The Last of The Order

[Katastrophe]

There were... screams. Crying. The ring of steel, two swords locked together in fierce combat, somewhere not far off. Faintly, the sounds of a fire crackling, the popping of wood as it buckled and broke under the stress. There was more, though... there, in the faintest of voices far off in the darkness.

"When the Snow Tower lies sundered," it began, the clash of steel growing closer, "kingless!" Another clash of steel, louder than before. "bleeding!" This time there was no clash of steel, but the sickening squelch of steel entering flesh. Silence, and then closer. "The World-Eater wakes," and he felt a hand around his collar, hoisting him up off his knees. "and the Wheel turns upon the Last Dragonborn."

The sound of carriage wheels next, creaking along an uneven and bumpy road, the jostling off a carriage stirring his eyes open. Slowly, at first - the light of morning was too much for him. It felt as if his eyes hadn't been opened in years. He could see his hands, bound in leather strips, and three other pairs of feet sat with him. He looked straight ahead, into the eyes of a man who had the appearance of any heroic Nord.

"Good. You're finally awake."

~ * ~ * ~ * ~​

The Last of the Order - or TOLO, as I've been calling it - is from an old character journal I did a few years back. Now that I've been playing on PC, focusing on immersion mods (and a few graphical upgrades), and I have more free time, I've decided to breath new life into it by making it less of a character journal and more of a fanfic. This story follows the vanilla storyline, so I won't be labeling anything as a spoiler just yet, though there may be some later on. Please feel free to comment down below. Oh, and as a warning, since I typically reread my work as I go, I don't do any real proof-reading so I apologize for any errors that I and spellcheck didn't catch.

Table of Contents
Book One: Awakening
PART I - The Standing Stones
PART II - The Road Ahead
PART III - Dragonsreach
PART IV - Return to Riverwood
PART V - Of Blood and Snow
PART VI - Interrogation

Last Update: July 11th, 2015
Mod List: Modwat.ch
Drego's Current Location: Bleak Falls Barrow
Current Level: 3
Word Count: 10,679​

 

[Katastrophe]

PART I - The Standing Stones
​

The light of day broke over Drego’s face with a warmth he was sure he had forgotten. After all, there wasn’t much left he remembered. He had spent so long down there, in the dark and damp caves of Helgen that he drank in the fresh air like mead, an involuntary smile stretching across his face. He winced as the muscles of his face pulled at the fresh scar across his cheek and nose - souvenirs of today’s adventure.


“Get down!” Before he had time to react, Ralof threw and arm over his shoulders and pulled Drego down to his hands and knees, the duo scurrying to the cover of a large boulder. There was a terrible roar that cracked the silence of the afternoon and the day came rushing back to him. The headsman’s block, bodies burning, towers of stone crumbling as if made of sand - and the dragon. It’s shadow enveloped the landscape as it flew, black as night, overhead, screaming and roaring this way and that as it made towards the northwest and the mountains.


“Phew!” Ralof said, letting out a rather forced laugh. “I didn’t think we’d make it out of that alive.” He stood up, offering a hand to Drego who graciously accepted, finding himself hoisted to his feet. As Drego began dusting his Imperial leathers off, Ralof began headed downhill. “I wouldn’t have made it without you.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, friend,” Drego said, following after his new companion. “Without you, I’m sure I would have been burnt to a crisp, or still captured by those Imperials.” He came up beside Ralof, slapping him playfully on the back. “I’m not too sure which of those two would be worse!” They both shared a laugh, well-deserved. In times of trouble, laughter is often the only thing that keeps one together, and Divines knew they could need all the help they could get. “Where are we headed?”


“Riverwood,” Ralof said, smiling. “My sister, Gerdur, runs the mill there. She practically runs the town. She can help us.” The path from the cave was hardly a path at all, overgrown with wild flowers and long grasses, shrubs and fallen trees. Ralof moved like someone who knew where he was going, however, and that was all Drego needed to follow close behind. “We’ve a bit of a walk ahead of us. You know, we never got properly introduced on that carriage. My name’s Ralof.”


“Drego,” he answered, the two sharing a small handshake as they waded through the grass.


“Well Drego, what brings you to Skyrim? It’s not every day an Imperial gets captured and sent to the block by his own men.” Something ticked inside Drego - this was rehearsed. He could sense the unease, perhaps even a little distrust, in his friend’s voice. He could hardly blame him, however - an Imperial, captured by his own, opting for their armor over the Stormcloak uniform Ralof had tried to persuade him into.


“I wish I could answer you, Ralof,” he began, staring at his companion’s heels as they walked. “The truth is, I truly don’t remember anything before that carriage, aside from my name. I’m not sure how, or why, I’m here… but I can tell you after today, the Imperials are no friends of mine, as I’m clearly not one of there’s.” There was a fire in his final words, fueled by a thirst for revenge.


“If you truly mean what you say, then perhaps you should head to Windhelm and join the Rebellion,” Ralof said, picking up on the honesty in his voice. “As for your memory… I’ve heard of such things before. I’ve seen men lose their loved ones, their brothers-in-arms, before their very eyes and descend into a madness. Perhaps you should simply consider yourself lucky you’re still alive, and still in fighting form. Maybe the Divines have blessed you with a second chance?”


Drego peeled down his fur glove so that Ralof wouldn’t see. There on the inside of each wrist was a brand, burnt into his skin by hot iron, the symbol of a black wing. After Ralof had cut his binds free in Helgen, he had made sure to keep his wrists covered, unsure of what the markings could meant.


“Perhaps they have, friend,” he said, pulling his gloves back up as Ralof broke free from the underbrush and stepped onto the stone road. “At last, civilization!”


“Not much further now,” Ralof said with a laugh, ushering him to follow further down hill. “See that, over there?” he asked, pointing over Drego’s shoulder to black ruins that dominated the mountains ahead, like the rotted rib cage of some great monster. “Bleak Falls Barrow - an old Nord crypt. I never understood how Gerdur could stand always living in it’s shadow.” He shook his head, continuing on the road as it slithered back and forth down the hill. There was something about those ruins that terrified him, yet also drew him in. They reminded him of that dragon, the black of the stone in stark contrast to the white snow.



“What are those?” Drego asked, pointing ahead to a stone dais, three carved stones forming a triangle on them. Each one had holed drilled through, encased in iron, the carvings of a thief, wizard, and warrior on the fronts, facing each other.


