Spoiler The Bear of Skyrim

  • Welcome to Skyrim Forums! Register now to participate using the 'Sign Up' button on the right. You may now register with your Facebook or Steam account!
  • Hey there, thanks for visiting our fan fiction section. You should only write stories that aren't related to your character's encounters, if you wish to write a story about your character please post an entry in your blog.

    Before reading or writing a story, please make sure to read this thread. Thanks, Guest, and we hope you enjoy this section.

Start Dale

I got 99 problems but a Deadra ain't one.
The truly scary thing is that the very existence of Hemming, Ingun, and Sibbi implies not only that Maven Black-Briar has had sex, but that she has had it at least three times. (I don't think her kids are triplets.)

I wonder who the unlucky father(s) is/are in this relationship. I'm betting it might be Maul.

He is the only male who has the gumption and nerve to complete such an activity with Maven.
 

bulbaquil

...is not Sjadbek, he just runs him.
Well, Maul's one of the few people not named Black-Briar who actually likes Maven.

Oh, plenty of people like her money, don't get me wrong on that, but....
 

Docta Corvina

Well-Known Member
Oh, Maul...I need to get him into my own story. Pen's not a fan, even after he loosens up a bit upon her "getting in good with Brynjolf" lol! :p
 

bulbaquil

...is not Sjadbek, he just runs him.
Oh, Maul...I need to get him into my own story. Pen's not a fan, even after he loosens up a bit upon her "gettung in good with Brynjolf" lol! :p

Well, his manner is rather abrasive. "I don't know you. You in Riften lookin' for trouble? Last thing the Black-Briars need is someone stickin' their necks where they don't belong."

Admittedly, he's an important element of Riften's character, and serves as a quick-and-dirty introduction to the Black-Briars' considerable role in the city, but yeah.
 

bulbaquil

...is not Sjadbek, he just runs him.
Chapter 14: Imperial Retaliation
8th of Second Seed, 4E 204 | 7:20 a.m. | New Balmora, Morrowind
One hundred twenty miles southeast of Riften

Sitting on a bench inside the gritty cornerclub, Hadvar no longer knew what he was to do with himself. Ashamed of what he had become—ever since that day at the Dark Brotherhood Sanctuary in Falkreath Hold he had found it difficult to wage battle against Stormcloaks. It was too hard, too difficult, to think of Ralof’s body lying there on the floor, many of his enemy kinsmen solemnly mourning their fallen brother-in-arms.

And it did hurt Hadvar to see Ralof die, especially like that to an assassin’s blade. Before they’d left Riverwood under Sjadbek’s truce to slaughter the Dark Brotherhood, they’d shared a hearty helping of mead in the Sleeping Giant Inn, bantered and reveled… just like old times. Before Ralof had defected to the Stormcloak side

Hadvar had tried his level best to keep fighting—but his heart was no longer in it. He’d been posted to lead the garrison at Fort Hraggstad, but had let it fall to a force that consisted largely of Sjadbek’s brother Bjaknir leading a gaggle of recent recruits. For some unfathomable reason, the invading Stormcloaks had spared him and let him run—but why? If they had made it all the way to Hraggstad, there was really nowhere left for him to run. Why had they not killed him? To torment him further? But were they really that cruel? All things considered, Sjadbek was a gentle-hearted man, and Bjaknir couldn’t have been that much more bitter.

He’d run to Riften, and beyond. He couldn’t fight anyone but himself anymore. He crossed the border into Morrowind, the ancestral home of the dark elves many of his Imperial soldiers claimed were being adversely treated in Windhelm, and set himself up as a mercenary in New Balmora.

New Balmora was a small city set up about twenty years after the Red Mountain eruption, situated on the shore of the mainland looking out at the ash and soot heap barely inching its way back to habitability that was Vvardenfell. Like most of Morrowind nowadays, it was under the control of the Argonians. Hadvar didn’t know how true the rumors of Stormcloak maltreatment of the Dunmer in Windhelm, but it surely couldn’t be as bad as the way the Argonians treated the Dunmer here in their own homeland.

And he had to go along with it, because he couldn’t afford it otherwise. The Dunmer couldn’t afford to pay him enough—and it wasn’t a matter of overcharging; Hadvar literally would not be able to survive on what the Dunmer here could afford to pay. And it was heartbreaking.

