Kathodos: A Return of Exiles

[Docta Corvina]

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AUTHOR'S NOTES

• κάθοδος (kathodos) - ancient Greek term meaning "the way down" or "descent", also can refer to "a return of exiles". Formed by "kata-" meaning "down" and "odos" meaning "road".

• Hailing from Cheydinhal, Cyrodiil, the daughter of a fallen Legionnaire journeys to Skyrim to unravel the mysteries surrounding his death. It is a perilous quest that will bring her into the middle of the chaotic civil warfare as well as the Riften Thieves Guild - and bring to light some truly dark and shocking secrets about the war that changed everything.

• I intend for this series to span many chapters (quite likely 30+) and cover all kinds of thematic ground. There will be some questline spoilers. But that's likely to be expected. Also, some circumstances/mechanics of the game may be slightly altered to better suit the storytelling.

• I hope you enjoy my little tale - I update as often as possible! Currently, new chapters have been appearing biweekly triweekly as soon as is humanly possible amid full-time work.

DISCLAIMER: I do not own the intellectual property rights to Skyrim or to any portion of the Elder Scrolls series (including in-game NPCs, locations, etc). Bethesda/Xenimax owns all rights to that material. I am making no monetary profit whatsoever from this work. It is simply an expression of my love for the series to share with other fans. No infringement is intended. This fanfiction is NOT to be re-posted or republished anywhere else without my written permission.

The original factions (such as the Manes Imperii) and characters contained herein such as my protagonist Penelope and others are indeed my own - please do not use or feature them elsewhere without my permission. All applicable rights reserved. Where characters belonging to other authors appear, they are under the ownership of their respective creators, NOT me. They are simply on loan to me for creative purposes, and have been loaned with permission. Chapters featuring the loaned out characters are marked with embedded author's notes. So far only three chapters are of such a kind, and will most likely be very sparing in nature.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

• Chapter 1
• Chapter 2
• Chapter 3
• Chapter 4
• Chapter 5
• Chapter 6
• Chapter 7
• Chapter 8
• Chapter 9
• Chapter 10
• Chapter 11
• Chapter 12
• Chapter 13
• Chapter 14
• Chapter 15
• Chapter 16
• Chapter 17
• Chapter 18
• Chapter 19
• Chapter 20
• Chapter 21 [NEW!]

 

[Docta Corvina]

Chapter 1

“Your eyes…they’re hollow, girl...”

A tankard teeming with lukewarm mead stared back at the young woman who had half-heartedly poured it. Strange it was, how it both enticed her and repulsed her. The murmuring in the smoky old Flagon soothed her ears and mind, but the lull was broken by the voice behind her - the leering voice that always preceded tensed limbs. She shifted in the chair, hoping to steady her turning stomach. It was inevitable. Conversation was inevitable. And while the others had given her the solitude that she so clearly desired upon her return, she could not hope to pass his notice – the one ever skeptical, ever suspicious.

Turning her head to the side, black and gold entered her field of vision. Those arms would doubtlessly be crossed, an incredulous scowl would twist that mouth.

“Oh?” She quickly rose from the small table to face the speaker, her sword and its scabbard thumping against the wood as she moved. Unfortunately, the male Breton in front of her was, as always, bitingly perceptive.

“It better be skeever blood all over that pretty blade. If you’ve gotten sloppy-”

By now, she was used to the way Mercer Frey growled in his expressions of displeasure and genuine curiosity alike, and often it did not matter which it truly was. Still, his latent rage always slightly unnerved her. Ever since her introduction to the Guild Master, she had wondered what it was that spurred such anger, what it was that anchored such contempt.

“I haven’t. It’s nothing.” A quaking hand absently flew to the hilt, desperate to hide the dark streaks and specks on the metal.

“Took you an excessively long time to lift a few trinkets from the Gray-Mane house. Given how often Brynjolf prattles on about your abilities, I didn’t figure you as one to have problems with such an elementary heist.”

Arms remained crossed as he took a single step closer, encroaching. Stifling an already breathless Penelope.

“Ran into some trouble just west of here. Damn bandits, they don’t give up. Bastards even killed my horse. You know how it can be sometimes.”

“Yes…I know how it can be.” Those bright emerald eyes, ever aglow with the same ill temper that laced every word, slowly narrowed. And after holding fast to the stained sword under Penelope’s hand, they came to meet hers. “Indeed.”

The silence and unbroken stare were difficult to bear, especially when the Breton woman was still not altogether steady on her feet since scrambling back through the labyrinthine Ratway Vaults. Strands of long black hair, normally loosely but neatly tied, had since fallen into her face and tickled her nose. She used the opportunity to avert her gaze and brush the stray locks to the side. But Mercer was not finished. Now arrived that sneer, that wicked curl of the lip.

“Indulge me. Just how far west were these ‘bandits’?”

“Pretty far.”

She managed an awkward smile in return just before taking an impulsive gulp of warm mead. The taste was almost enough to force it back out of her mouth, but it seemed the best way of checking the increasingly disquieting talk. Little in this world is worse than mead left too long unattended. Her cheeks flushed as they remained swollen with the drink. She couldn’t bring herself to swallow it – yet.

