The sky threaded itself into colors of the coming evening, blues traded for the dyes of orange and pink. The trio made the trek back to Whiterun in silence, the thick discomfort only growing. What had they done out there? Was that really what Shouting was?

As much as they wanted this to be the end of it, they still had to speak to Jarl Balgruuf. The stone road lead them carefully up to the city gates, and as the guards prepared to open it to them, the sky rumbled. Thunder cracked and shook the heavens, five voices echoing across the plains, birds fleeing nests and animals scurrying across the land in a flurry of fear.

Dovahkiin.

The trio stumbled, Emeros lurching to face his friends as though afraid they wouldn't be there when the sound ended. Athenath put their hands over their head with a yelp, Wyndrelis stock-still as the sound echoed through them. As soon as they realized there was no iminent danger, the Mer looked between one another, fear stinging their throats.

"Gods, what was that?" Emeros stared into the sky, hoping it would be something identifiable, but all he found were the puffy white clouds that were slowly shifting hue towards the day's end.

Wyndrelis shook his hands as though trying to exorcise himself of any nervous energy. "I don't know, but I don't like it."

"Me neither." Athenath shook their head, raking fingers through his dark curls, the gates parting to allow the group into the city. "It... sounded like someone calling some name, I don't know, but..."

All eyes on Emeros, who narrowed his brow.

"I don't know what I heard, but I know that we should get to Dragonsreach and speak to Jarl Balgruuf."

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Proventus was first to acknowledge their arrival, face more anxious than usual, the look in his eye tinged with a worry that radiated off of him like the gleam of a soul gem. "Good," he breathed, as though the anticipated tidal wave of relief had washed over him, "you're finally here. The Jarl's been waiting for you." He composed his voice and gestured to the throne, Jarl Balgruuf staring into nothing, his hand slowly stroking at his beard.

"You heard the summons. What else could it mean? The Greybeards..." He trailed off, a man near the Jarl that the trio hadn't seen before, his formidable figure seated like the post to an ancient, weather-worn cabin. He turned to the three, surprise on his face as though not expecting them. He calmed his features and spoke, a grin inching up the corners of his mouth.

"We were just talking about you three. My brother needs a word with you."

At the sound of his brother's voice, Jarl Balgruuf turned his attentions to the trio and motioned them closer, focus solely on the figures that made their uncomfortable steps over to him.

"So what happened at the Watchtower? Was the dragon there?" He interrogated, his posture leaning forward so he could catch every single word.

Athenath swallowed hard, the events still too fresh in their mind, stomach hard with fear. While his voice made its way from his throat, he didn't feel it the way he normally would, as though they were far from themself when they spoke. "It turns out we- all three of us, we may be something called uh... Dragonborn." He tried to keep his voice level, but tiny, nervous laughs slid out of his lips here and there as they fidgeted with their hands.

"Dragonborn?" The Jarl repeated. "What do you know about the Dragonborn?"

"That's just what the men called us, sir," Emeros replied, resting his wrist casually against the hilt of his sword. He gave a quick look to the other two. While his own face betrayed no fear, he could still feel his pulse in his fingers. He wanted nothing more than to bathe all the soot and ash off himself and sleep.

"See, when the dragon died," Athenath again chimed in, "we absorbed something from it."

The Jarl leaned back, rubbing his chin with the crux of his thumb, his beard scratching against the skin of his palm. "So it's true. The Greybeards really were summoning you."

"The what?" Wyndrelis quirked a brow, his own exhaustion concealed behind his permanently-tired eyes, his hands at his sides still wracked with tremors.

"Masters of the Way of the Voice. They live in seclusion high on the slopes of the Throat of the World."

"Alright," Emeros breathed, engaged in a struggle to stifle his agitation at the Jarl's vagueness, "what do these Greybeards want with us?"

Jarl Balgruuf rose, and for a moment, Athenath held his breath, but the Nord simply approached and stood before the trio, calm. He explained, "The Dragonborn is said to be uniquely gifted in the Voice - the ability to focus your vital essence into a Thu'um, or Shout. If you three really are Dragonborn, they can teach you how to use your gift."

Jarl Balgruuf's brother added incredulously, "didn't you hear the thundering sound as you returned to Whiterun? That was the voice of the Greybeards, summoning you to High Hrothgar! This hasn't happened in... centuries, at least. Not since Tiber Septim himself was summoned when he was still Talos of Atmora!"

As his voice rose in volume and enthusiasm, Proventus gave a massive roll of his eyes. "Hrongar, calm yourself. What does any of this Nord nonsense have to do with our friends here? Capable as they may be, I don't see any signs of them being these, what, 'Dragonborn.'"

"Nord nonsense?" Hrongar repeated, defensive as he rose quickly from his chair. "Why you puffed-up ignorant... these are our sacred traditions that go back to the founding of the First Empire!" His nostrils flared as he balled his fists at his side. It was clear that this was not the first time, nor would it be the last, that Proventus had said something along these lines to Hrongar. Jarl Balgruuf held his hands up at chest-level, stern as he looked between his brother and his steward.