“What, you’ve never seen a Standing Stone before?” Ralof asked, taken aback. Apparently, that had fallen under the category of ‘basic information forgotten’... but he trusted Ralof. He had no one else.


“I don’t even remember what a Standing Stone is, to tell you the truth.”


“Oh, you must really have forgotten everything, huh? Standing Stones,” he began, “represent the constellations. It’s thought that they’re enchanted with the power of the one they represent - there’s 13 in all, over Skyrim. Go on,” he said, giving Drego a playful push. “Touch one.”

Drego took a moment to look at the three before standing before the one marked with a thief, touching it. His hand immediately felt a warmth, as if a faint fire burned within the stone, the seemed to grow bigger and bigger until finally, the dots on the carving glew blue, linked together over the lines of the constellation. The light seemed to spread into the center of the carved hole, spreading out like lightning as the top of the stone also glowed blue before a thin ray of blue light shot out towards the sky.


“Thief, eh?” Ralof said, his arms folded over his chest. “Not what I would have chosen.” Drego took a few moments, backing away from the stone, watching the ray of light sputter and stop, as the stone lost it’s glow.


“I don’t know,” he said, shrugging as he turned back towards Ralof and the road ahead. “It felt right.”


“It’s your fate, friend,” Ralof answered with a shrug, turning to head north down the road, following the river. “It’s never too late to change it.”


The rest of the journey was made in silence, the fatigue of their day finally starting to creep in. Drego’s mind wandered back to Helgen, trying desperately to remember how he had gotten there with those Stormcloaks. Had he been trying to join them, and taken a blow to the head during the capture? But why would an Imperial be in Skyrim, seeking to join the rebellion against his own people? What was more interesting was what had happened in Helgen. As soon as he had taken that iron axe in his hand, it had felt… right. When they had ambushed the two Imperials in the entrance, it had not been strength he fought with, but rather finesse. His had not been the movements of a man confused and freshly unbound, with a head filled with panic and confusion. His had been those of a man familiar with combat… perhaps even with killing before. He recalled some vague notion that taking someone’s alive should be an ordeal - he should experience feelings of guilt and anger, sadness even - but there had been nothing.



“Watch out!” Ralof’s command shook him free from his thoughts. He had absentmindedly got ahead of Ralof by a fair distance and, as he turned to his friend, he saw the cause for alarm. Time seemed to stop as he made eye contact with a wolf, lunging from the small ledge overhead, paws out and teeth bared as it’s mouth was open as though it intended to swallow the Imperial whole. His brain seemed to shut off as his instincts took over and, in one fluid motion, he drew his axe and took a knee, thrusting his axe up over his head just as the wolf’s neck came in over his head. There was the crack of bone and the sick, tearing of flesh as the wolf helplessly gutted itself on the blade of his axe, warm blood and thick intestines showering the man beneath. He tossed the carcass off to the side when it lose momentum, the beast still kicking and yelping as it struggled to hold on to life. Drego looked over and saw Ralof pulling one of his axe’s out of the neck of another wolf, his being given a much swifter death.


“Skyrim is a dangerous place, friend,” Ralof said, wiping the blood from his blades with his fur cloak. “Best to saving the thinking for the tavern, and stay alert out here.”


“I’ll keep that in mind,” Drego said, wiping his blade across his gloves to clean it as they headed further down the river. It wasn’t long before the wall of Riverwood came into view - the town was livelier than a town run by a mill owner might suggest. People moved across the streets, carrying bundles of firewood, baskets of vegetables, one man with a lute talking excitedly to an older woman on her a porch.


“Welcome to Riverwood, friend.”

 

[Katastrophe]

PART II - The Road Ahead

Ralof, Gerdur, and her husband - Hod - had been discussing the day under the shade of a tree, behind the mill. They were isolated from the rest of the town and the couple had sent their son, Frodnar, off to watch the south gate with his dog. Drego didn’t suspect anyone to have survived the attack on Helgen, except for them. No, he was convinced the whole town had been reduced to ash and ruins. He stood in silence, behind the stump Ralof had claimed, listening to him tell the story of their daring escape, and how Ulfric had nearly been executed. He kept silent, his eyes fixated on the tree. There was a raven perched on one of the lower branches, watching over them with it’s strange, golden eyes before taking to the skies.


He thought of the war in Skyrim, the Imperials and the Stormcloaks. He tried to think back on it, remember any details of it beyond that, but he couldn’t. How could such a large thing be taken from his mind with no trace? And there was that strange dream, the blackness and sounds of battle, some verse spoken to him that made absolutely no sense… perhaps Ralof was right - stress or a blow to head had wiped his mind clean. Maybe the Divines had seen fit to give him a second chance, his senseless dream a brief glimpse into another realm… regardless, who he was mattered little. He had to remain focused on the facts. He had been captured by the Empire, along with Stormcloaks, though his name had not been on their list. He was a survivor of a dragon attack, but knew not who else, or how many others, had also made it out alive. As well, both military leaders had been there - either way, his name and likeness would not easily be forgotten. He was in a strange and hostile land, caught in the midst of a war and perhaps more, with this dragon.


“Well, I’ll show them to the house,” Hod said, stretching his arms up over his head. “Give them a proper meal.”


“Help them drink up all our mead, you mean,” Gerdur quipped, rolling her eyes as the two men headed towards the small bridge into town. She smiled at Drego, walking over to him.


“I know that what you’ve been through today… it’s been hard,” she said, folding her arms across her chest. “But I need to ask you a favor.”


“You’ve offered me shelter,” Drego said with a smile. “What can I do to help?”


“Riverwood is defenseless, especially against a dragon. We need to get word of this to Jarl Balgruuf in Whiterun and I don’t know-”


“I’d be happy to go, Gerdur,” he said, cutting her off. “How far is it?”


“Just a few hours walk north,” she said, turning and pointing off into the distance. “Just follow the road that follows the river, you’ll see it.” She thanked him again before moving a hand behind him to usher him back into town. “Please, come in and eat - I have some supplies you can take as well.” She led him into town, straight towards her home where they found Hod and Ralof already halfway through their first mugs of mead at the table.


