Saga of Kin and Chain: Part 1
'These northernmost lands are harsh, fridged places. Where every breath you take feels hard fought, and every day spent clinging to life is a victory against this place that seemingly does everything in its power to see that life snuffed out. Though, I will not deny that it does posses a certain allure. A call that despite myself, I cannot help but answer.' – Serrato, Merethic Era Aldmer Explorer
----------------------------------------
Dreams are tricky things. Often they're nothing more than a random assortment of sights, sounds and other sensations. A garble of nonsense akin to a child's first attempts at speech before they are properly schooled. Even when semi-coherent, their ever shifting and ethereal nature makes comprehending them about as difficult as grasping the smoke from a campfire with one's bare hands.
Still, as far as dreams went Lokir had to admit; he'd certainly had worse. He was currently waist deep in the cool, crystal clear waters of what must have been the most scenic desert oasis in all of Hammerfell. A half-naked redguard woman flanked his left side; while a busty breton mirrored her to his right. Losing himself to the fantasy of his resting mind, Lokir found more ease and peace of mind at the sight before him than any dusty old coot's promises of honor and glory in Sovngarde.
Now there was no doubt in his mind that fleeing to Hammerfell was the best thing he could've done, maybe even the best idea he'd ever had really. It wasn't that he hated his homeland, but plainly speaking it'd just gotten too dangerous.
Lokir was a coward. He knew this, he accepted this. And with the High King murdered and a civil war raging throughout the province, on top of the more mundane dangers of bandits and hostile wildlife, Skyrim was becoming less and less permissible of cowards.
Still, he supposed there were some things he'd miss about that frozen wasteland. The more he thought of them, the more the scenery of the dream shifted and bent around him. Now instead of a sandy oasis, he stood amongst the rolling hills and vast planes of Whiterun hold. The small hamlet he'd grown up in looming on the horizon, with the ever-present Throat Of The World towering above it countless miles in the distance. The first sprinkles of snowfall for the year let him know it had to have been harvesting season, and that no doubt meant lavish feasts and full bellies as the town made merry before hunkering down for yet another harsh Skyrim winter.
The thought filled him with joy, but also with a deep melancholic sadness. As he knew deep down in his heart, that he would never really see this place again…
As he reminisced about the home he had abandoned, a voice began to call to him from outside the dreamscape. Small and easily ignored at first, but with each appearance it grew louder and harsher until he was ripped from the pleasant confines of his own mind and back into the real world.
"Hey!"
Lokir snapped awake, panic overtaking him after attempting to wipe the last remnants of sleep from his eyes and finding that his hands were bound by a stiff rope.
Frantically scanning his surroundings, he found he was being hauled on a rickety cart with an imperial soldier at the reins. Sitting at his sides were numerous nords all dressed in the same blue and brown armor, along with a gagged man in fine furs and robes, and finally what appeared to be a high elf wearing the same tattered rags he was currently donning with a cloth sack draped over his head.
By the divines, he'd failed hadn't he.
Originally, his plan was to flee south into Cyrodiil. But after spying the veritable wall of very angry looking imperials standing guard at the border, probably in case any wandering rebel armies decided to take a more direct approach in their fight against The Empire, he very quickly decided against it.
His hastily conceived backup plan was to steal the nearest horse in the dead of night, and race west towards Hammerfell or maybe Highrock. Hoping that by the time anyone noticed his thievery he'd be long gone at that point. To his surprise, this quarter baked plan born out of pure desperation actually seemed to work! For a day.
When night fell, instead of making camp and resting till morning, Lokir instead continued riding. Determined to make as much distance between his crime and himself, but in doing so seemed to have unknowingly wedged himself between a small cohort of Stormcloak rebels, and a small army of Imperials encroaching from all sides. The last thing Lokir remembered was the butt of an Imperial's sword heading straight for his temple.
And now, here he was. Caught up in the very war he was fleeing, and no doubt headed to a very long stay in an imperial jail cell.
A sharp pain flared up his shin as the nord who'd dragged him from his slumber kicked at Lokir's leg.
He let out a small yelp of pain before scowling at the blonde man.
"What in Oblivion was that for!"
He shrugged. "You were ignoring everything I said, and you've been muttering to yourself for the past few minutes. Figured that'd bring you back to the land of the living."
The soldier let out a mirthless chuckle.
"Well, back for now I suppose. Enjoy it while you can kinsman, this cart here's only got one stop left."
Lokir's face paled at the implication.
"Divines, you don't mean… But I'm not a rebel! They can't just execute me for nothing!"
The other nord scoffed. "I doubt they give a damn about that. Empire wants this war over now, they're not going to waste time with something as trivial as trials or investigations. You were caught in their net, so you die. Simple as that."