But who was he to judge? After all, he’d killed many of his kinsmen in battle, consigned several more to execution… but who was he fighting for? A soldier whose cause had been ripped away; a mercenary hating every atrocity he committed even as he committed them for the sake of another meal and ale? How had he managed to perform his last task as “admirably” as he had—escorting the Argonian Jeroo-Shei, who Hadvar suspected might have even been a vampire, and making sure the slaves he was transporting to Narsis were kept “in line”?

No. Enough of this. This was not his way. Nords hadn’t kept slaves since Tiber Septim. Even the Argonians at the Windhelm docks received proper pay, however poor it may have been.

---
18th of Sun’s Height, 4E 204 | 3:45 p.m. | Forty-three miles southwest of Stros M’Kai

“Phynaster smite Hammerfell!” Ondolemar yelled in annoyed fatigue as the lookout announced the appearance of the third pirate ship on the voyage from Evermor. He had managed to make it out of Markarth two years ago when the news came of its transfer to Stormcloak hands—they would not tolerate the overt presence of Thalmor agents in their cities, even if it did mean the resumed blasphemous public worship of the non-deity Talos—and had sought refuge with Elenwen in the Thalmor Embassy until Ulfric—High King Ulfric—finally decided in Frostfall of the previous year that he was no longer interested in entertaining Thalmor visitors.

It had taken a few months in the safety of High Rock—still Imperial for now, but that couldn’t last long—for Elenwen and her staff to secure passage back to Alinor. Unfortunately, said passage would of necessity have to be by ship, and maritime transport inevitably carried risk of pirate attacks, particularly as the transport would pass by Hammerfell. Elenwen had weighed the possibility of asking the ship to go the long way around, but her assistant Brydwen dissuaded her from this notion on a gentle reminder that this would take her right back past Skyrim.

The unwanted Redguard vessel approached from the starboard side of the Dominion ship—the weaker, less defensible side, preparing to make a broadsides pass.

“Maybe it will not attack,” suggested Tielmyn, an impetuous Thalmor agent whose youth—he was hardly seventy—betrayed an undying optimism that not even a far-too-premature resolution of Skyrim’s civil war would dampen.

“Same colors, same sails,” Elenwen countered, sighing before suddenly roaring, “Three plagues on Ulfric and Sjadbek!”

“What do they have to do with this?” Tielmyn asked.

“You know full well,” she said menacingly. The Dragonborn’s involvement in the civil war had changed everything. The Aldmeri Dominion boasted high numbers and extreme power, but that was a bluff—a propaganda campaign to keep Elsweyr from defecting, or the Imperial border patrols from marching straight into Valenwood. Elenwen knew the real numbers. More Altmer and Bosmer had died in the Great War than the Emperor knew, and certainly more than Skyrim knew. It didn’t help that in the time it took an Altmer or Bosmer to reach adulthood, a Nord, Redguard, or Imperial born at the same time had children who were reaching adulthood. To be sure, Mer lived a long time, but the sword or arrow made no distinction whether its victim was thirty or three hundred years old.

Sjadbek had screwed up the plan in an absurd number of ways. The intent was always to keep the martial Nords distracted fighting each other, so they could not lend a hand on the invasion of Cyrodiil slated for 4E 210. Even if they decided the war in, say, 208, they would not have had time to recover. But that didn’t happen—the war terminated in the spring of 203, and with a six-month armistice not long preceding. Ulfric would have seven years to recover and rebuild before they even invaded Cyrodiil—let alone Skyrim.

Ondolemar, recognizing the infernal object of the conversation, pulled out a wooden etching of the Nord, beard painstakingly carved out of the Valenwood mahogany, then let loose a shock spell.

“Save that for the pirates!” Elenwen advised.

“Of course,” Ondolemar affirmed, ceasing the lightning bolts as the ship captain yelled at his crew to prepare for battle.

---
6th of Morning Star, 4E 205 | 7:20 a.m. | Hjerim, Windhelm

Two-year-old Bakdur happily rose from his slumber—young Nord children, bursting with energy, certainly didn’t want to sleep any longer than was absolutely necessary. There was so much to discover, after all. Like what a Khajiit was, what Daddy’s mead tasted like, and why the High King had all that hair between his nose and mouth. Did all High Kings have to have hair between their nose and mouth?