“I’m no fool, girl. You tangled with more than just common raider scum out there. Eyes may beguile, but they don’t lie.” Mercer leaned in even closer, words snarling through clenched teeth. “And I hope for your sake it wasn’t any of my interests. Or a dead horse will absolutely be the least of your concerns-“

“Ah, Mercer! Just who I been lookin’ for. Got some juicy details about a new client. Whole bloody family’s eager to part with some coin.”

Delvin edged his way in between the two, even daring to grab Mercer’s shoulder and turn him. With the latter’s back to her now, Penelope grudgingly swallowed the tepid mead and mouthed a quick “thank you” to her savior. She could hear Delvin continue as Mercer sighed heavily. All of it faded as she slipped past the bar and through the door to the Cistern. The large room appeared thankfully empty, and she took a seat on the steps leading down into the water. Drawing deep breaths, she could feel her heartbeat begin to temper itself. He won’t be satisfied. He’ll be back again. And who knows if old Delvin will be around next time.

Brown eyes squeezed shut and after a few moments, reopened wide. If only it still worked to dispel demons like it used to all of those years ago – back when remnants of nightmares could be vanquished with the power of a protracted blink. Her mother would embrace her, urging her to banish those frightening images in such a manner. And to her consistent amazement, it was an unfailing technique for the little girl. Maybe, just maybe…there was still some power left in it. She had to try.

“To Oblivion with you!” Her labored voice resounded through the Cistern, followed by a distant flapping of wings. But it was the sound of footsteps behind her that swept a dread pallor across her normally warm complexion.

“So this is where you ran off to then, ‘ey? Wasn’t sure if you was gonna be sick where you stood…woulda made things that much more interestin’.”

Upon hearing the first words over her shoulder, a vast grin rapidly grew. She gave a nervy giggle as she stood to face her rescuer.

“I’ve gotta thank you, Delvin. You’ve certainly got a knack for timing. Wasn’t sure I’d get out of there alive.”

“Don’t mention it. Always glad to help out when I can. Been in tight spots like that with ol’ Mercer before. The lot of us needed savin’ at some point.” Delvin chuckled, placing a hand on Penelope’s shoulder. Though taking some measure of comfort in it, she still could not subdue the shakiness. And Delvin could sense it. “What was he on about anyway?”

“He’s…sore at me for taking too long on a job. But that’s Mercer for you. Ornery as ever.” A knowing smirk could not quite mask her anxiety. And while Delvin was curious, and concerned, he left it there.

“Ha, right enough you are, Pennie. You should go top-side, get some air. And rest. You look like you need both. Whatever’s on your mind, you know we all got your back. We’s family now.”

With a final single pat on the back, Delvin made his way back to the Flagon. And Penelope was left to muse over the rippling waters in the Cistern.

…………..​

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Light rain arrived in Riften, well ahead of the sluggish thunder bellowing far from her cozy dock. Clouds flickered brilliant white to the west, then a pale green slightly to the north. After walking the limits of the weather-beaten city - taking care to avoid the square - Penelope had stolen away to Honeyside. Although the sturdy home was not much to look at, quite like Riften herself, it always delivered a rare restfulness and much-needed calm - a modest refuge. She had fallen in love with the dockside porch and spent many early mornings and evenings sipping tea or wine and watching the daylight grow or languish. The soft sounds of waves lapping the boats and structures were her newest lullaby. Nothing was ever taken for granted.

The young woman shifted her careful gaze from the sword laying across her lap to the sky, captivated by the creeping storm. Rolling cracks seemed to be growing louder as the minutes passed. The full fury would bluster forth soon enough, and then die on the shifting winds. For her, there was always something about the way the thunder boomed and then faded that seemed to mimic the din of battle - and the stark quiet immediately afterward.

Stubborn sanguine flecks still traced the edge all the way to the point. It seemed hours to her, all of the cleaning she had done – all of the work undertaken to purify the weapon. She never could forget what her soldier father had once said about the dogged power of curses upon the lips of the dying. And while she had heard no curses uttered in those frenzied final moments, maybe, she mused, this is what they managed.

“Damn it all…” She gritted. The wind took a playful swing and bedecked her face with cool droplets. She could not help but smile at the sensation. The hypnotic plip-plops of water upon water hastened their rhythm and the once placid breeze began to grow restless. She shivered. Placing the blade back into its scabbard home, she took another glance at the boisterous water below, water that now appeared wine-dark in the storm.

“Suppose I missed my window of opportunity for a peaceful late-afternoon nap.” A slight tremble made her all the more certain. “Bah, who am I fooling? Best resign myself to the fact that Keerava will be swimming in my coin tonight. I’m sure that’ll make her happy.”

Upon reentering her home, the scent of lavender and juniper candles was a brief but appreciated lifting of her spirits. The small dining table was adorned with two place settings – one for her, and one for the house guest that never seemed to materialize. It was a good home; and even for all of the absurdity she believed such a thought to entail, she wondered sometimes if she would ever have someone to sit at that second place setting - as considerably more than a mere house guest. Best not to dwell on it, eh? You’ve got far more important matters to see to the end.