Lokir's brow scrunched in confusion.
'War over now? But this just looks like a couple squads worth of soldiers. How would losing them lose the war? Unless…'
Giving the man in furs another look, his face paled.
Deep brown hair, fine yet rugged looking clothing, a gag around his mouth that none of the other soldiers shared…
"You're Ulfirc Stormcloak, aren't you?"
The man gave Lokir a weary look, and a solum nod. Lokir felt his heart sink through the cart and into the ground. If there was still any doubt remaining about his fate, that small nod had thoroughly crushed it to dust.
After this Lokir broke down in a state of pure panic and despair. His head buried in his bound hands as he muttered prayers to every divine he could think of, and a few he might've just made up on the spot. The blonde soldier sneered at his kinsman's cowardly behavior.
"Oh quit sniveling. You're a nord ain't ya? Then face your death with some damn courage boy!"
A muffled baritone came from the other side of the cart.
"Leave the boy be soldier."
The blonde man's head turned in surprise, not recognizing the voice as one of his comrades, and saw that it must've come from the high elf sitting across him. His voice softened by the scratchy looking burlap sack wrapped around his head.
"Everyone has their own way of grieving, let the kid have his."
A muffled chuckle sounded from under the bag before he continued:
"Besides, putting on a stone face isn't going to chip the executioner's axe. Whether you go to the block stoic as the dead you're about to become, or kicking and screaming for your mother the whole way through, our fates are all the same."
The soldier gave the altmer a confused look, before letting out a scoff.
"It ain't about survivin', going to your death with courage and knowing you'll soon be joining your forefathers in Sovngarde is a mark of pride for any nord. You wouldn't understand, elf."
The mer let out a sigh before shaking his head. "Well, got me there."
The nord man shot him a scrutinizing look.
"How'd you even end up here? What, you get caught up in the ambush like mumbles over there?"
The elf gave a small wistful laugh. "No, my wrists have been shackled for a long, long time. Probably longer than most of you have been alive. To be honest, no matter what happens after this cart stops, I'm just glad I got to enjoy the fresh spring air one last time…"
With that, aside from the occasional mutter or choked sob from Lokir, the cart descended into silence. It stayed like that for the next couple hours, until the thick forests the cart had been flanked by gave way and revealed a small walled settlement. The soldiers standing guard signaled for the gates to be swung open, and the caravan drove into the small trading-post turned settlement: Helgen.
The town wasn't anything special really, the only things of note were the decently large imperial garrison that'd been stationed there due to its proximity to Cyriidil, and a decently booming market square where Imperial and Nordic traders would exchange a wide variety of goods from every corner of their native provinces. Though the rebellion had for the moment put most of that cultural trade to a halt, and these days the market square served little purpose than to remind the townspeople of what once was.
The blonde soldier let out a nostalgic sigh.
"Thought I recognized the road we were on, haven't to this place in years, used to be sweet on a girl that lived here." He let out another humorless chuckle.
"Maybe she'll be in the crowd when I go to the block. That'd be a reunion for the ages, eh?" He macabrely joked. No one laughed.
As the cart wheeled them through the narrow road of the small town, the denizens began to poke there heads out to see what all the commotion is about, only to either quickly duck back in deciding they wanted nothing to do with this, or stay fixated on the cart watching out of either pity or a sick sense of curiosity. A few parents even shooed there children back inside, reasonably not wanting them to witness the public execution about to take place, but stayed outside themselves.
As they rode deeper into town, they got within eyeshot of the bulk of the imperial force garrisoned at the town, including the commander of the entire Imperial Army in Skyrim: General Tullius and his right-hand woman Legate Rikke. Most of the captured nords glared daggers at the duo as they rode past, but the blonde soldier spied an even fouler sight.
There, lording over their human "allies", were two Thalmor agents. Unlike their imperial counterparts these two were on horseback, gazing down at the lowly humans as they gave "suggestions" to General Tullius who, begrudgingly, echoed them to his troops as orders.
But as the cart rolled past the soldiers and deeper into the town, one of the agents stopped dead in his tracks and gave a stare of pure malice directly towards the cart. The soldier was slightly surprised by this, until he amusingly figured out that it wasn't the cart or any of it's soldiers that he was really looking at. Instead, his hateful gaze was squarely focused on its lone elven occupant.
"Hey, Baghead." The soldier began with a wry grin.
"Looks like one of your elven buddies is in the crowd."
The bound mer cocked his head a tad at the nord's statement before letting out an amused hum.
"Does this 'buddy' of mine have chin length grey hair, matching grey eyes and a clean-shaven face?"