But in order to do this, he would need to conquer his age-old nemesis: Stairs. Specifically, descending them unassisted. He knew it was possible; Mommy and Daddy and his aunt and uncle did it all the time. Carefully, trying to avoid manipulating himself downward with the banister to the extent possible, he took a step down, leading with his left foot, then his right foot.

Good. Stable. Success. He hadn’t stumbled and tumbled down the stairs and contracted an owie. That would have been bad.

Now for the next step. So far, so good. Bakdur had managed to make it to only three steps remaining before he stumbled. He reached out instinctively for the banister, and managed to regain balance and control. It felt like cheating, but that was what the banister was there for. Recovering, he descended the remaining steps, triumphantly alighting on the lower floor of the house.

He had conquered the stairs. Next, the Thalmor…whatever they were. But nobody seemed to like them, so they must have been very bad people.

Bjaknir and his wife Mirska sat at the table with Calder already, eating breakfast. Mirska was four months pregnant with who would become Bakdur’s cousin, and needed to eat more than usual. Fortunately, fish were plentiful here at the mouth of the White River, and of course Eastmarch was full of fertile farms. Windhelm, in fact, was about the only particularly inhospitable part of the hold, so it had made sense for Ysgramor to build the ancient city there.

“You made it down the stairs all by yourself?” Bjaknir asked Bakdur, somewhat surprised to see the child down without Skelja or Sjadbek.

“Uh-huh,” Bakdur responded, a huge grin on his face. “And I only one time the baws.”

“You only needed to use the bars one time?” his uncle rephrased. Banister was a difficult enough word to begin with.

“I’m so proud of you,” came a feminine voice from back in the stairwell, which Bakdur quickly identified.

“Mommy!” the two-year-old happily intoned, making his way back to the stairs as Skelja descended them, closely followed by Sjadbek.

The latter approached his brother with parchment in hand. “Letter to Bersi Honey-Hand in Riften I need to send off,” Sjadbek explained.

“About the dividend cut?” Mirska inquired. Some of the reward money given to Bjaknir and Sjadbek in the High Hrothgar truce had been invested in Bersi’s shop in Riften in return for regular dividends from the profits, which amounted to about 130 septims every three months. This quarter the proceeds were only 95 septims.

“Yes,” the Dragonborn admitted. “I hope it’s something minor and transient like slower-than-normal sales. Last thing I want is the Black-Briars on his back.” Being outspoken against the Guild, Bersi was ever at risk from them. The Stormblades were safe—Penelope had assured them of that, pointing out the “danger” and “protected” shadowmark indicators that had been etched beside the door to Hjerim.

Sjadbek left the house, glancing at said shadowmarks on his way out, and made his way to the courier service. He sent his letter off to Riften, and turned to leave as another customer entered.

“Brunwulf!” he identified.

“Always good to see you, friend,” Brunwulf Free-Winter greeted. Pushing seventy, the city’s primary defender of the Dunmer and Argonians remained good-natured and hearty. “How is the drainage diversion coming?”

One of the more common complaints of the Dunmer was that because of the way the city sloped downward to the east, the eastern Gray Quarter was riddled with not only its own residue but also the sewage from uptown. “On schedule,” Sjadbek provided. “Not as though anyone’s using Calixto’s old house anymore.”

“You have mail, Brunwulf,” the Cyrodilic postal attendant announced.

“Do I?” the elderly Nord confirmed as he retrieved and read it. “Oh, my… this is not good. Jarl Vignar is dead.”

“Of old age?” Sjadbek asked, looking concerned. Vignar was now a full seventy-five, after all.

“No. Murdered.”

“By whom?”

“Poisoned dagger… blood-stained hand… but I thought you destroyed them.”

“I thought I did too,” Sjadbek thought. “If the Dark Brotherhood is still operating… the High King needs to know about this right away. Does the letter say who’s running Whiterun now?”

“It doesn’t,” Brunwulf admitted. “They haven’t quite yet decided. But they’ll let me know. For some reason they seem to think I should know about these things.”

---
13th of Sun’s Dawn, 4E 205 | 10:50 a.m. | Windhelm Guard Training Facility

“Burdnar,” Sjadbek muttered as he entered the armory. “Burdnar!”

The thirty-two-year-old mercenary-turned-guard leader responded to his call, stopping the training exercise he was currently in. If Sjadbek wanted him, it probably was important. “What is it?”

“We’ve got a lead on the Dark Brotherhood. They’re back in Cheydinhal, their old stomping grounds.”