The four sat around the table for awhile, catching up, eating, and drinking. Drego spent most of his time listening, thinking about what he would do now. Surely he would travel to Whiterun and deliver Gerdur’s message - it was the least he could do - but what then? Gerdur had taken him around the house, packing him a map, tent, bedroll, cloak, a few healing potions, and a loaf of bread. He had spent most of their conversation, pouring over the map, hoping something seemed familiar but, alas, it was all just ink on paper, foreign land. He dreamed of what these places looked like - Winterhold and Solitude, Falkreath and Riften - and tried to discern which of them seemed the most appealing. Perhaps he would find work on a farm, or with a group of hunters, and make a life for himself. He dreamed of honest work, a happy home, a wife with two huge -


“Will you be spending the night, Drego?” Gerdur asked, all eyes on him.


“Oh, no, no,” he said, shaking his head. He stood from the table, folding up the map. “In fact, I should probably be off. There’s no telling where that dragon could have gone, and I’d never forgive myself if haste could have saved even a single life.” She smiled, waving her mug towards the door.


“You’re a good man. I hope you stay safe.” Hod put an arm around her shoulder, giving Drego a smile and nod as well.


“Word of advice, friend,” Ralof said, rising to his feet. “Stop by Alvor’s - he’s the blacksmith here. Trade in that Imperial armor for something less… offensive, in these parts?” Ralof laughed as Drego made a rather incredulous look at his own Stormcloak cuirass. “See, I know who is friend, and who isn’t. Who to avoid. I’d hate to see you get caught up in a fight that isn’t yours.”


“I understand, and I’ll do just that,” he answered with a laugh, shaking his friend’s hand. “Thank you again, for everything. I hope to see you again soon. Will you stay here long?”


“No, not long,” he said with a sigh. “I should return to Windhelm and join my brothers and other sisters in the fight to free Skyrim.” Despite his conviction to his duty, Drego could tell that home was where this Nord’s heart was, but all of Skyrim was his home. He did not leave his family to fight - possibly die - for Ulfric’s rebellion. No, in his tone, he knew that Ralof fought not for a man or a belief, but for his home. For Gerdur. With a final clasp of hands, Drego bowed gently, turning to gather his gifted supplies and making his way out of town.

Drego had managed to trade in the Imperial armor he had stolen from Helgen in exchanged for some scant studded armor and a few septims to as encouragement to not ask questions about where the armor came from and why he was selling it. The blacksmith looked distracted and seemed less than enthusiastic about the deal after Drego confessed he did know anyone named Hadvar. In truth, he recognized the name from Helgen - he was the man who ‘checked him in’ off the carriage. Best to keep that information to himself.


The road itself to Whiterun was rather uneventful, and he found that following the path down river was far easier than he had initially believed. With luck, all of Skyrim would be this easy to navigate. It wasn’t until the road began to snake downhill that Drego began to hear voices coming from further down the road. He scurried over to the nearest ledge and peered down the pathway. Up ahead he counted four figures, three of which wearing the same sort of Imperial armor he had just left behind. The other - clearly a Nord - was dressed in prisoner rags that Drego found all too familiar.


“Keep moving, Stormcloak,” one of the men behind the prisoner said, pushing him in the back with the hilt of his sword. “It’s a long walk back to Solitude.” The prisoner said nothing, simply grunted and continued on. There was an Imperial leading the prisoner, one flanking, and a third farther back, bow out and arrow notched, his eyes focused mostly on the sky.


“From Helgen, no doubt,” Drego muttered, watching the man in back, looking for another black dragon to come swooping down with hellfire spewing from it’s mouth. “Best to wait for them to get far enough ahead… Ralof would advise as much.” With that, Drego scurried his way up into the rocks behind him, nestling himself in a reasonably comfortable position until the Imperials vanished from sight, giving them a few more minutes before he finally climbed down and resumed his walk.


He didn’t care much for this - hiding and sneaking around from anyone that might recognize him, fearing any shadow that didn’t belong to him. Each snapping twig was a wolf stalking him from the shadow of the underbrush, each gust of wind was the beat of the dragon’s wings overhead… this was not a life he could lead. He needed to be able to defend himself from anything in this wild and deadly land, or he feared he wouldn’t live his new life long. Perhaps his earlier dream of a farmstead was not meant to be. That’s when it came into view, just ahead along the path.


Whiterun.

 

[Katastrophe]

PART III - Dragonsreach

Whiterun was truly a city alive - men and women dashing here and there, talking in loud voices in the street, beside merchant stands, children playing tag or sword fighting with sticks. It seemed that word of the dragon had already made it to some - perhaps they had seen it when it flew over the mountains to the south - and the city was on alert and locked down. In fact, the town guard had barred Drego access to the city until he told them of the task given to him from Gerdur. When Ralof had commented on the aggressiveness of Skyrim, Drego hadn’t thought it would apply to cities as well. Deeming it best to do the job he came to do and move on, he made his way through the crowds and up to the highest, biggest building he could find - no doubt home to Jarl Balgruuf.


The interior was warm - a large, roaring fire set between two long tables in the main hall - but was anything but inviting. He managed to ascend the first set of steps with ease but as he approached the fire, a Dunmer woman drew her sword and approached him.


“Halt!” she commanded, holding out a hand. Drego cast a glance over to the Jarl who sat on his throne, opposite the fire. He was talking to a man beside him, though he met Drego’s gaze for a moment before returning to his conversation. “I am housecarl to Jarl Balgruuf. What is the nature of your business?”


“I’ve been sent by Gerdur, of Riverwood, who begs the Jarl’s aid against the dragon,” Drego answered, his gaze shifting between the Jarl and his housecarl.


“Many of the citizens outside Whiterun have come seeking the Jarl’s aid,” she answered, sheathing her sword. “I will inform him of Riverwood’s need.” With that, the dark elf turned and began walking back to her Jarl’s side.


“With all do respect,” Drego said, calling after her and taking a few more steps, “I’ve seen the destruction this dragon can bring - has brought, even. This is not a matter to be shelved!” The room fell silent, all eyes fell unto him, and Drego suddenly felt squeamish.


“You say you we’ve been to Helgen?” The Jarl asked, his tone barely concealing the hint of disbelief. Perhaps people assumed everyone that had seen it had died which, in all honesty, was the proper assumption.


“No, my Lord,” Drego said, slowly approaching the Jarl’s throne. The housecarl seemed a bit offput by his unrequested advance. “I’m saying that I was at Helgen. I watched the dragon come and burn it’s buildings and people to the ground, and it will do the same to your lands and people if you do not take this seriously.”


