"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.

Comments

[septim]

"Answers in the form of the Legions," he says, extending his hands to gesture isn't it obvious. "Everyone has eagerly spoken of the civil war gripping Skyrim, but no one cares to explain what happened after the Oblivion Crisis." It's a hard task to keep his expression neutral and composed considering the subject, but he must endure. "Or why the Dark Brotherhood has grown so bold as to assassinate an Emperor." Distaste tints his tone thickly, no need to ask him what he thinks of the assassins.

"There are no carriages from Rorikstead to Solitude. Whiterun Hold was the closest. I need supplies." A sword, silver preferred but steel will do. "I was hoping the court wizard would be more agreeable," Farengar proved to be an arse, no doubt in Martin's mind, "and I was told Solitude has the largest clothing shop in the province."

"Of course, considering the disdain for magic the Nords hold, I probably should take the carriage to Winterhold before I find myself mistaken for a legionnaire by a Stormcloak, a heretic by a Thalmor Justiciar, or tasty by a dragon."

[preyed]

She rolls her eyes at last. "You don't want to get involved in this civil war. There's been a brief truce and that's about it. It's not worth your time." Not worth hers, either, not until someone starts to threaten Whiterun. It had almost happened but after Alduin's death, things had calmed down just enough. She purposely dodges any comments about the Dark Brotherhood, knowing full well who was responsible for that.

"You're right about Solitude having a good enough shop, especially for clothes. If you're looking to pretty yourself up," and this is said with a bit of a smirk, "then your best bet is there. The proprietor of the shop, though, won't take too kindly to you at first. The court wizard at Solitude might be more generous to your plight." And she's speaking from experience.

With a slight shrug, she chuckles. "That's the life of Skyrim for Imperials. I can escort you if you wish. I need to head up towards Winterhold as it is." And the carriage ride will give her enough time to ask questions.

[septim]

"Not until I have more answers, no." This isn't his Empire, nor his fight. He knows little of the causes behind Ulfric Stormcloak's insurrection, although his visceral reaction is to root for the Imperials. From what he's read and heard of the White-Gold Concordat, the Mede Empire didn't have much of a choice. The Thalmor played them like a deck of cards.

Martin laughs dryly at the thought of 'prettying' himself. He wore that fraying cassock until forced by the Blades to change into the Emperor's robes, an affair he remembers fondly. To think that Jauffre, Baurus, the memory and the concept that is the Blades was lost to the needless Great War—

"As you wish," he says brusquely. The carriage driver is informed of the change of plans, requesting more coin for the farther travel. Martin pays the difference, trying not to appear as haunted as he feels, seating himself into the farthest seat of the carriage, away from the prying ears of the driver.

[preyed]

"Don't say I didn't warn you. You won't like what you hear." But perhaps she's not the most reliable source considering her temper and impatience. Herding the leaders of both factions and settling their disputes even for a small time felt more daunting than herding a bunch of cats. At least the cats would listen if she used Kyne's Peace on them. ...Maybe.

Vera lets Martin get settled and she pays her share, settling into the back of the carriage opposite him. She pulls her furs a little closer around her collar, pleased that the weather is nice enough that they shouldn't have any trouble until Winterhold, where it will snow.

She watches him carefully, gaze no longer quite so sharpened with wariness. She's learned very little from their brief conversation and she's had time to contemplate on his existence. Divines help her, she hasn't even spoken to the Greybeards or Paarthurnax yet. She supposes that, too, will come in time. Settling an arm over her pack at her side, she lifts her head. "How are you here, Martin? How is it that you're even alive?"

[septim]

Martin steeples his fingers, hunching forward and pressing his nose against his hands. A shimmer falls upon them, muffling their voices to the carriage driver. "The Dragon doesn't see time the way mortals do," he begins, using the calm-but-earnest tones of a scholar. "Time isn't fixed. Even the prophecies written in the Elder Scrolls are not absolute. But once an event is carried out in the mortal realm, it becomes fixed within them."

His voice drops an octave, adding gravity. "When the Dragonborn Ruler loses his throne. The end of the Septim dynasty and the Septim empire became fixed." It's easier to speak of this when he doesn't use first-person pronouns. "But through my desperation to save Tamriel, I never considered the consequences mantling the God of Time would bring."

"I'm here because I'm a part of Akatosh." A grandiose statement, if it came from some other person. "Souls don't die. They can end up in Aetherius, in Oblivion as servants of the daedra, recycled through the Dreamsleeve, or...bound to Nirn, like the gods themselves."