“Why in Oblivion would they go back there? I thought the Legion broke them back in ’93; it’s only been twelve years and…?”

“That’s just what I’ve heard.”

“You want to go, don’t you,” Burdnar grunted. “You know it’s in Cyrodiil, don’t you?”

“I know. For all I know we won’t even be allowed past the border,” Sjadbek admitted.

“Have you talked about this with Skelja?”

“Of course I have talked about it with Skelja. If the Dark Brotherhood is still around, it’s only a matter of time before they come after me again. They can get people from Cyrodiil to Skyrim—easiest way would be to sneak a Dunmer and Argonian into Morrowind, have them make their way northward in Morrowind as a Dunmer slave, then have the Dunmer ‘escape’ into Skyrim.” Some of his comrades may not have liked the Dunmer, but fourth-era Nords of Skyrim were not in the habit of slave-driving—the Argonians who ruled Morrowind these days were. That was why Sjadbek had been trying to improve the Gray Quarter—he wanted it to actually be a haven for the refugees, not just a marginal improvement.

“I suppose you’re right,” Burdnar replied. “I’ll go with you. You’ll need a shield-brother anyway.”

“You’ve been a good friend to me, Burdnar, but we’re talking about—”

“I know the risk,” he rebuffed. “I’m willing to assume it. You may be Dragonborn, but you’re not going to take out even a reduced Dark Brotherhood alone.”

“Then let’s be off.”

---
24th of Sun’s Dawn, 4E 205 | 9:20 p.m. | Cheydinhal, Cyrodiil

In actuality, they hadn’t left Windhelm until the next day—Burdnar still had to gather up his gear, after all—but the trip to Cyrodiil had been surprisingly straightforward. Even though the Emperor still had not recognized Skyrim’s independence nearly two years after the cessation of hostilities, the border passage was largely a matter of 250 septims for each of them, which they could easily afford.

Sjadbek had actually said “Long live the Empire” to an Imperial guard he passed, and meant it. The alternative meant a fallen Cyrodiil, and the only thing Cyrodiil would reasonably fall to would be the Aldmeri Dominion. As the Aldmeri Dominion didn’t have a right to exist in the first place, it would have been very bad indeed for all Cyrodiil to fall to them.

Cheydinhal had a dark-elven air to it: The city’s reasonably close proximity to the eastern border meant that its architecture and culture were heavily influenced by Morrowind, and in fact there were a great deal of Dunmer refugees here as well as in Riften and Windhelm. So this is where Penelope and her family were from… Sjadbek vaguely wondered if they were here somewhere, or still in Riften. He surmised the latter, given that Skyrim’s independence had still not yet been recognized and therefore that they were technically “prisoners of war” (though ones with considerable freedom).

They navigated the streets of the Cyrodilic city until they came across the nearest tavern. “Two flagons mead, if you have any,” Sjadbek ordered, placing the requisite payment on the counter. “Any rumors of interest?”

“Heh, I’ve never heard a thicker Skyrim accent in my life,” the bartender commented. “Count Farwil Indarys is hiring more guards, if you’re interested. Also issued an edict banning Argonians from the city—too many slavers trying to take Dunmer captives, and as you can imagine a Dunmer count doesn’t look too fondly on that.”

Sjadbek wondered if that had been the same motivation behind keeping Argonians out of Windhelm proper. “Anything of a more sinister nature? Bandits I can kill for a bounty? Rogues? Thieves? Dark Brotherhood assassins?”

“Hmm… no news on that front has come today, but I will check with everyone in the morning.”

---
25th of Sun’s Dawn, 4E 205 | 1:35 a.m. | Cheydinhal, Cyrodiil

The changing of the guard was in full swing. As the captain of Cheydinhal’s midnight-to-noon shift, Rodavius Randilus had finished ensuring that all the guards were in their proper places and was now on his way to the taverns for reconnaissance and news. Tavern service proper ceased at one-thirty, and the evening cleanup process was now underway.

“Anything or anyone I should know about?” Rodavius asked the bartender, in keeping with his custom. The bars tended to attract unsavory or adventuresome types from time to time, and he considered it part of his duty to Cheydinhal and to the Imperial Legion to keep himself abreast of such things. Unsavory types needed to be watched more closely, after all.

“A couple burly Nord brutes came in today. One blond, one brown-haired. Mid, late twenties, if I had to guess. Strong Nordic accents, especially the blond one, and it didn’t sound like the Riften accent either. They wanted mead.”