“Oh, rest assured, I take this very seriously,” the Jarl answered, “and now perhaps some of advisors will as well.” This time he glanced over at the man he had been speaking with earlier, a scrawny man who so very clearly appeared as some sort of book keeper. “By Ysmir, Irileth was right,” he said, shaking his head. There was a pause before his disdain turned to anger as he turned towards his advisor. “And what would you have me do now, Proventus? Will our walls hold against a dragon?”


“My Lord,” Irileth interrupted, pulling the heat of the Jarl’s words away from Proventus, his demeanor changing immediately. “We should send a detachment to Riverwood at once. It is in the most immediate danger.”


“The Jarl of Falkreath will view that as a provocation!” Proventus exclaimed. “He’ll think we’re preparing to join Ulfric’s side and attack him!”


“Enough!” Balgruuf slammed his fist against the arm of his throne, and once more the room fell silent. “I will not stand idly by while a dragon burns my homes and slaughters my people!” The fire in his eyes burned as hot as those that turned Helgen into ash and, in that moment, Drego understood why he was Jarl. “Irileth, send that detachment at once.”


“If you’ll excuse me,” Proventus said, bowing to the Jarl while Irileth made towards the door, “I’ll return to my duties.”


“That would be best,” replied Balgruuf, but his advisor had already turned to leave. The Jarl let out a sigh, lowering his head so that he could massage his temples as his anger died down. When had calmed, he leaned back in his throne, returning his gaze once more to Drego. “You’ve done Whiterun a great service, giving me the proof I needed to act. I won’t soon forget that. Here,” he said, waving for a guard with a rather large pouch to step forward, “take this, a small token of my appreciation.” The guard reached into the bag and pulled out a beautiful, purple gemstone. Drego took it, nodding his thanks. “May I ask, what will you do now?”


“To be honest, I’m not sure,” Drego replied, putting the gemstone in his own bag. “I suppose I’ve been given a fresh start.” He did not know what else to say. He surely confess how he came to be in Helgen - how he couldn’t remember anything before and how he was most likely wanted by the Empire.


“Well, perhaps you can help me further,” the Jarl said, the tone of a man who had this response planned all along. “Farengar, my court wizard, could use some assistance. He’s been looking into matters related to these dragons.” Drego simply nodded and the Jarl rose from his chair, holding an arm out to usher Drego with him into a room just off the main hall. The room was dominated by two large desks in the center, a map of Skyrim so large that it might as well have marked individual trees just to the side, a man dressed in blue robes, bent over two more tables littered with candles and potions along the far wall. “Farengar!” Balgruuf called, the man jumping slightly and turning, a vial in each hand. When he saw the pair entering the room, he placed the vials on the desk and approached. “Farengar, I believe I found someone who may be able to help you with your… dragon project.” At first, the court wizard looked at him a bit puzzled before it settled in.

“Oh, yes,” he said, waving away his confusion. “So the Jarl thinks you’ll be of some use to me then?”


“He seems to be under that impression,” Drego said, smiling. “My name is Drego Vass, at your service.” He paused for a moment; Vass? The name had simply come to him, the same way his given name had when Ralof asked back in Helgen. Perhaps parts of his memory were slipping back through the cracks?


“Drego here was at Helgen,” the Jarl said, reassuringly. As if being in the presence of a calamity and surviving were all the credentials Farengar were need. Apparently, they were.


“Well, I do need someone to collect something for me: an ancient stone tablet said to be housed in Bleak Falls Barrow. Are you familiar with it?” His tone was monotone, dull, as if this was a line he had rambled off before.


“It was pointed out to me when I passed through Riverwood, yes,” Drego replied, thinking back to that horrible looking structure atop the mountains Ralof had pointed to. How the blackened stone looked like the rotted rib cage of some ancient monster. It was not exactly a place he fancied going. “With all do respect, what does a stone tablet have to do with dragons?”


“Ah!” Farengar exclaimed, suddenly excited. “No mere brute mercenary, but a thinker!” He turned away from the pair, opening drawers on his desk to produce books and scrolls. “You see, when rumors first began circulating about dragons-”


“Wait,” Drego said, cutting him off. “There were rumors of dragons before today?”


“Oh, yes, yes, quite a few,” Farengar said, as if it was absurd to think anyone didn’t know this. “Far off settlements in the mountains and marshes, but nothing anyone took seriously. It was cast off as an impossibility.” He looked up from his desk and out the door into the hall a moment before returning to his books. Drego cast a glance behind him and saw whom he had looked at - Proventus stood nearby the far table, watching the three of them. “A sure mark of a fool is one who is to dismiss anything that falls outside his experience as impossible.” He produced a large scroll from his desk, unraveling it for Drego and the Jarl to see. It was an old scroll, worn and torn, covered in crude drawings of what was no doubt dragons, decorated with strange runes comprised of dots and slashes. “But I began to research the dragons: where had they gone all those years ago, and where were they coming from now?” When he was satisfied with showing them the scroll, he rolled it up and returned it to his desk. “This tablet in Bleak Falls Barrow, I’m told, would be of great importance in answering both of those questions. Will you get it for me? No doubt the Jarl will see you are rewarded well.”


“I’ll certainly try,” Drego answered, after seeing the Jarl give him a nod of agreement. “May I ask one more question?”


“Oh, of course,” Farengar said with another wave of his hand. “You probably need to know how to get there. When you get to Riverwood-”


“No, no, that’s not it, “ Drego said, this time taking his turn to wave away words. “That scroll - those runes - what were they?”


“Oh, those markings?” Farengar said, glancing at his desk drawer. “Those markings can be found all over Skyrim. Some ancient Nords used to worship the dragons as Gods, and now many crypts and shrines are decorated with those runes but sadly, there are few that can read them. It’s an ancient script for the dragon’s language.”


“Thank you. I’ll be off then,” Drego said, turning towards the door.


“This is our priority now,” the Jarl said as Drego turned to leave. “Anything we can use to fight these dragons.”


As Drego made his way out of Dragonsreach, the sun beginning to set now over the plains to the west and his stomach made low rumblings, reminding him of how skipped the meal at Gerdur’s, he was convinced that helping Farengar find this stone tablet, going to Bleak Falls Barrow, was the right choice. The people of Whiterun, perhaps even all of Skyrim, needed all the help they could get… anything they could use to fight these dragons… but that wasn’t what motivated him. As he turned his heads to the sky, watching it fill with hues of orange and purple as a raven sailed overhead, dread began to fill the pit of his stomach. There was something he hadn’t told Farengar back there, with that scroll. Something he didn’t think anyone should know.