"I'm bound to Nirn because Time itself wills it. I am, in essence, a part of Time itself. I'm a dragon, riding the currents of time much like Akatosh itself. But there's something about this particular stream of Time that forced me to coalesce into it." At this, Martin smiles knowingly. "Perhaps the very Elder Scroll that foretold my death, the very same used to cast Alduin forward in time?"

"The very scroll you used to defeat him once more, and the scroll you still have."

[preyed]

Vera is no fool but it's taken her years to become what she is. Not simply Dragonborn but a person worthy of name and respect. She's amazingly well read for someone of her upbringing, but that's through tireless studying when she has the time for it. Time, which she has a limited supply of these days. But even she hasn't fully wrapped her mind around the Elder Scrolls, the power within the Divines, and Martin himself. He is a piece of history given flesh once more. If she had gone with her initial instinct, she would have brought the hammer down on his head for being a necromancer's experiment.

While what he says adds up in some sense, it also baffles her. Time is a mystery to mortals and is simply a stretch of days, months, years to dragons. She is caught between these two worlds and it is difficult for her to judge time objectively any longer. There is either too much or not enough, her body aging while her soul and heart do not. The dragon part of her doesn't know the meaning of the word 'mortal'.

But she does understand the implications of his explanation. Her fingers press briefly into her pack where the Scroll resides, always close at hand. To leave it in one home would only bring disaster; if someone were to find it, there would be chaos. "...You're saying it's my fault you're here." For once, she sounds more horrified than angry at the thought.

[septim]

"No." Martin's smirk turns into a sympathetic purse of lips, rubbing his hands together and blowing warmth onto them. The dog days of Cyrodiil would be a welcomed blessing this time, as much as he used to hate them. "The Elder Scroll was used because it chose to be used. Otherwise," Martin peers at her eyes with an icy blue stare, "You would be blind."

"Unless you're prescient." But even those who are prescient need to be practiced. For all their scholasticism, even the Moth Priests lose their sight after enough readings of the Scrolls. "Only those gifted with prescience, with enough training, can read the Elder Scrolls properly. People who know nothing about the Scrolls see nothing if they attempt to read them. Those with only a cursory understanding of their nature are immediately struck blind."

"I should congratulate you," he's trying not to sound so giddy, but by the Nine, this is exciting, "Because you've been able to read an Elder Scrolls without proper training, and not be struck blind. Only the Cult of the Ancestor Moth knows how to do this. I doubt you trained for a decade with them before reading it."

"So no, I'm not upset." Without thinking, Martin places a hand on her shoulder. "This is fate, and who am I to deny fate?"

[preyed]

She is none of those things. Were she any more special, she'd be of his blood line and a Septim. Wouldn't that make for a horrible bedtime story? No, Vera has had enough of her unique nature and thanks Akatosh she is only Dragonborn some days. But that doesn't explain how she was able to wield the Elder Scroll, nor keep it safe. And his glibness only serves to irritate her.

Brushing away his hand and recoiling like a cat, she huffs. "I'm glad you've found some amusement in all of this. Fate is a fickle thing in my opinion." And she's finished with it. Alduin is dead. Her only duty now is to keep the other dragons in line or to kill them.

"Why haven't you gone back to Cyrodiil? Surely someone can identify you as a Septim. You could take your rightful place on the throne if you wanted to." But she doesn't assume he does. Why burden yourself with responsibilities when you can chart your own path and be free of fate? That's what she only wishes she could do at this point.

[septim]

Martin retracts, keeping his hands folded on his lap, expression settling into something more neutral and guarded. Not offended, but not cheery either. "Do not confuse scholarly fascination for crass amusement. Still, I offended you. Forgive me."

"Who could identify me as Martin Septim?" The idea itself is ludicrous, yet Martin doesn't bother to laugh or smirk. "Power answers to power. And I have none. I'm not the Dragonborn, vanquisher of Alduin, the World-Eater. To ride into the Imperial City and proclaim I'm Martin Septim would be suicide."

Martin crosses his arms, pulling back his hood. Snow starts to rain down on them, powdery and moist. He shivers, cupping his hands to produce a flame tongue in an effort to warm his achy limbs.

"I don't know the logistics of the truce with the Second Aldmeri Dominion, nor do I understand the impact of banning the worship of Talos. I don't know this Empire's Elder Council, or its politics. Worst of all, I don't know its people, what they have suffered and what they hope for. Tamriel lies broken, and I'm ignorant of the causes as to why."

"If it's my fate to retake the throne, then I can't do it solely through strength. Force is useless without reason and purpose. Even Tiber Septim knew that. That is why I must go to the College of Winterhold."

"Whatever my fate, I will help the people of Tamriel. I have given my life for them once, what's a second time?"

