"the dragonborn comes"

[preyed]

It had been less than two weeks since the defeat of Alduin at the hands of the Dragonborn. Rumors of her victory spread far and wide, from the far ends of Skyrim and further into Cyrodiil and Morrowind. There were people coming to her door at all hours, offering her blessings and flowers, gifts of coin. There were warriors who wished to pledge their allegiance to her for the great victory she had brought them. They begged and kowtowed, calling her another savior from Akatosh, the likes that had not been seen since Martin Septim himself.

It was a disgusting display of penitence. She found herself lucky that there were many cities in Skyrim that did not recognize her face or title, people who were willing to think of her merely as an adventurer and nothing else. But as word traveled, so too did her anonymity vanish. It was becoming tiresome.

She abandoned the cottage in Whiterun and her larger home in Riften, allowing the two housecarls there to see to its safety. One house remained hers, a side project that no one knew about, and she would keep it that way. She'd had enough of this 'savior' business, instead taking her leave of the clustered cities to find refuge on the road. The cold air nipped at her skin almost pleasantly in contrast to the fire within her, forcing her to continue on well into the night and early dawn. Only when the sun began to rise on Rorikstead did she think to stop, pleased at her progress.

The roar of a dragon brought all of that to a screeching halt. The sky was lit ablaze with fire and she pulled out the bow slung across her back and fired up into the dragon as it came swooping down. It nearly barreled into her, its tail lashing and striking her back. She hit the ground and rolled into the grass, pitching her bow to the side in favor of her warhammer. She swung angrily, her cloak whipping back as she went. Fire seared past her and burned the fabric, forcing her to rip it off and cast it aside.

Oh, this one was going to be a challenge. She smiled slightly. Good. She liked a good fight.

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[preyed]

She waits for her tankard to be filled before she says anything, the look she gives him nothing short of wary. The others sitting around the table are eventually given a deprecating look, eyes flickering from one person to the next. Some of them move and change their seats so she can speak, though two of them stay where they are and ignore her loathing.

"...When." That's a new one. And it's steadily confirming what she's already guessing. There's a dagger at her belt and she will use it, guards or no, to kill him if he's some piece of necromancer fodder. But she makes no threats, biding her time.

"You're in Skyrim, stranger," says the man to her left, though he's hardly paying attention. "Home of the Nords." Vera suppresses a roll of her eyes as the bartender brings her a wooden plate, a half-wheel of cheese, a knife, and bread with it. She gives him a nod and slides two gold across the table for him to take.

She glares over her shoulder at Martin. "No one else can do that except for those with the soul of a dragon," she nearly growls, voice low enough only for him to hear. "You're no weary traveler. Who are you?"

[septim]

"Skyrim. Nords." Martin repeats the Nord's words like a toddler learning how to speak. Yes, the Nord's craggy, chiseled features, his light hair and eyes, paint a portrait in Martin's mind, a similar warrior with a similar disposition, who fought in a similar climate with a similar claymore at his similarly broad back. "Captain Burd. Bruma."

The Oblivion Gates. Daedra pouring into cities. The cries and shouts of dying people. Wrath. Mehrunes Dagon, his bitter blood filling the throat of the Dragon. Sacrifice. Akatosh, and...myself. The azure skies of the Imperial City, returning, defeating daedric red. Limbs heavy, turning to stone. The colors bleeding away. A Dragon's cry and then...

And then...

Silence.

Rivulets of tears run down his cheeks. The Nord can't see them, Martin is facing towards the wall, looking straight ahead, but not really seeing. Not the present, or even the future. Absentmindedly, his fingers caress a worn coin on the table, the relief of Talos the mortal a sobering truth beneath his fingers.

It's a Septim. The coin is called a Septim.

He wipes the tears with the sleeve of his robes, taking care to speak lowly so only she can hear.

"I'm Martin Septim."

[preyed]

Bruma is a name Vera knows well, though she'd only been to the city once or twice. She watches his face, her anger mounting and threatening to peak. But as he begins to cry, she pulls away, the rage leaking away like water through a crack in a vase. It crosses her mind that this man might just be insane, losing his mind and scrabbling for whatever he can as he talks like a small child.

But as he turns to her and says his name, confirming everything she suspected, none of that seems to register.

She flinches away as though burned, eyes wide. "You lie. He is dead." But there's a lack of anger in her words, now full of only disbelief.

"You can't be."

[septim]

"There are easier lies." With the realization of his identity, the logical, stately tone that had characterized the last of the Septims returns as a torrent. Even if he didn't look the part, more draugr than the virile, vigorous warrior he'd been at his height. "Nor are liars so good at forging the Amulet of Kings."

The mead (yes, that's what it's called, mead) leaves a sugary film clinging to his teeth, but it's the unpleasant, alcoholic burn that he needs. In the middle of Skyrim—a mystery all on its own—Martin must be careful not to anger the only person whom he feels connected, flimsy and dangerous as that could prove.

After all, when did dragons play nice with each other? And they're both dragonborn, the pull of their souls confirms it. "You're free to think of me as insane. I won't be going anywhere for a couple of weeks. But if you change your mind," he starts to rise from his seat, suddenly weary and queasy, "You're free to seek me out in this inn."

[preyed]

She bristles at the jab, though he still doesn't threaten her. Mage or not, Martin Septim or a stranger, he's still skin and bones. She could just as easily shove him over and slit his throat and she'd probably have the advantage despite his experience. "And here you were, offering it in exchange for food." Some emperor.

As he rises, she watches him, though she makes no move to follow. The back of her neck prickles with frustration and she resists every call that says to snap back at him. But if he'll stay here and recover... She has time.

"Do as you will," she says, though her tone is softer, more polite for the moment. "I want answers but you won't be able to help if you're falling over. Go and rest." The request is more of a command, gruff.