He had recognized those dragon runes.

 

[Katastrophe]

PART IV - Return to Riverwood

The remainder of Drego’s time in Whiterun was brief and somewhat uneventful. He had made his way first to the Bannered Mare, a quick meal of seared mudcrab legs being enough to dull the rumble in his stomach, though it cost him nearly half he had. Upon leaving, he had lingered long enough to overhear a conversation between two men and an older woman, Fralia, stopping to speak with her after the other two had gone. She invited him back to her home where he had nearly been attacked by her son, Avulstein. They told him that there was a sort of feud between their house, Gray-Mane, and another in Whiterun, Battle-Born, that followed in the path of the current civil war. Fralia believed that her other son, Thorald, had been captured by the Battle-Borns and not killed, like everyone else seemed to believe. They asked him to find proof of this from the Battle-Borns and though Drego said he wasn’t sure he would be able to help them, he did agree to keep his eyes and ears open for anything that seemed to support their claim, which seemed to be enough for them, so he took his leave.


Outside, there had been a man and woman arguing about some family sword and hired help, so once again, Drego lingered until he could speak to the man in private. Amren, a Redguard, told him that his father’s sword had been stolen awhile ago. He had tracked it down to the bandits located to the east, in a place called Valtheim Keep. Though he did not ask directly, Amren suggested that should his path take him there, returning that sword would mean a lot to him. Much like with the Gray-Mane’s, not wanting to get in over his head, he had simply agreed that if he came across it in his travels, he would help… but frankly, diving into a bandit controlled keep didn’t sound like the smartest thing to do. He kept that last part to himself, however. With that taken care of, he left Whiterun, joining a group of half a dozen Whiterun guards that Irileth was preparing near the gate for the trip to Riverwood.


He certainly felt safer traveling with an entourage of local guardsmen as oppose to his trip to Whiterun, when he had seen those Imperials, though they weren’t really much for conversation. Most of them simply complained about being stationed in Riverwood, calling it a backwater town, or that the talk of dragons was nonsense. Perhaps if Drego had lost family or a loved one at Helgen, he would have been more upset… but the truth of the matter was that Helgen and it’s destruction had meant little to him. Maybe he was just bitter because he had almost died there, on the headman’s block, or maybe because he truly just felt no emotional attachment to the place. Regardless, he kept with the group until they reached the bridge into Riverwood, a raven perched atop the road sign, eyeing them as they went past but taking flight in a flurry of black feathers as Drego approached in the rear.


“Oh, back so soon?” Gerdur asked, opening the door with a smile. His first order of business had, of course, return to Gerdur and tell her the news. She looked over his shoulder and saw the yellow of Whiterun uniforms moving through towns and her smile only widened. “And it seems you were successful.”


“Yes, Jarl Balgruuf was more than willing to send you the aid you requested,” Drego confirmed, not thinking it necessary to tell her all the little details of what had happened. “Is Ralof still here?”


“I’m afraid not,” she said, frowning. “He left not long after you did, back to Windhelm.” She gave him a boys-will-be-boys look before stepping aside, waving for him to come in. “Come in, come in, make yourself at home and get something to eat! You must be starving!” So it was that Drego sat and talked with Gerdur, telling her all he felt he should, all while scarfing down a meal of slaughterfish. He told her of the Jarl’s legitimate concern for the safety of his people, of Farengar and his research, and last of his new assignment.


“Bleak Falls Barrow!” she said with a gasp. “You can’t be serious?”


“Why?” he asked, somewhat puzzled by her reaction. Surely, the idea of walking through an ancient crypt was not exactly one’s ideal activity, perhaps it was considered sacrilege to the Nords, but even then, given the circumstances, anyone could understand.


“Why, just the other night, Lucan had his store broken in to,” she said, shaking her head. Clearly, this theft had troubled her greatly. “Supposedly, they fled to Bleak Falls Barrow. You’d be walking into a den of thieves, I’m afraid.”


“Well, perhaps I can retrieve what was stolen for him?” Drego suggested hopefully, despite the growing pit of despair in his stomach. Still, a den of thieves in a crypt was surely the better option over a keep of bandits, or a family with strong Imperial ties? “Where is Lucan’s store? I’ll go speak with him.”


“Just head outside, and it’s the building straight ahead,” she said with some reluctance. “Before you go, take this.” She produced a large bag which Drego realized after he took it was filled with septims. “For all that you’ve done for us. You’ve made Riverwood feel safe again.” He went to argue but could see in her eyes that he was leaving with this gold, one way or the other. So instead, he simply thanked her, gave her a hug, and left.

“That’s the last we’re talking of this!” Drego pushed opened the front door of the store marked ‘Riverwood Trader’, already able to hear a heated conversation within. Inside, a man and woman were talking by the store’s desk. “No theatrics and no thief-chasing!” When the door closed, the two turned to look at him, the woman smiling and taking a seat at a table by the fire. “Oh, uh, sorry about that. Welcome to the Riverwood Trader, my name’s Lucan, how many I help you?”


“Actually, I want to talk about your theatrics and thief-chasing,” Drego said, walking over to the counter. “Gerdur said you have a problem with thieves?”


“Oh, er… yes, we uh, did have a b-bit of a… a break-in,” he stammered. It was hard to tell if this was from embarrassment or lingering shock. “The thieves were only after one thing: a gold ornament, in the shape of a dragon’s claw. If you can help retrieve it, I’ve got some gold coming in with the next shipment - it’ll be yours.” What were the odds that when a dragon attacks a nearby town and disappears over the mountains where the Barrow was located, that a group of thieves had stolen a dragon claw artifact? Had these thieves somehow found a way to resurrect a dragon with this claw? Were they controlling it? All the more reason to go.


“And I’m told these thieves fled to Bleak Falls Barrow?” he asked, just to confirm. He wondered briefly if he was getting in over his head. What if that dragon was there, at the Barrow? He couldn’t hope to fight it… but perhaps he wouldn’t have to.


“Yes, I believe so,” Lucan said, eyeing the girl at the table nervously.