[preyed]

"You didn't offend me." But she doesn't understand him. He became the avatar of Akatosh; he was an emperor, a hero. And yet he's sitting here in drab clothes and laughing about how he was stone and brought back to life. She can't imagine the situation nor can she imagine being anything but livid at the idea of being brought back at such a tumultuous time, especially when he'd done so much in his life.

It simply isn't a concept she can wrap her head around.

Lifting her head upwards, she stares up at the snow for a moment before sinking back against the side of the carriage and pulling her cloak closer around her shoulders. Though she's been in Skyrim nearly a year, she still hasn't gotten entirely used to the cold. It's a shame that she'll be berated for speaking in the dragon tongue, or she'd shout.

Huffing quietly, both in disdain and because of the cold, she shakes her head. "You seek to help people who do not ask for it. They are ignorant to anything but their own selfishness. Your kindness will be wasted." Her tone, while haughty, is also bitter. "But I'll agree that it would probably be smarter to speak to the Archmage and to see what can be done. If no one else, Tolfdir would be willing to assist you, as would Urag gro-Shub. In fact, he'd probably have the most amount of information you could use." The librarian may be gruff but he suits Vera just fine. Especially with so much information close at hand.

[septim]

"On the contrary," says Martin, the flame cupped in his hands growing larger and brighter. "It's those types of people who need kindness the most. Like an ember that turns into a blaze, there's kindness in every one of us. All it takes is that first step, and..."

The flame leaps onto his clothes, wrapping around his body until it turns into a Flame Cloak, the transformation looking as fluid and simple as breathing. "Others will return kindness too." Martin sighs, relieved to be rid of the permanent chill that permeated his bones for so long. "You seem quite familiar with the College for someone who isn't a mage. Tell me, have you been helping them out too?" There's a tinge of amusement there, well-aware that Vera seems to be everyone's problem-solver.

[preyed]

Showoff. But Vera's eyes dance with intrigue at his mastery of his magic. It's an art she knows only a little of, too content with her strength to try for much more. Those who are blessed with magic and are capable of mastering it are rare indeed. Too many end up making a mistake that costs others their freedom to learn magic, as the college discovered.

She snorts. "Will they? I find that hard to believe." People only seem to return her help with coin. It's a mutual cycle of using and reusing to her. That's all it is. At his question, she shrugs. "Here and there. I went to investigate the college. It's very cold there." Not what she had wanted at the time. "But there are useful places around there. Winterhold is a quiet town. The library at the college is extensive."

[septim]

"I've seen much kindness in this land. Like the Nords and Skyrim itself, it's reserved." Sissel patched Martin's cassock without being asked to do so. The inn-keeper charged Martin less for his dishes that their actual worth, thinking that Martin never noticed. Martin leans on his hand, smiling. "Even you have been kind. I thank Akatosh you didn't smash your warhammer across my face that day. Death is...painful, and I don't welcome it." He is not as eager to die as the Nords of Skyrim. And, as un-Emperor like as the thought is, he knows he still fears the unpleasantness of death.

A mortal condition.

"I'm glad to hear the College of Winterhold hasn't suffered the same fate as the Mages Guild." Despite his issues with the Guild, Martin felt saddened the Oblivion Crisis itself cause of its dissolution. His eyes are downcast as he speaks, crossing his arms as he falls deep into thought. "I hope they have books from the Oblivion Crisis and beyond. Coldness won't matter when I'll be holed up inside its library for a couple of days." There's much to be researched. He feels giddy at the thought.

[preyed]

"You have a very strange definition of kindness." Vera remembers cold winters in Cyrodiil, botched jobs and thievery, coming to Skyrim and dragged to an execution block without a fair trial simply because she was at the border. She remembers only two of the Nords taking pity on her plight, Ralof and the city guard in Whiterun who at least had the good standing to tell her what she was. The Greybeards have shown her respect and compassion, but only because of what she is. No others have looked on her unless they wanted something from her, unless she had done something for them. Kindness works only two ways in her world.

The beggars of Skyrim, those who ask for coin, give Vera blessings she doesn't ask for. But she supposes those people are closer to her heart than she cares to admit.

"They should. The library is extensive. If not, I'm certain he'll send me on some fetch quest for you to satisfy your literary curiosities." She is neither embittered or frustrated at the idea. It is simply what it is. "Or I'll find something in an abandoned crypt and it'll be priceless to you." Provided she's willing to give it up.

At length, she taps her fingers on her pack. She fishes out something diamond shaped, wrapped in a thick cloth to hide what it is. "I still have this if you want it."