"Hrongar, don't be so hard on Avenicci." He watched as Hrongar sunk back into his chair, adjusting it as he'd almost tipped it back when he stood. Proventus gave a nervy smile.

"I meant no disrespect, of course. It's just that... what do these Greybeards want with them?" He gestured with one flat palm to the trio, who were shuffling uncomfortably before the exchange.

"That's the Greybeards' business, not ours." The Jarl turned to the trio, stepping closer, staring into each of their eyes back and forth as he commended them. "Whatever happened when you killed that dragon, it revealed something in you, and the Greybeards heard it. If they think you're Dragonborn, who are we to argue?" He observed them closely before he spun on his heel, seating himself in his throne, a serene smile lacing his features that caught the Mer off guard. "You'd better get up to High Hrothgar immediately. There's no refusing the summons of the Greybeards. It's a tremendous honor. I envy you three, you know. To climb the Seven-Thousand Steps again..." the comment had such an air of nostalgia, soft and warm, that it almost made the trio long to understand what he was feeling as he spoke about the Greybeards. "I made the pilgrimage once, did you know that? High Hrothgar is a very peaceful place. Very... disconnected from the troubles of this world. I wonder if the Greybeards even notice what's going on down here. They haven't seemed to care before." After he'd finished reminiscing of his youth, the Jarl waved his hand, "no matter. Go to High Hrothgar. Learn what the Greybeards can teach you."

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Before the three could leave, he held up a finger, a silent asking for them to wait. "Before you go," he stroked his beard thoughtfully, speaking again, "you've done a great service to me and my city, Dragonborn... Dragonborns?" He waved a hand, continuing, "by my right as Jarl, I name you all Thanes of Whiterun. It's the greatest honor that's within my power to grant."

"With all due respect," Emeros interjected, "don't misconstrue me, we appreciate your offer-"

"We do?" Whispered Athenath.

"We do," Emeros replied in a hush before turning back to the Jarl, "but are we truly worthy of that title? We've-"

"You fought and killed a dragon for this city," Hrongar interjected, "you defended Whiterun with the help of our soldiers, and without you three, many more would have likely lost their lives there. It is an honor I'm sure my brother is proud to present."

Emeros' face flushed, embarrassment making the crawl up the tips of his ears. The Jarl cleared his throat, continuing. He awarded them an axe, a sign of their office. Ornately carved and enchanted, the weapon weighed down the Bosmer's arms as he offered to carry it, and when all honors were doled out and the trio were given the title in full, they took their leave, and made their way back into the city of Whiterun.

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"Tomorrow," Emeros began, breathless, voice doused in frustration, "we're coming back up here and finding out just what in Oblivion it means to be a Dragonborn."

Athenath nodded, eyes pinned to the axe that the Bosmer was doing his very best to haul with the rest of his equipment. "I'm just confused as to how we achieved Thanehood. He hardly knows us!" they threw their arms up, hair a mess of curls that stuck to the back of their neck and forehead, wind all the colder against their damp skin.

"Hrongar made a good point, we did get rid of a dragon," Wyndrelis answered, the three finding their way back to The Bannered Mare with ease. "I think we should try to buy some supplies for the road. If we're going to be traveling any time soon, it would be the wisest way to spend our time."

Emeros cleared his throat, and made a sweeping motion with his flat palm to the horizon. The sun had set, the last vestiges of daylight fading from the skies, hues of indigo and tufts of slate-colored clouds filling the heavens. The plains appeared all that much wider, sprawling out in all directions so far that one could think that they were on an island of nothingness.

"Right." Wyndrelis grunted.

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Armor discarded in a corner of their room, the trio sought out the baths for the second time that day. Hot water stung against their bruises, but whatever other injuries they'd sustained had been healed with the absorption of... Power? Was that it? The soapy water soaked into sore muscles as the trio took turns, all tossing their dayclothes into a large kettle to soak out the stains of the day's battle. The pain subsided into a dull ache that would disappear with a few day's rest, if they were even allowed to rest at this point.

High Hrothgar, the Throat of the World, the Seven-Thousand Steps. The Greybeards. If these monks atop some high mountain had the ability to shout one word until the skies rattled and ground shook, what else could they do? Was that the full power of the Voice? Could the gods take pity on them and take this power away, if only so the Mer never had to understand this ability they somehow possessed?

Athenath sat on the bed, still a bit wet from the baths, bedclothes tossed lazily on as they picked through their hair with their ivory comb. Wyndrelis seated himself at the table in their room, his fingers drumming on the wooden surface. The doors pushed open, Emeros stepping inside, his own bedshirt a pale yellow that must have once been a vibrant saffron, dulled from the years of wear and care. His linen trousers were dusty brown, his face betraying his own exhaustion.

"Our clothes should be fully dried in a few hours," he announced, "I've pinned them up, but since it's night..."

"That's fine," Wyndrelis waved a hand, "I'm sure Hulda and Saadia have seen worse."

Emeros laughed, peering in the direction of the balcony. "Why don't we have dinner there," he proposed, "at the very least, we're not holed up in here." As he spoke, Athenath pulled out their garnet cape, draping it over himself, hair drying into its normal, shaggy curls. They shrugged into the fabric, a content sigh on their lips.