“Then may I purchase that fur bag,” Drego said, pointing to a brown fur backpack that hung from a hook along the wall, “and sell you this?” He pulled out the gemstone that the Jarl had given him. After a few minutes of examination of both the stone and of Drego, they came to an agreement that nearly cleared Drego out of all his gold, but the trade seemed fair. Haggling was clearly not his strong suit. After he left, he headed across one of the bridges to the mill. Gerdur had told him that there would be a wood axe there that he could take and that he should gather enough firewood to last him a night in the wild. The Barrow was high in the mountains and a night there would be cold, but he hoped it wouldn’t come to that. He chopped enough wood to last him awhile, heading to the shoreline opposite Riverwood to pitch his tent not far from the path up into the mountains.


He’d leave at daybreak and make careful haste up the mountains and into the Barrow. The idea that tonight could be the last of his life was a thought not far from his mind, but as he sat in his tent, staring at the roaring fire he had built outside the door, he thought of the wolf he had killed on the way to Riverwood originally. He thought of the Imperial soldiers he had fought beneath Helgen as he had made his escape. There was something unusual about the way his body could take over, allow him to fight as man trained to kill. It was that instinct, that gift, that would carry him through the Barrow. He resigned himself that once morning came, he would no longer think like a man lost in Skyrim. He would think like Drego Vass, a man with no past, but with hands soaked in blood.

 

[Katastrophe]

PART V - Of Blood and Snow

Drego awoke well before the sun the next morning, and with a new day, he had new resolve. As he dismantled his tent and destroyed the remains of his campfire, he focused on clearing his mind of all thoughts except of his fighting at Helgen. He tried his best to remember the way his enemies had looked as they prepared their next blow, the way their muscles would flex whether their blow would come from the left or right, from the top or straight ahead. He knew that he wouldn’t be able to make it through this Barrow without at least one good fight, and for that, he needed to be prepared.


The path up the mountain was calm and serene, relaxing, until the sight of an old tower loomed ahead. How had he not seen this from Riverwood, when he examined the mountains? He had not expected to come across anything until the Barrow itself - let alone something fortified. His luck only soured as he noticed a lit lantern hanging by the entrance. At the least, it was still dark, and he had it’s cover to hide him as he crept low against the snowcovered rocks, trying to better assess the situation. There was one man, armored in warm furs and with a large weapon strapped to his back, leaning against a tree. Another paced nervously across the small bridge that led to the tower’s entrance. Drego waited awhile for anyone else to show, but thankfully these two seemed to be alone.


Two isn’t bad, he thought, trying to reassure himself. I can probably take one of them out before the other even knows what happened. With his plan in mind, he drew his wooden bow - the same one riven to him by Ralof - and notched a steel arrow. He took careful aim at the man against the tree, waited for his partner to walk inside, and he let loose.


The arrow struck the snow at the man’s feet with a disappointing shuck. The man looked between the arrow at his feet and Drego’s position, and his cover was blown. He drew the great axe from his back and let loose a howl as he charged across the snow and stone towards his attacker. Drego panicked, fumbling to notch a second arrow as the bandit charged him like bull. He drew the string, took aim, fired… the arrow lodged into the man’s thigh with a much more rewarding sound. The blow sent the bandit off balance and he went down on his wounded knee, bracing himself up with his axe.


Shuck. Drego hadn’t even noticed the second man step out from the entrance of the tower, but as the iron bolt lodged itself into his left shoulder, he wished he had. By the time Drego realized where his second assailant was, the man’s crossbow was already notched and raised, ready to fire. Drego dove to his left, crashing into a thin layer of snow and hard rock, scrambling to get behind a small pile of rocks arranged in a marker. He looked back at where he had been, another crossbow bolt lodged into the ground, the axe bandit rising to his feet with a laugh.


“We’ve got you now,” he said, snapping the shaft of the arrow lodged in his thigh. There was a loud tink! sound from behind as he realized the one with the crossbow was providing cover fire, aiming at any bit of him protruding from the small trail marker he hid behind. He tried to notch another arrow in his bow but the bolt in his shoulder ripped at his muscles, his arm shaking from the strain - any shot he’d make would go wild, he was sure. The crunch of the axe man’s boots in the stone was only growing closer and closer. “Time to say goo-!”


The man rounded the corner of the trail marker to find Drego waiting, his boots on his bow, leaning back to draw the string with a single arm. At this range, accuracy wasn’t important - just strong limbs to keep pressure. He let the arrow loose and it struck the man in the breast, the sound of bone cracking came first, and then the gasping for air as the man’s punctured lung struggled to hold anything in. He went back, collapsing a few feet away as he clawed at his throat and at the snow. Drego did not take time to revel in his victory - time was a gift now. He threw himself back behind the trail marker as another bolt sunk into the snow where his head had been just a few moments ago. He tore the bolt from his shoulder with a sound he’d prefer never to hear again, reaching into his backpack and pulling a small, red vial - one of the potions they had managed to get from Helgen. He poured the contents out onto his shoulder and the skin began to fizz and foam as the healing magics took effect, slowly closing the wound from the inside out. When he felt his strength had returned, he grabbed his pack and threw it out towards the dead body a few feet away.


The crossbow bolt stuck into it and Drego through himself around the trail marker, bow drawn, took aim, and let loose. He was surprised how close his second attacker had gotten, apparently moving in in the hope to save his dead friend, or to finish Drego off from a safer distance, but this proved advantageous for Drego. His arrow had struck the man in the chest and sent him reeling slightly, which was enough of an opening for him. He tossed his bow ahead of him, into the snow, and sprinting towards the Argonian - a detail he could only now make out - drawing his axe. There was a glint of iron by the bandit’s boot, but as he drew his dagger, it was too late, Drego’s axe cutting a bloody path across the lizard’s chest. He let out a scream that echoed through the mountains as he collapsed into a pile at his killer’s feet. But his victory was short lived.


“Now you’ll pay!” shouted a third voice, from the tower’s entrance. There was a woman this time, but dressed in steel armor and wielding a mace and shield, she was not to be taken lightly. She clashed the mace against her shield and put it up, running towards him. Drego scrambled back to his bow, having only enough time to take a single, careful shot as she closed the distance, but it was enough. His arrow struck an exposed bit of arm but she seemed to hardly notice. As she came in, he raised his axe to strike but it was too obvious. Her shield bashed his blow away, throwing his arms up in the air, and she countered, her mace cracking into his chest and sending him a few feet back into the snow. Lying next to the dead man with a punctured lung, as Drego struggled for air, he wondered if she had cracked any of his ribs or punctured his own lung, but seeing her continue towards him, he knew he had to get up and try, or die now.