“Is that all? Surely Skyrim has not run out of mead.” Rodavius laughed at the patent absurdity of such a notion. “Why come all the way to Cyrodiil for it?”

“They asked about rumors ‘of a sinister nature.’ Specifically mentioned Dark Brotherhood assassins.”

“How… very interesting.” If the Nords were who Randilus thought they were, and the description seemed to corroborate that, then his little plan had worked, and had worked beautifully. “Keep them here another night. Do whatever you must.”

Rodavius knew Skyrim all too well. He’d come to Fort Helgen in the spring of 198 as the rebellion was picking up steam, and had made it his personal effort to crack down on dissent against the Empire. Their fort couldn’t operate properly with more than half the citizens supporting the Stormcloaks after all.

The tactics he used had been decried by some of his comrades as heavy-handed. They had to be, Rodavius countered, because they were dealing with Nords here rather than Imperials. At heart they were still filthy fur-clad barbarians, living in a land that was harsh and violent. Harshness and violence were the only language they understood. Why could the other Imperials not grasp this simple concept?

Sjadbek Steirsson was the worst of them, of course. He caused enough trouble that ultimately, he had to persuade others to intervene to get him sent off to jail for half a year. Of course, his lover Berdja had to pipe up, and it pleased Rodavius to no end to see Sjadbek shed tears as the executioner chopped off her head.

Then, of course, the dragon had attacked, which had kind of thrown off everything. He didn’t know how, but Sjadbek had to be behind it, and the whole dovahkiin thing only served to further his point. Rodavius had, after reporting to Solitude, been reassigned to guard Fort Sungard, in the butt-end of Skyrim, as far away from any form of civilization that wasn’t Rorikstead as one could possibly get.

And then Sjadbek had gone and screwed that up with his little “peace agreement”! He had to withdraw from Fort Sungard and make his way to a dinky Legion camp in Falkreath, where he stayed, completely unable to even legally touch the “Dragonborn” for six months, after which time the Stormcloaks launched a heartwrenching blitz and took Solitude itself within three months.

In Last Seed 203, Rodavius had been demoted from Praefect to Quaestor and reassigned to managing the guard in Cheydinhal—an Imperial city with far more Dunmer than Nords and zero probability of rebellion. How far down he had come. He’d spent every moment of spare time up to this point trying to lure Sjadbek here… and if he was right, if he was right it meant he had succeeded.

The other Nord was either Hedrik or Burdnar, and given that Hedrik had never been what Rodavius would think of as “burly” or “brutish”, that meant Burdnar. He could be dealt with as a common prisoner. No doubt a few months on an Imperial chain gang would do him well. But Sjadbek… Sjadbek was special. He deserved special treatment. He also couldn’t be approached in the same way, or Rodavius would find himself fus ro dah’d into Oblivion.

Keep them here, barkeep. Just one more day.
 

Docta Corvina

Well-Known Member
Oh snaaaaap! :eek: Hadvar, poor thing. I wanna hug him so much. One of my favorites. <3 And oh boy, Cheydinhal! Had no idea that would be popping up, Bulba! xD

You remain one of the most talented writers I've ever read. And that's a fact. :)
 

bulbaquil

...is not Sjadbek, he just runs him.
Tentative plotline Bjaknir rescue quest (for non-Sjadbek characters :) )

---WORK IN PROGRESS!---

NPCs added:

Sjadbek
- found at Whiterun Stormcloak Camp (neutral Whiterun), Fort Greymoor (Stormcloak Whiterun, Imperial Solitude), or Sjadbek's Hut (house addon in Kynesgrove) (Stormcloak Solitude)
- will disappear from game after Defense of Whiterun (Imperial), auto-failing the quest if active - assumed he died attacking whiterun
- wears stormcloak gear, scaled helmet, steel sword and carries Nord Mead x8 & Yrsarald's Letter to Sjadbek

Bjaknir
- found in a "requires key" level locked adjunct cell to Fort Snowhawk Prison (Imperial Hjaalmarch), Fort Greymoor (Stormcloak Hjaalmarch & Whiterun, Imperial Solitude), Whiterun Stormcloak Camp (Stormcloak Hjaalmarch, neutral Whiterun [Season Unending]) or Sjadbek's Hut (Stormcloak Solitude)
- wears prisoner's gear and is bound

Rodavius Randilus
- found in Fort Snowhawk upon initiation of quest
- wears imperial heavy armor, carries 1-10 gold and "Bjaknir's Cell Key" :)

Items/Locations added:
- Bjaknir's Cell Key
- an additional prisoners chest in fort snowhawk and possibly a new annex

Quest objectives:

STAGE 0
You start the quest by talking to Sjadbek before the Stormcloaks take Hjaalmarch (by any means, including Season Unending).