Grabbing a cloak from her wardrobe, Penelope wrapped it around her still-shivering frame and slowly headed toward the middle of town. She knew two Argonians who would be somewhat less than overjoyed to see her face again; but she also knew as well as any other that tidy sums of coin had a way of moving mountains.

…………..​

The square was growing emptier with each chilly gust of rain. People began to seek shelter as the storm teased the edges of town. Madesi and Grelka had all but locked up their stock for the day and hurried along to the Bunkhouse. Brand-Shei’s stall stood vacant as it had for weeks, its ill-starred owner brooding in Riften’s jail. Penelope hung her head whenever she glimpsed his old stand, hoping that the next time she looked upon it its vendor would be restored. But her dark eyes widened when she noticed a certain Falmer blood elixir merchant gathering his samples and locking them away in a large chest. His red hair had been whipped around in the wind, and the rain had haphazardly pressed strands to his face. After his wares were secured, he turned and caught the Breton’s gaze. He returned the warm smile she flashed him, and nodded in quick agreement as she motioned toward the tavern with a slight head tilt and playful grin.

The two entered the well-lit alehouse, eliciting patrons’ gasps and sighs alike. Both of them took it in stride as they approached the bar counter. Keerava, as predicted, shot them each a grimace and hemmed and hawed about the dwindling supply of Black-Briar mead. But the Argonian woman swallowed that pride when Penelope produced a palm heavy with gleaming gold coins.

“It’s on me tonight.” She winked at her companion. Brynjolf just broadened his smirk.

“Alright lass, I’ll let you. But just this once.”

Having found a table at the side of the tavern, they toasted another long week of jobs well done and the spoils at the end of it. With the solid clink of tankards, they drew long swigs of ice-cold ale. It was probably the most flavorful ale Penelope had ever tasted – though she suspected it had everything to do with the present company, rather than the recipe.

Since arriving in Skyrim, so much, particularly her time with the Guild, felt like a strange waltz - one in which no partner knew the outcome but simply kept to the rhythm. And despite all the oddities and occasional insecurities, it was an alluring and exciting dance. It was one that she never truly wanted to end – and therein was the dilemma. The swaying and stepping and whirling would eventually come to a finale. Where reality would continue thenceforth was unknown.

Something in those brilliant green eyes laughing across from her told her that it was moments like these that were worth all. Pragmatism wasn’t worth a damn. Worrying was a profitless venture. Whatever divines may or may not have existed were the only ones who could undo and right the past. The present and future were what called now. Nonetheless, she somehow felt a step closer to answers with each passing day. Perhaps they would not be obvious, but nothing in life was ever simple.

Here’s to detours, not dead ends.

 

[Jersey Dagmar]

Very awesome! I'll be sure to pester you for the next installments. Must you be better than me at everything.

 

[Docta Corvina]

Thanks, my friend! I appreciate the kind words! And lol about the last bit, it ain't even true!

 

[xSuoiveDx]

Another awesome story for me to follow, keep it up ladies I love what both of you write...Cheers

 

[The_Deadliest_Troll]

Awesome Corvina! I liked it a lot I can't wait to read more!

 

[Docta Corvina]

Thanks everyone, I really appreciate the support! I can't wait to get the next chapter done and shared!

 

[bulbaquil]

I quite like this story as well. Very well-written. I look forward to reading more of it even though I know it's going to mean an Imperial victory. (But that's okay, because then Riften is officially run by Maven Black-Briar. Whether or not that's a good thing depends on you....)

 

[Docta Corvina]

Hey, thank you for the kind words as well, Bulbaquil! I appreciate that you're going to continue reading despite the pro-Empire dimension, heh. The Civil War is an aspect I've been quite eager to explore in my writing, alongside my Guild-related drama.

 

[Dovakiin98]

This is pretty good,I can`t wait for more!

 

[Docta Corvina]

Thank you, Dovakiin! I appreciate it, and I'm glad you're enjoying it so far! I hope I don't ever disappoint!

 

[Docta Corvina]

Chapter 2

The vague nausea and lingering tunnel vision were unfortunate nuisances. Windhelm was already assured to be a snowy mess, and the added impairments would be most unpleasant for a thief in unfamiliar surroundings. She knew no one in the Guild would have any sympathy to spare – even if they themselves could rather easily identify with her plight. Not that she was looking for any. That was the nature of their ‘family’, and she was okay with it. And while she expected the friendly jabs from Delvin about drowning sorrows and paying the next-day price, she did not anticipate the spirited inquiry about her company. It’s true, her fellow Breton was never above partaking of good gossip. He peddled it and peddled it well. Always with the purest of intentions, of course. But the keen interest in one night’s excursion at the local watering hole was nonetheless surprising to her. As it turned out, Vex had wandered up to the surface to follow up on some lucrative leads late into the night. She had noticed the pair in the Bee and Barb, though neither one had seen her – true to form. Back in the Flagon, the blonde woman could not resist dropping sly hints amid cackles and snickers. Ever an eager audience, the place where thieves’ rumors are born and never truly die had yet again lived up to its reputation.