Drego struggled to his feet, holding his axe defensively with both hands. He counted three more steps and her mace went up - his turn. He bashed out, his fists punching her wrist as she raised her mace up. Her weapon was too heavy for her, and she was slower for it - slower still as he felt her wrist fracture from the blow, her grip loosened. In a single, circular motion, Drego swung his axe down and around, bringing it across her midsection where only fur protected her, a shower of blood filling the early morning air and the snow around them. As her body fell to the ground, Drego found himself down with her, laying in the cool snow as he struggled for air, for his vision to focus. He was alive, at least.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~​

The spoils of war had been fair enough. An amulet, a leather backpack, some warmer fur armor, a nice pair of leather boots and some hide bracers, for added protection. One of the bandits had had a nice bottle of spring water as well, which was good because Drego had forgotten to consider the possibility that he may be up here for quite some time. The tower had little to offer aside from a few gold and locked chest - no luck in finding the key and after breaking several lockpicks, he thought it best to give up for now. The leader of the group, the female Nord, had had a nice weapon on her - Imperial quality. That was his now, hanging from his hip in place of the axe. He had left them the half dozen empty bottles of skooma that had been lying around, which explained their bloodshot eyes and resilience. It was a shame - the Nord had actually been quite beautiful, no doubt, before the scars and skooma left her face sunken and half dead. Once Drego was sure he wouldn’t be interrupted, he made a small fire in the tower to warm himself up - the frigid air of the mountains was too much for him in this ill equipped state. Once he was warm, the last of his firewood consumed, he pressed on along the path, up to his final destination.

When Bleak Falls Barrow came into view, it looked even far more sinister than it had ever before. Almost immediately though, Drego could see a figure skulking about atop the structure. Once more, he got low against the snow, edging closer for a better view. He spotted a second figure now, a lookout at the far left side. The only way up seemed to be the large staircase ahead and the idea of trying to ascend while at least two men had the advantage on him did not sit well with him. Still, he had to find a way to go on and that meant forcing away their advantage. He notched an arrow, took careful aim, and waited. He let loose when the lookout was as far away from anyone else as possible and this time, his shot landed it’s mark. The bandit staggered, looked around, and turned towards the stairs. Drego wasn’t sure if he had been spotted or not, but the important thing was that the enemy was coming to him and that-


The air around his became unbearably warm as he dodged left, a ball of flames having ripped through the cool air past him. He had definitely been spotted. Even from here, he could see the crackle of lightning in the lookout’s other hand as he prepared another spell. Drego back peddled, tendrils of electricity exploding across the snow and air in front of him, but he had managed to just get out of range. Now the lookout, a Khajiit, drew a rather crude sword and began advancing. It was then that Drego had to dodge once more, an arrow lodging itself into the snow to his left. His eyes moved passed his advancing attack, seeing now that there were once more three foes against him. One stood on a ledge over the stairs, bow drawn, providing covering fire. The other was a mountain of a man, standing stoically at the top of the stairs, his cloak billowing in the chill breeze as if trying to determine if his involvement was necessary. He focused his attention back on the Khajiit as he notched another arrow and took aim.


Back and forth, the Khajiit began to strafe, duck and lunging to ensure that he was no easy target. Drego knew then that if he missed this shot, the Khajiit would be on him faster than he could draw his newly acquired mace. He watched his target, the way his eyes shifted subtly to check his footing before he moved, the way the muscles of his feline legs would contract and extend as he moved. Drego leveled his bow, the Khajiit leapt to his left, and Drego loosed an arrow that struck the Khajiit in the throat in the same moment his feet touched the ground, and he went down.


That was the arrow that moved mountains, as the man atop the stairs raised his longsword and charged down the stairs, his partner still letting loose a constant distraction of arrows. Drego notched another arrow and fired at his new attacker, the arrow landing in his breast and the man - no, the Orsimer! - seemed to take no notice. He had no choice then. Drego drew his next arrow and plunged the head into the small vial he had strapped at his waist, drawing, aiming, firing. Once more his mark hit, but this time the Orsimer went down as the spider venom took hold. He had acquired a vial in Helgen and was now thankful he had, unable to hold back a small chuckle as the Orsimer laid in the snow, paralyzed in front of him… but it wouldn’t last long. Already the orc was beginning to regain control of his muscles.


Wasting no time, Drego drew his new mace and as the Orc rolled onto his back, he brought the mace down hard into it’s skull, crushing it and ending his life. He stood in silence, looking up to the man with the bow who reached for another and, finding his quiver empty, drew his only other weapon - a dagger - as Drego waved him to come over.


The spoils of war this time proved far more useful - a few more bottles of water, a reinforced bow, leather armor… the list went on. As he prepared to delve into the ruins of Bleak Falls Barrow, Drego took one last look out over the mountains. He had taken half a dozen lives already, and the sun wasn’t even up. A raven flew through the blackened ribs of the Barrow, free to soar amidst the currents of mountain air, just as Drego was free to kill amidst the mountain’s snow, deep rivers of red flowing down. He had never felt so alive.

 

[Katastrophe]

PART VI - Interrogation

The interior of the Barrow was just as destitute as the exterior had led Drego to believe - crumbled pillars and statues scattered across the floor, turning the once open room into a labyrinth with the only light coming from a rather large hole in the ceiling, snow following in along with it. That, and the fire up ahead. Even from the entrance, Drego could make out two more bandits in the distance. That made eight so far - it was no wonder they had been able to walk into town and rob Lucan of that claw; they probably could have taken control of the whole town, if they had the mind to. But they hadn’t - instead they had come into town, robbed a man of a decorative piece of gold but left him with his coin, and headed into the mountains directly nearby and set up a base camp. He would not pretend to know how to be a proper bandit, but this behavior seemed unusual. He needed answers.


Drego notched an arrow in his bow, ready for anything. He no longer had the freedom of movement he had outdoors, nor the cover of the wind and snowfall. However, though many of his advantages were gone, he still had the element of surprise. Thankfully, no one had run inside to warn them when his arrows first began to fly outside the door, so the two remaining bandits seemed to be locked in conversation when he came in. Careful to avoid the light from the Barrow’s new moonlight, as well as those from the bandit’s fire, he edged his way closer and closer. The floor here was littered with the bodies of dead Skeevers, and another bandit. That made nine, and clearly the Barrow had not been safe for them, which made him wonder even more: why come here?