The man across him raised an eyebrow at the high elf's description, and one look over his shoulder revealed it was spot on. The Thalmor man had steel grey hair swept back and going down to his less sharp almost trapezoid like chin, as opposed to the stereotypical pointed chin most high elves possessed. What surprised the soldier the most was that aside from giving Baghead the deathglare, he was also flashing his fellow Thalmor diplomat a look of annoyance and cold, barely suppressed fury. Every so often he'd rotate his look between the two, like he couldn't figure out who exactly he hated more right now.
The nord shot his fellow prisoner a surprised look.
"Huh, didn't think that thing was see through…"
Underneath said bag, the elf smiled. "It's not, he's just that predictable."
At that the nord barked out a hearty laugh. Most of his comrades had no love for elves of any kind, mostly due to the Great War and its consequences. Not to mention the countless songs of Ysgramor and various other Nordic heroes cutting down knife ears like lumberjacks in a forest, but despite himself he was growing fond of this one.
"Damn, he looked real happy to see you. What in Oblivion's got him starin' daggers at ya anyways?"
The mer was quite for a second, before responding in a grave tone.
"I killed his son."
A pause overtook the cart as the nord processed the confession, before he responded.
"He deserve it?"
The bound elf chuckled at the man's bluntness.
"More than most. That boy was a cold, vindictive, ruthless little bastard. In short, the splitting image of his father."
The two shared a grim chuckle, before once again the cart grew silent. The only sounds being the rolling creak of the cart's wheels, as well as the murmurs of the townspeople around them.
Soon after the road came to a halt at the barren market square, and the cart halted with it. This sudden lack of motion caused Lokir to finally snap out of his hysteria as he looked wildly at the town around him, finally acknowledging it's existence.
"W-where are we? Why have we stopped?"
The soldier clicked his tongue.
"What, can't you tell? We've arrived at the party, and they're about hand out our awards."
Lokir gave him a confused look, before realization and horror grew on his face. Shortly after, the squad of rebel soldiers began to funnel off their cart and out into the square. Greeting them were an imperial officer and a clean shaven Nordic soldier donning imperial red holding what looked to be a rather large list of names. Other carts had a similar set up to them, all clearly there to make sure today's mass killing went as smoothly and peacefully as possible.
The one with the ledger gave a nod to his superior as the last occupant descended from their assigned carriage, who in turn gave their superior a nod, which continued up the chain of command until General Tullius himself was ready to start the show.
Naturally, the first one brought forth was none other than Ulfric Stormcloak himself. As the rebel leader and general locked eyes, a silence descended upon the crowd, both soldier and civilian. For a good minute neither men dared make a move. Even bound Ulfric still exuded an aura of power and ferocity, and all knew of his mastery over the ancient and sacred Thu'um, as well as the regicide he had used it for. The gag around his mouth more than just for show.
The Imperial General's aura matched his rebel counterparts, but in place of the ferocity of a chained predator his seemed more akin to a weathered stone pillar, unflinching in the face of any and all threats. Tullius' tactical brilliance was also unmatched by most of his peers in Cyriidil, and seemingly more than a match for his rebel counterpart's. After all, he wasn't the one in chains.
"So, Stormcloak. It seems your vain little rebellion has run its course."
The imperial broke the tense silence that had overtaken the square, and the crowd let out a breath few realized they had been holding. Shaking his head, the general continued.
"You know for all your speeches and bluster on how much you love Skyrim and it's people, you sure have done a good job tearing it apart. But no more. Skyrim will stand strong, The Empire will stand strong, and this whole nightmare will pass by as if it were nothing but a bad dream."
The Jarl of Windhelm stared daggers at the man and let out a muffled growl from underneath his gag. But Tullius paid him no more heed as he signaled to the executioner to ready his axe. But just before the disgraced Jarl could be laid down at the block, a new voice entered the fray.
"I wouldn't be so hasty if I were you general."
Said voice came from one of the Thalmor agents, specifically the grey haired one, who up until now had been silently observing atop their horse. Tullius furrowed his brow a bit at the elves' suggestion.
"There has been nothing hasty about my actions Justiciar, my mission since setting foot in these lands has been to end this war as swiftly as possible and that is exactly what I intend to do."
The other Justiciar, a gaunt fair haired woman with sadistic mischief in her eyes, spoke up in her comrade's defense.
"Now now general, we're not saying you should spare this one the axe. What I believe Inusou meant was that he shouldn't be spared the consequences of his actions. After all, these men and woman all followed him to their needless deaths, let him see all the suffering he has wrought upon them before his own life is snatched away."
The grey-haired elf nodded in approval at his comrade's words.
"Never accept mere death, when suffering is owed." His eyes quickly darted towards Baghead before resting again on the general.
Tullius gave them a haggard look, before rubbing his temple and sighing to himself.