After her acknowledgement that the redhead had indeed been her companion in ale for the evening, Delvin seemed swept by a broad relief, a rare optimism. She inquired further, to which Delvin only replied that it was “all in all a very good sign”. And that he also hoped that Brynjolf’s recent smiles were themselves auspicious. While others mocked Delvin for his talk of curses upon the Guild, Penelope herself had an appreciation for their potency. Ever a tad superstitious, she had a respect for the unseen, the unknown. The ancient adage about the strangeness of truth being superior to that of fiction constantly held true. And it was a fact that never completely escaped her mind. That was yet another point of commonality for the two Bretons – and she believed that it was the one that Delvin held in highest esteem.

Talk soon shifted to that of business and necessity, and Penelope hesitantly looked to details about her next assignment. Windhelm…crown jewel of Eastmarch…what will you conjure for me? She fidgeted with her gloves, tugging on the fraying edges and twisting them.

Delvin, conversely, was all too ready to impart his information.

“There’s an old tavern there in need of some corrected numbers, Candlehearth they call it. Can’t miss it, it’s huge and it’s right smack dab in the center of the city. Thankfully so. It’s one place you won’t have any trouble findin’.”

The black-haired woman looked up from her gloves, meeting Delvin’s easy glance.

“One place? I’ve never actually been to Windhelm, what am I in for? I’ve heard some talk of it, but not in this context.”

“You never been there? Ha, well, get ready to lose yourself there, my friend. And I don’t mean in the good way. Bloody place is a labyrinth before you’re used to it, even without all the damn snow blowin’ across your eyes.”

“…Hmm.” Brows furrowed and eyes lowered to the table. But they raised slightly as Vekel the Man meandered nearby. Even as the barkeep listlessly dragged a broom across the floor, Penelope knew that the cynicism was simply biding its time. She was never quite sure if it was just his way, or if she herself inspired some special rancor in him. She tried not to think about it too often, but there were days when the derision truly bit at her. Vekel the Man was hardly alone in that, however. Nearly all of the Flagon’s most persistent inhabitants shot her the distrustful and perturbed glares. Brynjolf’s earnest praise was not enough to ease their wariness of a new face. Either that or it was purely personal. Regardless, she would not give any of them the satisfaction of witnessing a failing of confidence. “Well, I’m always in the mood for a challenge. Let Windhelm do its worst.”

“Now that’s what I like to hear! Just keep your wits about you and you’ll be fine. Things been gettin’ a bit interestin’ there lately what with the war and all. You don’t wanna tangle with them Stormcloak types, any more than you wanna tangle with the Emperor’s army. No need to make things harder on yourself. Just get in and get out. Leave war and politics to the poor souls who care most about ‘em.”

The Emperor’s army…It was a phrase with an unexpected power. The words echoed in her head, ringing hollow as an old bell. Body tensed. Even her breath paused, and her glance fell fixed to the floor. Searching. Recalling. Deliberating. Trying to suppress bitter thoughts of a sword still smeared with stubborn blood. She bit her lip.

“…Understood.”

“You be careful out there, Pennie.”

After nodding with a taxed smile, she headed back through the Cistern to the city above. As she began to climb the ladder to street level, she swore that she heard a pair of harsh whispers, followed immediately by a “tsk tsk tsk”. Though she idled briefly on the rungs, she thought it best not to look over her shoulder.

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…………..​

The Riften stables were quiet as usual, light breezes rustling the trees dotting the property. The same breezes bore the familiar scents of manure, hay and burning wood. Many times had Penelope relished the shade and peace of the trees here. The hush of sweet wind coming off the water lulled her nearly to sleep as she enjoyed stories about faraway lands. The stable-master’s young assistant always was happy to indulge her requests of Hammerfellian reminiscences as he worked.

As soon as she turned the corner to eye the pens this morning, she was surprised to find a single gray mare yet remaining. The animal had been alone for the past several days, since her companions were purchased by a local family. Penelope slowly approached the lonely horse, extending an arm to stroke its nose.

“You’ve got a real beauty here, Shadr. I’m shocked no one has bought her up before now.”

The Redguard man looked up from his diligent shoveling.

“Me too, actually. I blame the times. Not enough coin in peoples’ pockets lately. Especially around here. Well, unless you’re a Black-Briar anyway. Luck never sours for them, it seems.”

The young woman continued caressing the mare’s nose, stopping only to offer the gloomy creature a sugar cube. The treat was heartily accepted, much to her delight.

“How much worse are things now? You know I haven’t been in Skyrim long – I’ve spent even less time in Riften. Mjoll seems to think it’s graver than ever.”

Shadr paused and gave a slow nod. “It’s definitely worse. I can’t really quantify it though. It’s like there’s something in the air – and not just those damn dragons. I dunno, sometimes I wonder if leaving Hammerfell was the best idea. I mean, no doubt getting all the experience here with Hofgrir has been great. But, things have seemed more than a bit…off…since I arrived about a year ago. Probably were even long before I set foot here.”