--Dialogue sequence, player has not talked with Sjadbek before --
Sjadbek (Player Not In Stormcloaks): "You're an adventurer, aren't you? Would you mind helping me out?" (Choices: A1, A2)
Sjadbek (Player In Stormcloaks [has killed ice wraith]): "Hey, $PlayerStormcloakRank. Mind helping a fellow son of Skyrim out?" (Choices: A1, A2)
Choice A1: "I might. What is it you want?"
Choice A2: "I'm sorry, I can't."
Sjad Response A1: "My brother Bjaknir - the Imperials have kept him locked up in Fort Snowhawk up in Hjaalmarch for two years now. I can't leave my post, and I want you to spring him." (Choices: A3, A4, A2)
Sjad Response A2: "Well, come see me if you change your mind." (terminate conversation)
Choice A3: "I'll do it."
Choice A4: "What's in it for me?"
Sjad Response A3: "Great. Let me show you where you'll need to go." (start quest, add Fort Snowhawk to map, update quest to stage 10)
Sjad Response A4 (Player Not in Stormcloaks): "Oh, you'll be rewarded. Don't worry about that. Here, let me show you where you'll need to go." (start quest, add Fort Snowhawk to map, update quest to stage 10)
Sjad Response A4 (Player In Stormcloaks): "A few more Legion heads mounted on your wall, another comrade... and perhaps a bit of gold from me. Here, let me show you where you'll need to go." (start quest, add Fort Snowhawk to map, update quest to stage 10)

-- Dialogue sequence, player has rebuffed Sjadbek's quest --
Sjadbek: "Change your mind, {$PlayerStormcloakRank if player in stormcloaks, $PlayerRace if not}?" (Choices: B1, B2)
Choice B1: "Yeah, I'll do it." (Sjad Response A3)
Choice B2: "What did you want again?" (Sjad Response A1)
Choice B3: "No, sorry." (Sjad Response A2)

STAGE 10
Journal Entry: "I will help Sjadbek liberate Bjaknir from Imperial control." (heh)
Objective: Find Bjaknir
Quest Marker: Bjaknir

-- If you talk to Sjadbek while this stage is active --
Sjadbek: "Best of luck in your quest. Talos guide you."

As soon as this stage is triggered, the bandit necromancers who normally occupy Fort Snowhawk will be replaced by Imperial soldiers (as though the Fort Snowhawk battle has concluded for the Imperials). Rodavius Randilus will spawn in the Fort Snowhawk interior (not Fort Snowhawk Prison).

You talk to Bjaknir, at the front of his cell (conversation auto-triggered upon approach).

Bjaknir: "Who are you? Are you one of us?" (Choices: C1)
Choice C1 (player not in Stormcloaks): "I'm a friend. Sjadbek sent me to rescue you."
Choice C1 (player in Stormcloaks): "Ulfric calls me $PlayerStormcloakTitle. Sjadbek sent me to rescue you."
Bjaknir Response C1: "Good. But... this isn't the type of lock that can be picked. Believe me, I've tried. You're going to need the key for that." (Choices: C2)
Choice C2: "Do you know where the key is?"
Bjaknir Response C2: "[said angrily and mockingly] Rodavius Randilus, Praefect of the Legion, [said normally] - The fort commander. I know he has a key to this cell, because he loves to come in and beat me up all the time." (IF YOU HAVE ALREADY GOTTEN THE KEY by pickpocketing or killing Rodavius before talking to Bjaknir, Choice C3; otherwise, C4)
Choice C3: "Is this the key?"
Choice C4: "I'll get the key from him."
Bjaknir Response C3 (player not in Stormcloaks): "[pleased] Hah, you already got it? You're definitely Stormcloak material, friend. Let's hurry and get me out of here." (update quest to stage 40)
Bjaknir Response C3 (player in Stormcloaks): "[pleased] Hah, you already got it? I can see why Galmar let you in. Let's hurry and get me out of here. (update quest to stage 40)
Bjaknir Response C4: "All right. [exasperated] Not like I'm going anywhere." (update quest to stage 20)

