidery to make any Countess in Cyrodiil weep with envy. His cap sat at a roguish angle upon perfectly maintained black curls, the single white plume perched upon it fluttering as he touched the cap with a gentleman’s greeting.
Pretentious. Arrogant. Charismatic.
Divines preserve me. A poet.
She fought the urge to leave.
Long fingers heavy with bejeweled rings swept up the dice and dropped them into a wooden cup. “I am fortunate indeed that the fine people of this lovely town do not view my vice as an unforgivable sin,” he continued, rattling the cup loudly and setting it down before him. “On the contrary, they have been quite accommodating. They have helped me improve my skills in bluffing more than they have my singing. The pay is far better. One cannot survive on the meager coppers offered for tips, but the riches one can reap from a toss of the dice can rival those of any king if luck smiles upon him."
“Is there a point to be made here? The road has been a long one and I wish to eat in peace without being instructed on all of the benefits of participating in a vice where one loses dignity and septims with every game.”
“A point? Of course there is a point, my lady!” The white feather fluttered as the Bosmer leaned in conspiratorially. “You are new to Falkreath,” he whispered in a voice loud enough for the patrons across the room to hear, “riding in on a rather impressive looking warhorse and heavily armed. This alone would cause questions in the best of times. Now, though...Well. I figured it would be safest if the others arrived to see us chatting away like old friends. No unsavory questions or threats that way.”
She sniffed. “Your intentions were noble but you assume too much. I mean no harm to the people of Falkreath nor anyone else in this province.”
“And I meant no disrespect, my lady. But your arrival could not happen at a worse time. The people here are, to be frank, rather superstitious. When it comes to matters of the heart, they look before they leap. When it comes to matters of murder and tragedy, they tend to stab first and ask questions later.”
“Murder? Who has been murdered?”
The Bosmer’s charming smile slid off his face. He took his cap off and ran his fingers through his hair with a sigh. “Lavinia.” The name fell from his lips like a stone. “A sad tale, one I shall not regale you with. At least, not before more cheerful topics have been thoroughly explored. A good bard never opens with a tragedy; no matter what comedies, delights, or tricks he may perform for his audience after, a good tragedy shall always dampen their spirits worse than an ugly young maiden left alone on Heart’s Day.”
“A rather crude comparison, master bard.”
“Daenlyn Oakhollow, if it so pleases you my lady, for no one other than those hoping to hire me refer to me as ‘master bard.’” His arms extended as he offered her a half-bow from his seat. “Traveling minstrel, storyteller, and general source of hedonistic pleasure, at your service.”
“Not to mention a gambler whose coin purse is now woefully empty.”
“You wound me, my lady. I prefer the term septimless romantic. Nonetheless, I am at your service until old age or lack of food and drink take me. Speaking of which...Narri! Come here, my dear! Fetch me something to loosen my tongue and fill my stomach before I find sustenance in the upholstery.” The Bosmer did not speak another word until he had finished half his ale and devoured no less than a third of the stringy venison the serving girl placed down in front of him. “Now, before any more words can be exchanged, formalities must be upheld. To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking to? A handmaiden to Dibella, perhaps? For though you insist upon concealing your lovely countenance beneath your cloak, your pleasant manners and beautiful voice alone tells me that you are as radiant as-”
“Knight-Commander Theona.” Normally, she detested interrupting -it was a rather rude act- but if she had to listen to any more of his flowery speech she would claw her own ears off.
“A pleasure to have a name to address such fair company.” He flashed a winning smile, tapping his fingers against the side of his dice cup. “Ah, but forgive me. Your title is unfamiliar. I was not aware the Imperial Legion had come up with a new rank since I last passed through Cyrodiil -that, or I have been paying less attention to this damnable war than I believed.”
Knight-Commander Theona shook her head. “No, I do not serve the Legion. And I was led to believe that the conflict in this province was a simple rebellion with a handful of skirmishes, nothing more.”
“Mara’s lovely bosom, you truly are a foreigner, aren’t you?” He lifted his hands at the disgusted noise that escaped her. “Apologies, my lady, I meant no disrespect. I simply wonder who you have hired to give you information and question why you have not thrown him out into the streets yet. Your information is woefully incorrect.”
“You seem to know much for a simple bard.”
The Bosmer smiled again. “Any bard worth his lute knows the value of remembering good information. Even the worst fabrications concocted by drunken louts deep in their cups can be woven into a story with the right amount of creativity.” He gestured towards her with his fork. “Take you, for example. I’ve already wagered that you traveled from the south, most likely from Cyrodiil by your accent alone. What little I glimpsed through the window when you arrived and what I now see before me says you are not only well-traveled but have easy access to funds and are skilled in combat. The Legion is my first guess, but it is proven wrong by both your title and ignorance at the magnitude of the conflict which grips this land.”
“An astute observation.”