“I’ve been hearing that a lot lately. I’ll be honest, I’m not sure what to think anymore. I suppose all we can do is…worry about today...” Penelope’s voice trailed off as her thoughts began to stray.

“Indeed, my lady. Indeed.”

A loud whinny startled the Breton, halting her wayward contemplation. All for the better, as Windhelm was several hours ride away and the days already were never quite long enough.

“Well, down to business then. How does, say, 1500 gold for this lovely one here sound?”

“Nonsense.”

“Come again?” One eyebrow rose.

“She’s free for the taking whenever you need her. I know she’ll serve you well. I already spoke to Hofgrir about it and he agrees.”

“Free? Shadr, I appreciate your charity, but there’s no way I’m not putting coin in your hand for this horse. I simply won’t stand for it.”

After leaning his shovel against the side of the stable-house, the Redguard walked over to join Penelope and the mare. His normally chipper voice was now muted, almost to a whisper. She couldn’t tell if he was embarrassed, scared, or perhaps even both.

“Pen, you helped me out of a real tough bind all those weeks ago. Not sure how you managed it, but you did and the least I can do to repay you is give her to you whenever you need her.”

Even as she shook her head in adamant dissent, Penelope couldn’t help a wily grin. One hand slipped into the pouch at her side, and emerged with a small yet weighty leather bag.

“Pen, really, it’s not necessary.” Shadr raised a gloved hand in refusal, only to have the bag thrust into it. After a silent war of wills spanning several moments, the Redguard relented with a long sigh. “You Bretons…too damned headstrong.” Still wordless, and amused by her friend’s exasperation, Penelope just crossed her arms and winked. Shadr carefully placed the pouch into his own pocket, while knitting brows reflected a nagging curiosity. “You know, I’ve wanted to ask…how did you convince Sapphire to let me off the hook anyway?”

Part of her wanted to relate the entertaining albeit roundabout circumstances of his financial deliverance. But she thought better of it, taking a few seconds before offering a response both honest and vague enough. She did not believe that Shadr suspected her involvement with the Guild, and preferred that it remain that way - at least for the present time.

“…Connections.”

“Connections, eh? Not sure I like the way you said that, but all the same…let it be said that I’m glad you’re on my side!”

After securing the gray mare, Penelope led her out of the pen and mounted. She gave the horse another calming stroke. “You seem like a Kallias to me. Kallias it is.” She then turned to the young farmer. “By the way, have you gotten that drink with Marise yet?”

“Y-y-you know about that?”

The woman just leaned forward on the saddle, dark eyes once wide and intrigued now half-lidded and devious. A quick nod followed. The Redguard gave a nervous chuckle as he looked downward, raking one foot across the dirt.

“Oh, well, ernnn, no. Not yet.” Sudden enthusiasm returned his affable gaze upward. “She said yes, though! A cold one at Keerava’s…that’s always a good way to start, right?”

“That it is.” Penelope flashed an open smile. “In fact, I’d say it’s the best way to start.”

After a farewell, she brought the horse first to a trot, then a steady gallop away from the stables. Her trek to the frosty north would take the better part of the day, and it would feel even longer still due to her frivolities of the previous night.

It was worth it though. Absolutely it was.

…………..​

By the time she reached the stables outside Windhelm, the sun was already threatening to dip below the horizon. The sky was painted with remarkable hues, and stars began to glitter in spite of the tarrying haze of a dying day. Smoke rode the swift, chill winds and she breathed it in deeply just after dismounting. Kallias, her newest friend and compatriot, would be hitched here for the night, for a modest sum. Given how sorrowful the animal had seemed hours earlier, Penelope was reluctant to leave her there even until morning. But she made sure to soften the parting with another sugar cube and gentle stroke of the nose.

After a long walk to the great gates and passing comments from guards, she entered the city of ancient wood and stone. The majestic structures sprawled out before her, and the pleasant wood smoke fragrance grew sharper – sweeter. As she looked from side to side, noticing the deceptive alleyways and weaving paths, she knew precisely what Delvin had warned her about prior to departure. But as she looked ahead, she was relieved to see the timeworn tavern situated as promised. Hurrying up to it, she stopped at the sound of raised voices - those of an irate man, and a woman on the defensive. She weighed becoming involved, recalling Delvin’s plea for a thief’s apathy. But after she heard “Gray-Skin” spat out by the male voice, she could not check a burgeoning anger of her own.

Looking over her shoulder, she caught sight of three figures in the fading light. As she approached them, their voices quieted. The two Nords glared while the woman, a Dunmer, looked on silently with a helpless frown.

“This doesn’t concern you, stranger. Move along.”

Penelope only stepped closer, her eyes darting between the men.

“Looks to me like the sad stories are true about this place – tell me, you treat all your Dark Elves this way, or is this poor lady a special case?”

“Ah, yes, another outsider with a mouth too big for her own good. You think you can just strut into our city, Breton, and tell us what we have to accept? These ‘people’ are of no more use to us hard-working, honest folk than the grime and filth under our feet.”