“So what are we supposed to do?” asked the female one. If either would see him, it’d be her, but she didn’t seem to be focused on anything other than her partner before her. “Sit here and wait while Arvel runs off with the claw?”


“If that dark elf wants to go ahead, let him.” The man sounded bitter. “I’m not risking my neck for this job any more than I already have, and neither should you.”


“But what if he doesn’t come back? I want my full share!” She sounded almost childish, on the verge of a tantrum. Money was clearly the motivator for this group, which didn’t sound too unusual for bandits, but then why not rob the rest of the store and town?


“We all want our full share, and we’ll get it, or else that dunmer will get fed to the rest of the rats in this place,” he said, folding his arms across his chest. He was much calmer than his partner and seemed sure of his ability to find ways of getting his money. “No keep your mouth shut and your eyes open. We don’t know what else is could come out of there.”


Drego let his arrow fly and it lodged itself between the man’s shoulders, forcing him to stagger towards the fire. Bewildered, the female drew a crossbow from her hip and loaded a bolt, leveling it across the room in search of their assailant. Drego notched another arrow as the man gained his balance, drawing his sword.


“There!” he shouted, immediately spotting the Imperial out. The female aimed her crossbow but Drego’s arrow struck her shoulder just in time. She let out a scream and turned, her aim going wild and the bolt sailing into one of the room’s dark corners with a clang. Drego stood, notching another arrow, and began to walk away from the two as the man advanced. Enraged, the female drew her dagger as he began to channel some sort of healing spell in her other hands, golden bands of light encircling her as the skin around the arrow’s shaft in her shoulder began to heal around it. Unwilling to risk prolonging their numbers advantage, Drego shifted his aim and loosed a second arrow into the woman’s chest, and she fell to the ground while her partner stepped over her body, still on the charge.


He had no time for another arrow, instead choosing to drop the bow and draw his mace, taking a few more steps backwards to gain more time, though this was too much. His foot slipped on a stone step and Drego went backwards onto the floor, among the dead rats. Seizing the opportunity, the bandit brought his sword down, forcing Drego to roll as the steel clanged against the floor. The bandit wasted no time in pressing his advantage, continuing to bang his sword against the ground as though driving a nail, all while the forcing Drego to roll to avoid being cleaved in two. At last, Drego went to dodge the blow but there was no room - a large skeever corpse lay beside him. He grabbed it, holding it cover his chest as the blade came down. It cut into the skeever with ferocity, muscle tearing and bones cracking, but by the time the blade reached Drego’s new leathers, the force had been all but lost. A look of surprise crossed both of their faces, but Drego was quick to react, bringing the mace he had held on to up and across the bandit’s face, sending a splatter of blood and against the wall. When Drego was able to gather himself together and stand, he saw the bandit’s chest begin to rise and fall, slow and shallow.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~​

The bandit groaned as consciousness began to slip back into his mind. The first thing he’d notice - aside from the throbbing pain in his head, of course - was the pain around his wrists. As he began to regain control of his basic motor functions, he slowly rolled his head back, looking up to see his wrists tied together, suspending him. Over time, he began to observe more and more of his situation, realizing that he was bound by wrists and ankles, suspended from the jaw of some ancient, serpentine statue. Then his eyes focused back towards his fire where a man sat - the man who attacked them.


“Oh, you’re awake,” Drego said, noticing the man staring at him. “That didn’t take too long. Can you hear me? Can you speak?”


“Who are you?” the bandit muttered, his ability to speak not quite what it used to be.


“My name is Drego Vass, and to answer your next question, I’m being paid to recover the golden claw you stole from Riverwood.” The bandit let out a groan, letting his head droop to floor. It would seem that in the realm of possible outcomes for this job, being beaten half to death had not been one this man had considered. “I need to know why, though. Why take only the claw and come here? Why not rob everything and leave town?”


“Arvel,” the bandit said, shaking his head. “His idea.”


“Who’s Arvel? Is he your leader?” Drego had to admit that curiosity was beginning to get the better of him. The bandit did his best to manage a chuckle at this notion, shaking his head.


“He paid us for this job,” he confessed, the shaking of his head slowly transitioning from amusement to disappointment. “He ran ahead, locked himself down there. Our boss is trying to figure it out.” That was news Drego had feared: more bandits, though it sounded like just one. He was growing tired of all this fighting, his few minutes with the unconscious bandit had given him time to reflect, and to think. Drego made his way here, forced to kill nearly ten people. The fighting had come easy, second nature, as he had hoped the night before, but he expected to feel something after these people were dead… some sort of remorse or guilt, but there was nothing. He felt emotionless, and this was a concern.


Right now, however, there were more immediate concerns. He grabbed the bandit’s jaw, forced open his mouth, and shoved a wad of rolled up fur in as a gag. He gave the man a regretful expression but shrugged his shoulders and turned to grab his gear and head deeper into the barrow, the muffled shouts of the man fading by the time he reached the bottom of the stairs and descended further into the Barrow.

As he made his way through the crumbled passage, he found the place littered with burial urns and more dead skeevers. This place must have been infested when the bandits had arrived so whatever they came here for must have some importance. The passage was also covered in thick vines that seemed to choke the life from the place, crumbling the walls and statues. As he moved deeper, there were also a few storage containers, their shelves lined with wraps of linen and strange tools, the purpose of which Drego decided he probably didn’t wish to know. Finally, another staircase descended down into a large, open room, a dead man lay slumped over a lever, his body riddled with crude darts. He took a moment to inspect the body, and the room, and noticed half a dozen holes in the wall that all seemed directed to the center of the room. Up above the gate ahead, two statues of faces were carved out, their mouths open wide and showing symbols of a snake and fish, with a third statue having broken free, laying crumbled at his feet. To the left were a few pillars that seemed to be on some sort of circular base, containing the exact same symbols, including one of a bird.


“A puzzle,” Drego mused, realizing what had most likely happened. This was what the bandit had meant when he said Arvel had locked himself in and their leader, apparently the corpse at his feet, had been trying to unlock it. Failure must have sprung the trap that killed him, a mistake Drego would ensure he wouldn’t make. The puzzle itself seemed fairly straight forward and, one by one, he grabbed hold of the pillars and rotated them on their base until they locked into place in a manner that mimicked those shown on the wall above the gate. With the muuscles in his legs ready to spring him away from harm’s way, he tossed the bandit leader off the lever and gave it a pull.


The gate rumbled open, and Drego pressed on. Arvel waited for him.