STAGE 20
Journal Entry: "I found Bjaknir, but he can't escape without the cell key, held by Rodavius Randilus the fort commander."
Objective: Acquire the cell key from Rodavius Randilus
Quest Marker: Rodavius Randilus

The key is on Rodavius's person, in his inventory. It can be acquired in one of three ways:
- Pickpocketing
- Killing and looting
- Passing a persuade/bribe/intimidate check

If you are a Stormcloak, Rodavius and the other Imperials are likely to be hostile, so pickpocket/speech check is unlikely. Rodavius will not follow you outside the interior of Fort Snowhawk.

If you pickpocket the key from him, the quest updates to stage 34.
If you kill and loot him, the quest updates to stage 35.

If you do the speech check, the conversation is as follows:

Rodavius: "I'm a bit busy running the fort. What do you want?" (Choice: D1)
Choice D1: "I want the key to Bjaknir's cell."
Rodavius Response D1: "Do you really think the Legion is in the habit of just giving any smelly adventurer the keys to our prisoners' cells?" (Choices: D2, D3, D4, D5)
Choice D2: "General Tullius's orders. (Lie) (Persuade)" (should require speech ~75)
Choice D3: "Maybe a bit of gold would help? (Bribe)"
Choice D4: "Then make an exception. (Intimidate)" (should require speech ~65)
Choice D5: "Right. Forget I asked." (terminate conversation)
Rodavius Response D2 Success: "Well, if he insists... Here you are. Put in a good word with the General for me, will you?" (Rodavius gives player Bjaknir's Cell Key, update quest to stage 21)
Rodavius Response D2 Failure: "Hah. You really think I'd believe that? Nice try." (terminate conversation)
Rodavius Response D3 Success: "Yes, yes it would. Here you are. I'll have a good meal tomorrow, that's for sure." (Rodavius gives player Bjaknir's Cell Key, update quest to stage 32)
Rodavius Response D3 Failure: "Not enough gold to persuade me to hand it over, I'm afraid." (terminate conversation)
Rodavius Response D4 Success: "Okay, there is no need for that. But only Bjaknir's cell." (Rodavius gives player Bjaknir's Cell Key, update quest to stage 33)
Rodavius Response D4 Failure: "I have an entire fort of soldiers at my disposal. You do not scare me." (terminate conversation)

STAGE 31, 32, 33, 34, 35

The only difference between these three stages is how you actually got the key.

Journal Entry: - 31: "I successfully persuaded Rodavius Randilus into giving me Bjaknir's cell key."
- 32: "I successfully bribed Rodavius Randilus into giving me Bjaknir's cell key."
- 33: "I successfully intimidated Rodavius Randilus into giving me Bjaknir's cell key."
- 34: "I successfully pickpocketed Bjaknir's cell key from Rodavius Randilus."
- 35: "I killed Rodavius Randilus and looted Bjaknir's cell key from his corpse."
Objective: Release Bjaknir
Quest Marker: Bjaknir's cell door.

Return to Bjaknir. If you talk to him before opening the cell door, he will simply say "Rodavius has the key."

Unlock the cell door with the key; this updates the quest to stage 40 and Bjaknir will auto-start conversation.

STAGE 40

Journal Entry: "I have freed Bjaknir from his cell, but must still get him out of Fort Snowhawk."
Objective: Lead Bjaknir to safety
Quest Marker: None

Auto-started conversation:
Bjaknir: "Thanks for getting me out of the cell. I'd much rather be fighting with my brothers than sitting here to rot. But we've got to get out of the fort first." (Choices: E1, E2)
Choice E1: "Let's go." (Bjaknir starts following you as a quest-specific follower a la Thorald Gray-Mane)
Choice E2: "Hang on, I'm not done yet here."

If you chose choice E2, when you come back to Bjaknir he will say:
Bjaknir: "We've got to get out of here." (Choices: E1, E2)

Another conversation will auto-start as soon as fast travel is enabled (i.e. once the player and Bjaknir are safe, which may be as quickly as exiting the Fort Snowhawk interior) OR as soon as the player is out of the five exterior cells that comprise the "FortSnowhawkLocation" in the "Tamriel" worldspace AND there are no enemies around (this is to ensure compatibility with mods that disable fast travel situationally or globally).