"Sounds good, I might go play my tambourine for a bit, though."

"Do as you wish," Wyndrelis dismissed with a smirk, "perhaps you'll even catch that bard's attention."

Athenath cackled, throwing themself back onto the bed. "Gods, we'll see."

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Dinner laid out on a platter at the small table, Wyndrelis and Emeros sat, watching their friend tap, thump, and shake their tambourine to the directions of the Nord bard. The pair played through some local songs, but Mikael's eyes always fell elsewhere in the room, as if the Altmer couldn't keep his attention long enough to bother teaching him all the things they needed to know of the songs they played. The weariness set further into the Altmer's body, they said goodbye and made their way to their friends, sliding into the chair pulled out for them and resting his tambourine nearby.

"I'd say tonight was a success," they picked at their dinner with a weary grin.

"He proposed?" Emeros teased. Athenath rolled their eyes.

"No, but he does love my tambourine playing, says I may do well at the College!" After a moment, they swallowed down half their drink and sighed. "Well, and he's got his eyes on someone else, so that road's closed."

Wyndrelis scoffed. "I don't see why that's such a big deal. Romance, I mean. Focusing on it seems like a waste of time."

Athenath reached into the neckline of their shirt, pulled out their amulet of Mara, and jingled it in the torchlight. "I'm a devotee to the goddess of marriage, it's kind of important. And, well, I just... Love love, you know? It's something I just really, really love. I just wanna find someone, I guess."

"What makes you so certain someone's not going to find you, instead?" Emeros joked, before looking over to the Dunmer and saying, "I suppose you've no interest in our dear friend here?"

Wyndrelis choked back a guffaw, "No, none at all." He paused, watching as Athenath's expression changed, mouth open in a silent, shocked laugh. He winced and tried to explain, "it's nothing about you, Athenath, I swear, but I'm- gods," He rushed, before pushing his hands to cover his face. "I don't... Feel like that about anyone. Never have. Never will."

"Never?" Athenath repeated, relaxing.

"Never."

Emeros shrugged, taking a bite of his stew, the warm, comforting flavor the exact thing he'd needed to melt off the day's events. "Better off without it, I say. Relationships can be complicated, and for now I quite enjoy the unmarried life."

"Well, do you like men, women...?" The Altmer asked, trailing off. The Bosmer waggled his brow, a mischievous smirk tugging at his mouth.

"Why, do you happen to fancy me?" He taunted. Athenath made a gagging noise, comedic revulsion in the scrunch of their nose and the downward draw of their mouth. The exaggerated expression made Wyndrelis laugh, running his hand through his dark hair.

"Fuck off, I'm just curious."

Emeros sipped his mead, thinking over a response to the question, looking down at the hall of the inn below them. "I've no preference. Gender isn't something I factor in when seeking a partner. Yourself?"

"Men, pretty much. I've only ever gravitated to them."

The trio spoke for a while, their dinner cooling as they carried on the conversation in quiet tones, music floating through the air, colors of the notes in warm hues, drinking songs echoing through the hall from the late-evening patrons. The hall burst with life in these moments, the hearth plenty warm and the benches full, Mikael leading in traditional Nord melodies. Wyndrelis rubbed at a spot on the back of his left shoulder, his back never facing the hearth as he sat, watching from the balcony.

"Something the matter?" Emeros asked. Wyndrelis shook his head, moving his hand to his hair, combing through it with his long, grey fingers.

"No, thinking."

"Well, stop thinking," Athenath grinned. Wyndrelis rolled his eyes, smirk playing on his lips.

"If it were that simple, I would have done so years ago."

Emeros looked to Saadia and Hulda, watching them as they conversed, before returning his attention to his friends. "Tomorrow, let's try to get some information. Then, we need to purchase more supplies and prepare for the road, if we're traveling soon."

The others agreed, taking their empty dishes down and washing them out with care, the songs going long into the night. Apparently, word of the dragonslaying had reached the city, guards coming in to tell the story over and over, the words bouncing off the walls, the way the dragon had turned to the city and very nearly attacked the world they called home if not for the three strangers, the gazes of the inn's patrons fleeing up the stairs to the room the trio occupied. The word of a group of Mer who could Shout would spread through the entire Hold by morning, if they could judge anything off the way the story took on mythic proportions through the voices of the guards. Some of them sounded familiar, like the ones they'd fought alongside, and some were second-hand tellings of it. Mikael tuned his lute as he listened to every word, and the trio only could hope this wouldn't destroy the little bit of peace they had in this inn.

Athenath dropped their cloak on the end of the bed, pulling it up over the blankets. It was the perfect length to act as a second blanket, and when the other two crawled into the bed, they slid down and pulled it tight around himself.

"Let's take inventory in the morning," Emeros murmured, "and we'll see what we need."

"I think there's a shop right across the street," Wyndrelis noted as he closed his eyes. Athenath gave a small hum, nodding. The three Mer lay there, sleep slowly creeping into them as the Nord bard sang of heroes long into the night.