“That’s funny, I would say the very same about you. Pathetic.”

The vocal man sneered and looked her up and down. “Actually, you should stick around tonight, Breton. I think we could put that big mouth to good use after all.”

“Gods sink this city before men like you have any lasting control of it.” She hissed.

“What’s all this now?” A stout, bearded warrior entered the hostile circle, eying all present. The Dunmer woman chose this as a point of exit and slipped mutely into the shadow. As soon as the new man saw the face of the one locked in bitter dialogue with the young woman, he moved forward and pointed past him. “Enough’s enough for one night, Rolff. Get going. You too, Angrenor. Don’t make me have to do anything drastic.”

Much to Penelope’s surprise, the rowdy man shot her a final glare and the pair shuffled off, grumbling in the gloom. Whoever this stalwart peace-maker was, he certainly had a gift.

“What…was that all about anyway? Please tell me this isn’t a common occurrence.”

“The loud-mouthed one, that was Rolff Stone-Fist. Brother of Ulfric’s second in command. He’s made it his unfortunate business to badger the Dark Elves here. He embarrasses us all with it. But, it’s his way.”

“But why? I don’t understand such lunacy.”

“Count yourself blessed that you don’t, child. Mostly, I think, it’s an ill-placed fear. We all have it to some extent. Some just more than others. That, and they need someone to blame for their problems. But I also can’t discount the power of Ulfric’s charisma. It’s a three-fold force to be reckoned with.”

Penelope’s eyes scanned the skyline before returning to the man. “Windhelm…it’s definitely a city unlike any others I’ve visited.”

“Don’t let those like Rolff – and Ulfric, for that matter - fool you. Most Nords, even in this city, aren’t so short-sighted. I trust you’ve discovered that in your travels.”

“You would be right about that. …How long do you think this war will go on? I mean, I ask because you have something of a front-row seat to the rebellion. What is Ulfric prepared to do? How hard will he fight…for this?” She gestured wistfully toward the Gray Quarter.

“Ah…well, to be fair to the man, he’s not just fighting to preserve the status quo in Windhelm. His ambitions aren’t so meek. If he wins this war, you can expect a serious shakeup of the Empire at large. Some say he won’t stop until he’s High King. While I wouldn’t doubt that that’s an aspiration of his, he’s got a long way to go before then. In my heart, I believe there are enough Nords in Skyrim who see what’s really going on here, and who won’t let this land be undone by the machinations of a single man.”

“I think you’re right…I hope you’re right. …Erm, forgive me, what did you say your name was again?”

“I didn’t. But it’s Free-Winter. Brunwulf Free-Winter.” With a weary smile, the man walked off into the frigid night, disappearing as quickly as he had appeared.

Penelope, intrigued, vowed to find that Free-Winter again when the war was finally over and it all had been decided. She could readily sense that he possessed all manner of stories to tell about a not-so-distant past, likely rife with glory and despair. He had not said as much, but she knew a soldier’s voice when she heard it, and a soldier’s face when she saw it. He possessed the same distance in tone, the same haggardness of countenance that bespoke a fatigue of the soul.

With the rabble rousers disbanded for the night, her thoughts returned to the original reason for her presence in Windhelm. And as she walked back up the steps of the alehouse, she felt a new sense of urgency. Upon entering, she heard the barkeep – who had stepped away from the counter to assist a guest in their room - muttering now familiar lines about Dark Elves and the rightness of Ulfric’s cause. This only made the “correction” of the Candlehearth’s numbers that much more satisfying to the thief, and she left the establishment donning a smug grin. You’ll be proud of this one, Delvin.

Just outside the Candlehearth’s door, two patrons had stopped to mingle before returning to their homes. Penelope began to walk past them, hardly interested in their conversation. But at this moment, she halted her step in mid-stride.

“So they say those Penitus Oculatus types are in Skyrim. Had some unfortunate business in Morthal last week – don’t ask – and I overheard some folks there talking about it. Seems they’ve got an outpost in Dragon Bridge. Dunno about you, but I find that interesting…very interesting indeed.”

“Can only mean one thing, can’t it? The Emperor’s paying us all a visit. By the Nine, this is Ulfric’s chance to finish it-- ”

“Don’t be daft, it’d never be that easy. Especially not with those bodyguards he’s got—“

Heart thumped up into her throat. Trembling and weak-kneed, she bolted to the sides of the two Nords, who seemed only vaguely alarmed by her abrupt movement.

“Where is Dragon Bridge?!” Penelope didn’t even realize she had grabbed hold of the older man’s arm, which recoiled slightly at her sudden grasp.

“A-a-a good ways west - and a little north of here. What’s got you so pale, girl?”

The Nord scarcely had finished his question as Penelope flew back down the steps to the city gate, nearly tripping as she scrambled on the cracked stone.

After a sprint to the stables and an unhitching and nimble mounting of Kallias, she spurred the mare back out into the now pitch-dark night. Quickening winds began to fling snow that cut sharply against the skin. But Penelope paid it no mind. Eyes wide, breath short, all she could feel was her own heartbeat.