"You heard the lady. Captains, ready the other prisoners for execution. Looks like Ulfric's has been temporarily belayed."
Soon after the square was abuzz with movement and sound as names were called, last rites were given by the priests the empire had employed, and the crowd occasionally letting out either cheers or jeers as soldiers soon began falling to the headsman's axe.
Lokir's cart was no exemption, as one by one were called into the rather long queue that'd began forming for their execution. Devoid of context one would sooner think they were in line for some mundane market fad sweeping the town rather than their own demise. It was nearly comical. Nearly.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.
The soldier holding the ledger paused a second as he eyed the next name on his list before he began to read it aloud, regret tinging his voice. "Ralof of Riverwood, step forward into the line."
The blonde nord had been staring daggers at the soldier as he read out the names of his comrades, a look of betrayal etched on his face, but as his was called he gave Lokir and Baghead one last look.
"Well elf, mumbles, that's it from me. I'd say take care of yourselves, but odds are neither of you are gonna be that far behind."
The elf gave him a small but respectful nod as he walked into the line, while Lokir only spiraled deeper and deeper into panic. All that was left from the cart was him and the elf, and while he hoped beyond hope that neither of their names (or even really just his name) weren't present on the list, he had a sinking feeling that wasn't the case.
"Lokir of Rorikstead, step forward into the line."
At this, Lokir's mind truly broke. He quickly darted off along the road causing shouts from the soldiers and gasps from the crowd. The order for archers to stop his escape was called but he didn't hear it, he didn't hear anything anymore. The only things on his mind were escaping and becoming a changed man, no more thievery, no more drunkenness, hell he'd even become a monk if he could just have one more chance.
An arrow pierced his calf, bringing him down on one knee. Three more lodged themselves in his back, he could even see one poking through his ribcage. He wasn't going to escape, was he? This was it.
The pain was excruciating, but he didn't even get a chance to scream as a final arrow pierced right through his throat. Quickly feeling his body going numb, and his mind succumbing to darkness, Lokir of Rorikstead fell into unconscious. His body flopping onto the cobblestone roads as he quickly bled out.
His last thoughts were of home.
----------------------------------------
As the escape attempt ended and the crowd began to settle down, the ledger holding soldier turned his back on the unsightly business that'd taken place on the road. More than eager to finally get this unpleasant business behind him, he went to read off the last name but stopped. There was only one prisoner left from his assigned cart, the high elf with the bag on his head, but it appeared that all the names on his list had been read off already. He flashed his superior a confused look.
"Uh, captain, what do we do with this one? I don't see their name on the list."
The captain furrowed her brow for a second before opening her mouth to speak, but she never got a word out as one of the Thalmor Justiciars interrupted her.
"Well of course he isn't on your list, I'm afraid this one falls under our jurisdiction alone."
The two elves dismounted as they marched up to the trio, the woman giving the two a hollow faux-friendly smile while the grey haired one kept a stony visage.
"You two must be tired, well don't you worry your pretty little heads, we can take it from here."
The blond mer said as she pinched the nord's cheek, giving him and the captain a patronizing smile to go along with her words, either not noticing or not caring at the pair's obvious discomfort.
As her gaze fell upon the prisoner, her eyes rolled as she let out an annoyed sigh.
"For the love of Mara, would somebody remove that ridiculous bag already."
The ledger bearing soldier, after receiving a small nod from the captain, obliged the altmer as he swiftly walked to the prisoner and exposed his head to the sunlight.
The face that greeted him was much, much older than his slim yet athletic looking physique portrayed. With wrinkles crisscrossing every corner of his face, along with what at first he mistook as tattoos or maybe face paint, but what he soon came to realize were centuries old scars faded to near nothingness. His long wild hair was stark white, with a short yet decently thick beard decorating his jaw, collecting into a sharp point at the chin.
His eyes, however, were a different story. Their irises were a vibrant leaf green, and they danced with an energetic youthfulness that would've looked more at home on somebody an eighth his age, and betrayed the rest of his weathered face.
Said eyes squinted shut for a brief moment before adjusting to the early morning sun. The blond Justiciar let out a mirthless laugh.
"Well look at that; Melnaro the Immortal, hero of Alinor, and one of the eight survivors from the fall of the Crystal Tower, reduced to a rat who flinches at the light."
After taking in the two Thalmor standing before him, Melnaro let a wry smile grow upon his face.
"Hello to you too Elenwen, how's the social climbing been going? What are you now, an admiral? An ambassador? Has it made you happy, or are you still the same miserable foot soldier you were thirty years ago?"
For a split second a sneer grew on the altmer's face before she replaced it with her ever present fake smile. While her comrade's response was to raise his arm as magicka swirled into his palm, no doubt some form of shocking spell for Melnaro's insolence, before Elenwen gripped the limb and slowly lowered it back down.