“So now I am faced with an interesting prospect. No sellsword rides a horse like yours nor owns armor of such high quality unless she picked it up off a corpse. Doubtful, considering your bearing. Furthermore, no Legionnaire nor Stormcloak rebel I have heard of would dare bear an insignia other than their own. You, my lady, are an oddity who appeared at a most inopportune time. Hence why I let my dice introduce themselves -to satisfy my curiosity and keep suspicions at bay.”
A moment of silence passed as she idly sipped the pungent wine. It tasted foul, but it gave her time to process everything that he said. “...Are you sure you are not a spy? You are far too observant for a simple bard.”
“No, my lady. Although a spy’s pay is far better than what I currently earn, I am a simple musician. I could never adapt to a lifestyle of secrets and paranoia and the risks would always outweigh any romanticized rewards.”
“Did you not grant yourself the title of romantic just a few moments before?”
“Ah, observant and lovely? You ensnare my heart within your web of beauty, fair lady, entrapping my mind and soul forever to your-”
Knight-Commander Theona’s patience was wearing thin at this point. The mug was replaced on the table with more force than necessary, the bang drawing a few pairs of eyes towards their quiet corner. “Master Oakhollow,” she growled, “I have travelled many leagues to arrive in this province. I am weary from the journey and do not have time to bandy words. You have teased and hinted at a greater problem facing this town and have treated the topic of a child’s murder as if it were a tale to spin before a fire. If Falkreath is facing some sort of danger, you are doing its people no service by withholding information.”
He had the decency to appear ashamed, or at least something close to it. “Ah. I beg your pardon then, my lady. It appears another bad habit of mine has forced its way into the light of day; my desire for a rapt audience sometimes makes me forget myself.”
The sound of dice rattling across the table grated against her ears as he overturned his cup once more. In calloused fingertips he held one of them, weak candlelight flickering off the smooth surface of bone. The charming smile and grandiose gestures were gone; he held the pose for merely a beat before speaking in a low voice hardly more than a whisper but powerful enough that she could hear every word.
“It began two seasons after my arrival to this province. The war for Skyrim’s independence was not as bloody as it is now, but skirmishes were not unheard of. Innocents and guilty alike departed this mortal world for Aetherius at the end of a blade or in an ambush. The family of the man called Sinding were some of those unlucky few caught in the snares of misfortune. He came to town after they all perished in a Stormcloak attack -their farm was burnt to the ground, nothing left to bury. A pitiful wretch, broken by grief to the point he was nearly mad when he stumbled through the gates, burned and bloody. Pity was given to him. Mercy and kindness as well. For a time, he adjusted to this new life of his; he worked at the lumber yards, drank here in this fine establishment, moved on from his grief. At least, so we thought.”
The die was placed gently down between them. Another was plucked up and twirled between his fingers. “Not a month after Sinding joined us in Falkreath did a merchant caravan from the south travel through, bringing with them a scholar from the Imperial City. By this time, Sinding was welcome among us, yet still wary. The horrors he endured would make anyone hesitant to be among people and he was slow to make acquaintances, let alone friends.” The second die was placed next to the first. “Only the gods know why, but the pair of them grew close during the short time the caravan stayed in town. They often spoke late into the night though no one can seem to agree on what they discussed. Idle gossip. Unimportant. What you need to remember is that there was a connection forged by proximity.
“And then our tale takes a tragic turn.” A third die was picked up with a grim frown. “All was normal. Indara was taking her daughter to visit the alchemist for a concoction to remedy her cough. The girl was playing by the river near the mill when she slipped and fell in, saved from drowning by none other than Sinding. People were just starting to congratulate him for his quick action when he grew fangs and a tail and…Well. Lavinia did not survive the encounter. Two guards died in the attempt to subdue the beast. Jarl Siddgier ordered Sinding to be thrown into the darkest pit available until the headsman could ready his axe; the scholar now has a matching cell until his role in the affair, if he had one, can be determined.”
She resisted the urge to reach across the table and shake the bard by the shoulders. A good half hour wasted with waxing poetry before he mentioned the murderer responsible for a child’s death was an abomination? “A werewolf? You mean to tell me that Falkreath deigned it appropriate to apprehend a werewolf without informing the proper authorities?” She scoffed. “Next you will tell me the Jarl ordered the dining set off his table to be smelted to fashion silver chains for the beast.”
Daenlyn gave her a simple shrug. “I was not present for the attack itself, but what I saw being dragged away by the guards did match the countless descriptions of the beasts in others’ stories.”
The frown of the Knight-Commander was barely visible beneath the snowy-white cowl. “Impossible. When did you say this happened?”
“A few days prior.”
“The moons were not full a few days prior. Furthermore, it was daytime when the attack occurred. It could not have possibly undergone a transformation.”
“My lady, I do not exaggerate nor jest when my tales are of the gravest circumstance. When I say Sinding sprouted fur and grew claws sharper than a dagger’s edge, I say nothing but the truth.”