 

[Jersey Dagmar]

Stop being better then me at everything.

 

[Docta Corvina]

^ It ain't even true!

 

[xSuoiveDx]

I Love it too.

 

[Dovakiin98]

I`ve said it once and I`ll say it again,this is a great story!

 

[Docta Corvina]

Thank you again, everyone! I really appreciate the support! It means more than you know.

I can't wait to get the next chapter finished and posted!

 

[Docta Corvina]

Chapter 3

“Where is she?!”

A sudden thunderous pound on the table startled even the usually unshakeable Delvin. After watching some of the top-most ale splash out of his tankard, he cautiously swung his glance toward the livid man.

“Wha? Who?” He couldn’t help but flinch slightly as Mercer shot him a spiteful glare.

“Stop wasting my time, you know exactly who!”

Delvin and Vex exchanged uneasy glances. The confusion was shared but neither dared to voice it. Not now. Not with their Guild Master rapidly becoming more irritated, the one for whom an even temper hardly seemed a virtue.

“I’m only going to ask you ingrates the question one more time. Where is she?!”

“Wait, you mean Pennie?”

“Yes, ‘Pennie’.” Mercer spat the name out like spoiled wine and his scowl grew all the more.
Delvin shifted uncomfortably in his seat, not wanting to meet those glowering green eyes. But he had little choice as Mercer leaned into his face. Threatening. Scrutinizing all, even the slightest of movements, of twitches. Always exacting.

“She’s…on assignment…up in Windhelm. Don’t know if she’d be headin’ back yet or not, she only left this morning.”

“This morning, eh? Then there’s still time… You sure it’s Guild business she’s up to?”

“Yeah, gave her the job meself – she’s fixin’ some numbers at old Candlehearth.” Delvin gave a brisk shrug. “Nothin’ fancy.”

After shifting his glance from Delvin to the ceiling and allowing it to loiter there amid bitter thought, he returned it to the apprehensive pair at the table.

“If she comes back here before I intercept her, you don’t let her leave here again. She doesn’t leave your sight, or I’ll know the reason why!”

As abruptly as the questioning had initiated, it ceased with Mercer rushing back into the Cistern, equal parts discontented and distracted. The two thieves at the table just looked on silently, until Delvin gave a nervous chuckle of his own.

“What the bloody hell was that all about anyway?”

“Who knows…it’s Mercer.” Vex took a quick swig of ale while her companion followed up with a wary, almost meek tone.

“Yeah…just hate to think what he’ll do to the poor girl when he finally gets hold of her. Can’t possibly imagine that she coulda done anything to cause that though. Honestly haven’t seen him that riled up in a long time.”

“Bah, you worry too much. He’s always been more bark than bite anyway. She’ll be fine.” The Imperial woman casually gestured to Vekel for a fresh pint. “I’m just glad the interrogation’s over.”

“You and me both.”

And with that, the two toasted their salvation and tried to put aside the lingering ill ease. Neither one spoke of their angry leader and his prying, but they each felt sharp twinges of concern. Not even the alcohol could loosen the tightening knots in their gut.

…………..​

The early morning haze overspread the flourishing acreage - that haze, the ghostly remnants of night, that always gave her slight chills to watch linger over the cropland. Clouds melted into the light of dawn, and the dew sparkled underfoot. Breezes blew cool and fresh, no doubt kissed by wintry Skyrim to the north. Another marvelous morning settled upon the Nibenay Basin. Still rubbing the last clinging bits of sleep from her eyes, she had gone to the farm as she did every dayspring. Arms long-used to the work would carry the pails and push the baled hay. First light would bring the tidings of the animals, themselves yet struggling to fully awaken. Her younger sisters would follow along soon after she arrived at the stables and cow pens, ready with crates for fresh eggs and baskets for harvested produce.

This day, nothing stirred in the trees, nothing shuddered in the earth, nothing flashed in the sky. The auspices were clear and untroubled.

After the morning work was finished her sisters returned home while she herself retired to the shade of a large tree across from the stables, as was her habit. Sitting cross-legged in the soft grass, she placed her favorite blade across her lap. A gift from her father, she had brought it with her once more to clean as she watched the end of morningtide pass into midday. Such pride the polishing of the weapon always gave, such satisfaction was found in the glint and gleam of the steel. An heirloom, it had seen many battles and been gripped by many hands. And yet, it caught the light with the vigor of a newly fashioned blade. It was hers to look after now, hers to preserve.

A sibling blade, struck at the same forge as the one she now cherished had been given to her brother, Heron, who wielded it proudly on the Legion’s front lines. After completing basic training in the Imperial City he only recently had been deployed to Skyrim, aiding in efforts to diffuse the growing unrest. Whispers of civil war in the province crept from many lips in Cyrodiil, but the prevailing wisdom and hope was that the Nords would sort themselves out before they would ever spill kindred blood and make tenuous their bonds to the Empire. Gasps of “not another Hammerfell” would pour out over mead and fine wine, over milk and honey bread. Skepticism and shaky optimism alike abounded concerning the Concordat, and the years since the signature were only proving the ever-evolving nature of the consequences. She and Heron, eldest of the children, were scarcely two and four years old respectively when the treaty was signed and yet, they had seen and felt its repercussions for as long as they each could remember. What was hailed as a step for peace seemed to many as an affected calm before the great storm - the anxious inhalation before a plunge.