"Inusou, this is what I'm talking about. You need to learn to get a hold of yourself instead of flying off the handle every time he breathes at somebody the wrong way."
The grey-eyed altmer couldn't meet her gaze, his eyes focused on a suddenly very interesting patch of dirt as Elenwen continued berating him like a misbehaving child.
"Now, I brought you all the way up to this backwater for a very important assignment, how can I trust you to devote all your energy and focus on it if you have that one constantly distracting and infuriating you? Not to mention how utterly unhealthy your obsession with torturing him has become. It's been nearly forty years, don't you think it's time to let go and move on?"
Melnaro watched as her scolding turned into something almost akin to a counseling session. He would've found the sudden shift in tone rather hilarious if he wasn't pretty damn sure 'Let go and move on' meant killing him and being done with it…
Oh, who was he kidding it was still hilarious.
Inusou, for his part, furrowed his brow. More than anything he wanted to refuse, to say that he wasn't distracted, that he was so close to breaking the mer, so close to seeing that expression of complete and total despair that he'd been waiting almost forty years for, but he couldn't.
With a huff he relented.
"Very well, have it your way."
Elenwen gave him a smile and a pat on the shoulder.
"See? That wasn't so hard, was it? And of course, you'll be the one chopping his head off. Just to make sure you get some nice well earned closure from this whole ordeal. Doesn't that sound nice?"
Inusou gave a slightly disappointed hum at the prospect of beheading his self-made nemesis, like a child having their favorite toy taken from them, while Melnaro slowly became more and more amused at the two's borderline comedy routine. He probably should've been a bit more concerned due to his now immanent demise, but to be perfectly honest he'd become resigned to his fate. At almost two-hundred and fifty years of age, he couldn't exactly say that he hadn't lived a full life. It'd never been easy, and these past forty had been especially difficult, but even then he'd managed to eke out some satisfaction in watching his tormentor get more and more frustrated with his refusal to yield. Refusing to have his spirit crushed and the life completely drained from his eyes.
Now all he felt was bittersweet acceptance, and a pang of disappointment.
Elenwen turned her attention from her fellow justiciar to the headsman, signaling him to halt just as he was about to bring his axe down on another unfortunate soul's spine.
"You there, why don't you take a break for a minute. I'm sure it must be tiring swinging around that axe all day, go sit down and have a breather. My compatriot and I need to borrow your block for a quick moment anyway."
The executioner looked puzzled for a moment, before shrugging and going off into town to grab a quick pint at the local inn. As the Thalmor forced Melnaro towards the block, the imperials pulled the nearly headless man up from his knees and started shoving him back into the line. Said prisoner turned out to be Ralof, who flashed Melnaro a sad smile as the two crossed paths. The elf returned it, before they were both pushed out of each other's view.
As the elves approached the blood-stained block, an echoing screech sounded throughout the air. Sounding as if it were made miles away, and yet still it was loud enough to make ripples in one's drink, cause a slight ringing in one's ears, and make the wooden houses of the town creak and groan down to their very foundations.
For a brief moment the entire square halted in their tracks, looking at one another with confusion and even slight panic, before the commanders and captains ordered everyone carry on and pay the sound no heed. After all, Skyrim was chock full of strange and mystical creatures. In all likelihood the sound was most likely a mammoth, or maybe a particularly loud giant that'd stubbed their toe, it might've even been a rare and illusive snow whale. After a minute the sound was forgotten, and life (or in this case the ending of life) carried on.
As Melanro lowered his head on the bloodstained hunk of stone, Inusou drew his saber while a flicker of satisfaction gleamed in his stone-grey eyes, and a ghost of a smile began to worm it's way onto his face. He was beginning to think closure wouldn't be such a bad consolation after all. While Melnaro was simply content with being able to see the sun one last time as it poked over the large stone tower that loomed at the center of Helgen. He was even lucky enough to spot a bird whose flight path eclipsed the rising sun, soaring as wild and free as he'd never be. Then, as the justiciar raised his blade and the bird flew a bit closer, he realized that it was much bigger than he'd first thought. Finally as the blade rushed down and the bird drew closer still, Melnaro realized something that struck fear into his heart much more than his swiftly approaching death ever could.
That wasn't a bird.
As Inusou's saber was inches away from severing his head from his shoulders, the entire square was blown back by the force of something absolutely massive landing on the towering pillar baring down on the town. Something so unthinkable that it made Melnaro almost wish his own execution was a success.
A dragon had landed in Helgan.