Her hands had clenched into fists on the worn table. It didn’t make sense. Lycanthropy was equal parts disease and curse, eating away at a person’s mind until nothing was left save a primal, animalistic urge to devour anything in their path. They were not solitary creatures but rather lived in packs like their lesser cousins that roamed the forests and mountains. This one went against everything its kind was known for. An abomination living in a city? It was unheard of! How could the Keeper allow such negligence to occur?
Daenlyn’s voice was slow and mesmerizing as he continued, a steady chant that demanded her focus. “I wish that I could conclude this tale with a happy ending, with justice served and the child avenged. Yet Sinding never faced the headsman. We awoke just yesterday with his cell empty. Our poor scholar now faces the crime of aiding him in his disappearance and will no doubt face the gallows before the week is done. Thus our tale ends. The beast escaped, the parents bereaved, and every soul in Falkreath crying out for blood or jumping at their own shadows.”
Which explains why the guards demanded to see my teeth. Her gaze fell on the final dice as he added them to the pile, all six of them showing a single pip. Mephala’s Eyes. The worst throw one could have. It fit her dark mood quite nicely.
“Why did no one summon a Vigilant?”
Daenlyn blinked at her question. “Summon a…?”
“A Vigilant. Surely there must be an outpost nearby. Why did the Jarl deem it necessary to imprison the abomination himself instead of relying on the aid of those who are trained to handle such matters?”
“My lady, I fear I haven’t the foggiest idea what you are talking about. There are no outposts nearby save crumbling fortifications turning to dust as we speak and the ones guarding the edges of the Hold leagues from where we sit. There are no soldiers in these forests save the Jarl’s men.”
“The Vigilants of Stendarr are no mere soldiers.” The golden emblem engraved on her cloak’s clasp flashed in the candlelight, cupped hands overflowing with water falling from a fiery horn. The bard’s eyes fell to the clasp, narrowing in recognition. There was no mistaking the symbol of the Divine of mercy. “You mean to tell me that I am the sole member of the Vigil currently in this Hold?”
“If there are others,” he said slowly, gaze never leaving the clasp, “they certainly are not in this city. My dear Knight-Commander, I am afraid you have me at a disadvantage. I have never heard of priests of Stendarr having different branches. What does this Vigil do?”
He could not see it, but a fire had sparked in her eyes. “We are an order dedicated to the complete eradication of the abominations of this world, as Stendarr teaches us.”
“Abominations?”
“Monsters,” she explained with a wave of a hand. “Daedra of all kinds are our biggest concern and reason for existence, but the Vigil takes all threats seriously. Goblins, witches, necromancers, vampires-”
“And werewolves?”
“Precisely.”
Daenlyn leaned back on the bench. He stared at the Knight-Commander for a long moment, his voice slow and cautious when he finally spoke. “A dangerous profession indeed. And what, pray tell, are you doing in Skyrim? I gather Falkreath’s troubles are not your reason for being here.”
Knight-Commander Theona did not speak. He was correct. She was already woefully behind schedule, having spent too much time crossing the wastes of Hammerfell. Her feet longed to carry her to the stables, to mount her steed and ride hard to the heart of the province. But the cries of the mother still echoed in her ears. Part of her knew that she would hear those screams for a long, long time if she simply followed the guard’s advice and left when the rain let up.
Daenlyn was staring at her, eyes two hard chips of amber as he watched and waited.
The Knight-Commander hesitated long enough for three thunderclaps to rumble overhead. Her head finally jerked in a sharp nod. “You are correct,” she said, her words clipped. “Falkreath’s troubles were not why I was sent here. But they are my concern now.”
He raised a brow. “Wait a moment. What do you intend to do? The tale is finished, my lady. Sinding is gone, sweet Lavinia resting in Aetherius. Unless you can track something that can turn invisible-”
“You mentioned the scholar still resides in prison,” she interrupted, returning her gauntlets to her hands. “The man knows more about this abomination than anyone else in this city. If anyone could provide insight on where it would flee to, it would be him.” If she could learn more about this beast -its behavior, its patterns, its knowledge of the land- she could track it. And if she could track it…
A brilliant smile appeared on the bard’s face, sharp white teeth flashing. “Then allow me to offer my assistance. No, please, do not protest! It is the very least I can do; you helped me win a bet against a fellow I simply cannot stand to lose to by taking action.”
“And who might this individual be?”
“Myself, fair lady.” He rose to his feet with a practiced grace, seizing his satchel from the cobblestone floor. “I can provide directions to where our scholar is currently residing and introduce you to Falkreath’s illustrious captain of the guard, if it so pleases you.”
“It does indeed.”
“Splendid!” A small handful of septims was passed into the barmaid’s hands as they exited. “Fair Narri, tell your mistress I shall return posthaste for my evening performance. And try to keep these lovely patrons from missing me too much!”
More than one of the drunks shouted obscenities at the bard, a mug of stale beer hitting him squarely in the back as the two were swallowed by the storm.