Their father however, a Legionnaire for most of his life, always expressed a genuine confidence in the viability and perseverance of a unified Tamriel - and not without sincerest compassion for all of the land’s people. Hailing from Hammerfell by birth, and having been stationed briefly in High Rock – where he met and married her apothecary mother – and finally raising his family in Cyrodiil, he had always borne a cosmopolitan soul. Nothing shook his faith, even as the situation in Skyrim began to grow more concerning over the course of many months. Still, when he captained a small elite force to investigate and assess the developments in the province, all who knew him awaited news with taut breath and unyielding anxiety. Days quietly slipped into weeks, weeks into months.

On this day, while still enjoying the shade of her favorite old tree and wiping her treasured blade to an impressive sheen, her eyes caught a figure on horseback ranging along the horizon. As it drew closer, she recognized the rider as an Imperial courier. The small, haggard man upon his black steed approached the farm at full gallop. His armor reflected the noonday sun, and the metal rattled with each motion of the animal. She stood up slowly to meet the visitor, her body stiff from sitting at length on the ground. The courier dismounted, squinting in the radiance of the daylight.

“Captain Adrianus, of Cheydinhal…are you his kin?”

“Indeed, I’m his daughter Penelope. Please speak your business.”

“I…have news of him.”

“Truly?” She hurriedly placed the sword back into the scabbard and rested it against the tree. “Praise gods, it’s about time, we’d gotten no word in nearly two mon---”

The herald’s right hand removed his helmet and held it respectfully at his side.

“On behalf of the Emperor, I regret to inform you, my lady…”

Fingers barely clasped the parchment, hand shook. Script, so neatly crafted to the paper, appeared as blurred and streaked tendrils of black. Just before the note slipped from her faltering grasp, she could make out snippets of the consolation message: “an ambitious and extremely perilous but most necessary operation in the Nordic province”, and “a most unfortunate loss”. Perhaps most galling of all, “none of the dead were recovered…rest assured…memory will be given highest honors”.

N-n-no…impossible….it’s…not…it’s…

Legs twitched and wobbled. Sun pierced her eyes. Sweat. Breathlessness. Chest tightened. Throat grew parched. She strained to hold her head up, laboring under its weight. Struggled to look straight ahead. Before her, the cattle lowed in the field. The chestnut mares gave soft neighs. The messenger blinked. Just before her legs collapsed beneath her, she heard his voice. That rich, resounding voice passed near her ears and echoed in her head. His kind, handsome smile and laughing eyes flashed in front of her as she sank to the ground. And then disappeared - weightlessness had given way to darkness.

After a few minutes had passed, the courier did his best to comfort after rousing her with a cold damp cloth. Nevertheless there were no more words worth uttering. There was only the brilliant day, oblivious to the gravity of her family’s sacrifice. Trudging back to Cheydinhal proper, alone in her thoughts yet surrounded by those content and unaware, she grew angrier amid her shock and grief.

As her mother opened the sturdy wooden door to greet her, she wondered to herself how she would tell her. How she would tell her sisters. And if Heron, camped out with the army in snowy Skyrim, had any idea that his father’s bones lay unclaimed somewhere in that land.

…………..​

Penelope awoke with a gasp in the darkness, fresh tears lining her cheeks. Memories: they were yet too raw to recede in their power to rouse her from even the deepest slumber. Not always would her dreams be so complete in their reflection; sometimes she would see only her parent’s silhouette, which would grow smaller with increased distance. No matter how long she chased after him, beckoned to him with desperate hands outstretched, his shade would fade into the mist. And she would be left alone.

Though she had dashed out of Windhelm and through the pitch-dark night as swiftly as her feet and Kallias’ hooves would take her, the Nightgate Inn soon was an inevitable stopping point. Both horse and rider were exhausted and ravenous in their hunger. Dragon Bridge, the tiny village newly gilded with great promise in her eyes, would remain as it had for centuries at least through the following days - barring an indiscriminate dragon attack, of course. Surely I’ve not earned luck that bad for myself, she mused.

She shivered in the warm bed, chilled even under two sets of thick fur blankets. Lying still, she thought she heard muffled laughter in the main room, no doubt inspired by the ice-cold ale flowing freely from the old kegs. But she paid it little mind. Staring upwards at the ceiling, her mind flitted about, unable to focus on any one concern. She questioned the utility of trying to return to sleep but as she rolled over, she let her tired eyes rest. Sudden thoughts of a certain redheaded Nord’s smile tempered her shivers. And sleep finally reclaimed her as she grinned into her pillow.

 

[Jersey Dagmar]

I quit writing.

Seriously.

 

[Docta Corvina]

That gif is freaking awesome! But seriously, you better not EVER stop writing. Or else. Speaking of, still eager for your chapter!