----------------------------------------
The beast was a terrifying shade of deep midnight, it's scales shined like fine ebony and were no doubt just as tough. It's back was lined with terribly long spines that looked as if they could impale a man and have room to spare, while it's curved crown like horns stretched up into the sky. Lastly, it's red hot molten eyes bore a malicious intelligence that looked upon the crowd like a man would upon an insect, or a hunter his prey.
For a terrifying moment, the entire town stood frozen. Petrified in fear that any sort of movement would somehow anger the beast and spell their doom. But it was for naught, and as the tense second passed, the dragon let out a deafening roar whose force sent carts flying, houses collapsing, and even the mighty stone wall in it's view buckle and crack as bits of rock were sent flying like deadly shrapnel. After it's opening roar, bits of flaming rock and hale began descending from the once open sky, causing even more untold devastation as the dragon took flight and began laying waste to the small town.
Melnaro was unsure how he even survived, honestly for a second he didn't even realize he had survived! He just laid face down in the gravel, his head pounding and his vison blurring, until a pair of strong hands and a familiar voice picked him back up to his feet.
"-ey! Baghead! You still breathin'?!"
Once his vison cleared to reveal Ralof standing at his side, he gave the nord a small nod.
"Then come on then! The gods ain't givin' us another chance outta this mess!"
He gave the nord a quick nod before they both sprinted down the road that led them here, along with some surviving townspeople, rebels, and even imperial soldiers who couldn't give a skeever's ass about some far-off civil war with a dragon hovering over their heads. A wall of flame cut across the road ahead of them, spewed from the dragon's gaping maw. Taking with it some surrounding houses, shops, and many of the people that'd ran ahead of them. It happened so fast Melnaro wondered if they even had time to feel pain before they were dust.
Ralof swore at their near incineration, before his eyes quickly darted around looking for an alternate path.
"There! Into the sentry tower, move!" The nord shouted before sprinting to the stone spire nearby one of the outer walls. The two continued their sprint, dodging falling rocks and fiery hale before they leapt to the relative safety of the tower.
Inside they found a contingent of Ralof's fellow rebels all either huddled around fallen debris for cover or leaning against the doorframe occasionally poking their head out to view the carnage. Relief washed over most of their faces when Ralof rushed into the tower, and a tinge of wariness and distrust painted those same faces as Melnaro followed. As the two caught their breath, one of the other soldiers let out a shrill laugh.
"I… I can't believe it! It's a miracle! Akatosh himself smiling down on our cause!"
This soldier's ramblings were promptly met by Ralof's bound hands smacking him upside the head.
"Think before you speak, boy! That "Miricle" of yours is burning down a village and slaughtering innocent people!"
As the boy cast his head down in shame, Melnaro finally caught his breath. To be this winded after only a couple minutes of sprinting? He really was getting old.
"We can't stay here." The mer finally said.
"This place could come down on us at any second. Our first priority should be getting to a decent vantage point, then find the safest possible route out of the town."
One of the soldiers snorted at him. "And just what in Oblivion thinks you can just order us around, elf? You expect me to believe you got experience running away from dragons?"
Melnaro shook his head and sighed. "Dragons? No. Villages burning to the ground? Yes. I'd say that's good enough. Unless you have a better idea you'd like to share?"
The soldier grumbled to himself before Ralof nodded at the mer.
"Aye, it's a good plan. We'll go up the tower and try and spot a path from the windows. You lot stay down here and try to round up any other survivors into our little safe spot. But don't be so loud you draw the dragon toward us, hear?"
As the soldiers nodded and the duo began their ascent, it finally struck Melnaro just how improbable the whole situation was. Not even five minutes ago, he was kneeling on the ground waiting for his head to be chopped clean off, and now here he was escaping from an ancient would-be extinct mythical creature with a bunch of rebellious nords. To be honest, he'd never really liked the moniker of 'Immortal' he'd gained after the fall of the Crystal Tower, but between this and his advanced age, it was getting harder and harder to deny.
As they passed about the halfway point of the tower Melnaro suddenly stopped, and Ralof stopped with him shooting him a confused look. It might've just been a trick of the ear, but the distant flapping of the beast's mighty wings sounded like they were getting closer, and closer…
The altmer barely had enough time to signal the man to get to cover, before the wall to their right caved in on itself, and the dragon's gaping maw thrust into the tower.
The beast swept it's head, scanning the room for gods-know-what. Ralof looked on the verge of having a heart attack as he lay behind a piece of rubble. Melnaro put a finger up to his lips, the only thing standing between him and a quick cremation being a wooden barrel, and pleaded to the nord with his eyes to keep silent.
The dragon bared its fangs, each nearly half the size of a full-grown man, evidently not finding whatever it was looking for until it heard voices from lower in the tower. A guttural growl so loud and low Melnaro felt it echo in his bones came from the wyrm before it unleashed a pillar of white-hot flame that spiraled down the staircase and into the lower levels of the tower. Even when not aimed at them the elf and nord felt as if they were being cooked, and Melnaro could even spot bits of the barrel closer than he was burst into flame.
Satisfied with it's work, the dragon took off once more leaving the two mortals clutching their chests and thanking the divines. Scrambling to their feet, Melnaro moved towards the hole the dragon had punched clean through the tower, while Ralof stared dejectedly down at the staircase.
After a minute of looking, he saw it. The town's main gate was in sight, and the space around it appeared relatively untouched. The burning inn right below the tower's new very large window would also provide a very quick and direct, if risky, shortcut practically to its doorstep. Melnaro turned to share the plan he'd devised with his nordic comrade, but froze.
Ralof's eyes were still glued to the staircase, and when prodded by the elf he could barely look his way. Worse, the altmer could faintly hear groans and whimpers echo up the staircase, letting the duo know that somebody was still clinging to life at the tower's base.
Melnaro put his bound hands to the nord's shoulder. "Go, I've already devised a path, you can follow when you're ready."
Ralof gave him a firm yet slightly shaky nod before bounding down the stairs, hoping he wasn't too late. Meanwhile the old elf turned and looked at the fair drop from the tower to the fiery inn below.
'I'm sure my knees will love this.'
The mer internally groaned before he leapt into the inn's exposed second story, rolling to break his fall and awkwardly getting to his feet before the structurally unstable planks gave out beneath him. Sputtering out a curse as he once more awkwardly got to his feet, Melnaro felt heat for the second time since his entry into Skyrim as the flames from the inn blazed around him.
Smoke choked both his vison and lungs as the altmer desperately tried to locate the exit, wandering through the burning building like a rat in a maze. Along the way he unfortunately spotted some of the inn's former denizens who had either succumbed to smoke inhalation, or more grisly, had been consumed by the roaring flames. Melnaro, vowing to not join them continued his search until thankfully he spied the wooden door standing between him and fresh air.
He tried the handle first, but soon recoiled as the iron left small scorch marks in his flesh. Thankfully he managed to save his breath instead of letting out yet more swears, but his plan B of battering the door down went about as well as he'd expected.
Melnaro felt his strength slowly leave him as more and more smoke entered his lungs. He wondered if he could use one of the inn's long communal tables as a sort of battering ram, but his rational side quickly doused his hopes. He doubted he had the strength to even lift one normally, let alone when he was slowly being asphyxiated. As he engaged in another pointless round of bludgeoning, Melnaro wondered if his two and a half centuries of existence had all lead to this.
Before he could pontificate on the mundane nature of his impending death, the door suddenly gave way. Melnaro fell forward out of the inn and into the cold Skyrim air. The elf took greedy gulps of the fresh air, and vowed never to complain about the province's climate again, as a nordic townsman with a fairly large axe stood over him.
"Hadvar! We have a survivor! There really was somebody in the inn!"
The nord got the mer onto his shaky feet, giving him a pat on the shoulder and explaining how lucky he was he'd kept up the racket, as without it they'd have probably left him behind instead of breaking the lock. The nord led him to an imperial soldier, the very same one that'd been carrying the ledger for his cart Melnaro noted, and he gave the elf a surprised look.
"You're that elven prisoner, right? Surprised you're still breathing!"
Melnaro coughed, still having some smoke kicking around in his lungs it seemed.
"Nearly wasn't until you all showed up, my thanks."
The soldier, who Melnaro noted must've been the Hadvar the nord had called out to, shrugged.
"We're just trying to get as many people out of here as we can right now."
Surrounding them were a few of the townsfolk, nearly all sooty or singed and some even sporting grievous burns or other wounds.
Melnaro nodded "Are you lot also headed for the gate?"
Hadvar shook his head. "Eventually, but right now our main focus is on locating General Tullius, as well as any other survivors before proceeding to the gate."
Melnaro shot him a hard look. "Respectfully, that's a terrible plan. I'm sure the General is either already dead or is more than capable of escaping himself. But if you want these people to make it out alive? You lot need to leave as soon as you can."
Hadvar was about to voice protest, but before he could the dragon suddenly did something almost nobody was expecting.
It spoke.
"KOLOS LOS DII ZEYMAH, JOOR?! KOLOS LOS HI VONUN ROK!?"
The language that came from it's maw was harsh and guttural, and as he heard it Hadvar felt despair grow upon his face. He turned back to the Altmer and gave the mer a quick nod, his own plan now tossed to the wayside as his fear of the ancient monster hovering over his head grew.
He turned to the townsfolk. "Alright, everyone on my word make a run for the gate, don't stop until you can't even see the town anymore. Head to Falkreath if you can, but just make sure to get as far as possible."
The rest of the townspeople nodded, and quickly got to their feet if they weren't standing already, before beginning their sprint as Hadvar raised his fist.
The race to the gate was on, and while the flaming hale wasn't quite coming down as hard as it once was it was still a concern as a fiery ball of ice hit a man square in the dome. He fell over like a sack of bricks a second later, not even getting a chance to scream or shout before his life was completely severed. The rest just kept sprinting not having time to mourn.
One of these bits of hale struck just in front of Melnaro, and try as he might to avoid it, a second later his foot had gotten stuck in the impromptu pothole. The elf was sent tumbling to the ground, and the rest of the group quickly left him behind, all except Hadvar. He saw the mer's tumble, and for a second hesitated, as if he helped he might've been risking his only chance at the rest of his life. But in the end, his compassion won out, as he ran to his comrade and helped his foot out of it's stony prison. As the two began their sprint once more, the gate was surrounded by dragonfire, as the beast seemed to notice some of its prey escaping and made sure none could follow.
Melnaro narrowly caught himself from falling into despair as their seemingly only escape had literally gone up in flames, but Hadvar fared a tad better. He too was devastated by this act, but as the two desperately looked for any other way out, he spotted a light in the dark: The imperial garrison still stood.
Putting a hand on the elf's shoulder Hadvar laid out his plan. "That way! There's an underground tunnel below the keep! If we can get there, we can get out and onto the road!"
Melnaro's eye's brightened as he gave the nord a nod, and soon the two were off as their sprint resumed.
Their mad dash wouldn't last for long however, as when they passed by one of the few buildings that remained mostly uncharred, the flash of a blade swiftly jumped from the doorframe. Melnaro leapt back, his arm sporting a shallow yet painful cut. From the shadow of the door's frame, Inusou emerged, saber still drawn.
Evidently his execution was still on.
Hadvar, upon realizing his comrade was under attack, went to draw his own sword, but froze when Inusou sent him a glare that practically screamed he'd be next if he intervened. A weary look of disbelief passed over Melnaro's face as he spoke.
"Really? A mythical creature breathing fire down your neck and you're still this obsessed with inflicting pain upon me? Have you no shame? Have you no life of your own to live outside of making mine one of misery!?"
The only response Inusou gave was advancing, blade in hand. His eye's never leaving Melnaro's.
This whole time however, Melnaro had been slowly but surely making space between the crazed justiciar, preparing to make a break for it when he was far enough. He needn't bother however, as for a second time the dragon had denied Inusou his prey, spraying a line of dragonfire between the two before he could reach him. As Hadvar breathed a sigh of relief and beckoned the elf to keep running with him for the keep, Melnaro looked back at his pursuer. The wall of fire that separated them must've been three men tall, and at least two thick, but he could still see the mer through the gaps each lick of flame left. He gave the fuming elf a mock bow before quickly turning tail and running headlong for the keep.
----------------------------------------
Less than a minute later two figures burst through the door of the imperial keep, slamming it behind them. One buckled to his knees, still embarrassed about his relative lack of stamina than when he was in his prime, while the other put his hands over his face still in disbelief that this was even happening in the first place. After a moment, the nord let out a single chuckle that slowly grew and morphed into genuine, near hysterical laughter. The altmer soon joined him, if a little more subdued, as the two celebrated evading certain death and found a newfound appreciation for simply being alive.
"Al-Allright…" Melnaro said as his laughter began to fade. "We're not totally out of the danger yet, we've still at least a little ways to walk still. I don't suppose it'd be too much to ask if you'd cut these ropes here? I started losing circulation hours ago and I'd like to save as many fingers as possible."
Hadvar also started to calm down and gave the elf a nod. "Of course, of course. Technically speaking you're still a thalmor prisoner, but they can rot in oblivion. I'd say you've more than earned your pardon, at least in my view. I bet I'd still be standing there looking for the general like a kid lost in the market if you hadn't come along."
He reached for a knife on his belt, and was about to finally cut Melnaro loose, when the door to the keep swung open, and Ralof leapt inside.
He mirrored the two's earlier actions and swiftly slammed the door, but as he turned around the air quickly became tense as he got an eyeful of Hadvar.
The Imperial and the Stormcloak came face to face, and silence now drowned the room.
----------------------------------------
AN: This was a long time idea I've had cooking and I gotta say I'm pretty proud how this chapter turned out. This is gonna be a long one too as it's essentially gonna be a total rewrite of Skyrim's main plot as well as it's dlc, some side quests yadayada basically buckle in. Can't say for sure when the next chapters gonna drop but it'll probably be a month or two cause as you can see these chaps are long and thats how I like em.