Auto-started conversation 2:
Bjaknir: "Great work. You really saved my hide; I wasn't looking forward to another beating. It looks like we're safe now. I can make it from here. Best of luck and Talos guide you." (update quest to stage 50)

STAGE 50, 51, 52

Stage 50 occurs if you do the quest normally.

Journal Entry: "I have rescued Bjaknir from Fort Snowhawk, and must return to Sjadbek with the news."
Objective: "Return to Sjadbek"
Quest Marker: Sjadbek

Stage 51 occurs if the player liberates Hjaalmarch through battle while the quest is active.

Journal Entry: "By taking over Fort Snowhawk, I have rescued Sjadbek's brother Bjaknir, and must return to Sjadbek for my reward."
Objective: "Return to Sjadbek"
Quest Marker: Sjadbek

Stage 52 occurs if Hjaalmarch falls into Stormcloak custody via negotiation in "Season Unending."

Journal Entry: "The exchange of Hjaalmarch in the armistice at High Hrothgar means that Fort Snowhawk is now controlled by Stormcloak forces. As such, I have rescued Sjadbek's brother Bjaknir, and must return to Sjadbek for my reward."
Objective: "Return to Sjadbek"
Quest Marker: Sjadbek

Return to wherever Sjadbek is and talk to him.

Sjadbek: "Best of luck in your quest. Talos guide you." (Choice: F1)
Choice F1: "Bjaknir is free."
Sjadbek: "Is he really? By Stuhn, you did it! I can't wait to see him again. Here, let me give you something in return. Got these off an Imperial I killed last month." (Player Light Armor skill increases by 1, player receives a leveled set of light-armor bracers and boots.) (update quest to stage (50+current stage))

STAGE 100, 101, 102 - COMPLETION STAGES

Stage 100 is attained by completing the quest normally.

Journal Entry: "I have rescued Sjadbek's brother Bjaknir from Fort Snowhawk, and have been rewarded for my troubles."
Objective: [Finishes Quest]

Stage 101 is achieved if the player liberates Hjaalmarch through battle while the quest is active.

Journal Entry: "By taking over Fort Snowhawk with the Stormcloaks, I have rescued Sjadbek's brother Bjaknir from Fort Snowhawk, have been rewarded for my troubles.

Stage 102 is achieved if Hjaalmarch falls into Stormcloak custody via negotiation in "Season Unending."

"The exchange of Hjaalmarch in the armistice at High Hrothgar means that Fort Snowhawk is now controlled by Stormcloak forces. As such, I have rescued Sjadbek's brother Bjaknir, and have been rewarded for my troubles."

Bjaknir will now start walking to wherever his AI tells him he should be (i.e. with Sjadbek).

STAGE 199 - FAILURE STAGE

It is possible to start the quest and then take the Imperial side in the war. If you do this and complete the Battle for Whiterun on the Imperial side, Sjadbek will disappear from the game and cause this quest to fail.

Journal Entry: "Sjadbek has died in the Stormcloaks' failed assault on Whiterun, possibly by my hand. To free Bjaknir would now be a breach of my oath to the Legion, and at any rate I can no longer obtain Sjadbek's reward."


SJADBEK AND BJAKNIR'S BEHAVIOR AFTER THE WAR

After completing the war for the Stormcloaks, both Sjadbek and Bjaknir will become potential followers and spouses. They will, however, lose their essential status upon completion of the questline, with it replaced by a protected status.

It is possible to start and complete the quest as a neutral character, then join the Legion with Bjaknir already freed. Owing to considerable maltreatment by the guards at Fort Snowhawk, Bjaknir is much more bitter about the Legion than Sjadbek is, and will be resentful of you even though you freed him.

When the Imperials take Whiterun, a freed Bjaknir will retreat to Sjadbek's Hut in Eastmarch and will become non-responsive unfriendly ("What do you want, milk-drinker?").

When the Imperials take Windhelm, Bjaknir will obtain a new dialogue tree as follows:

Bjaknir: "Are you happy now, milk-drinker?" (Choices: G1, G2, G3)
Choice G1: "You bet I am."
Choice G2: "About what?"
Choice G3: "Not really..."
Bjaknir Response G1 (player is not Nord): "Figures you would be. Now you and your little Thalmor friends will get to dominate us forever. You here to mock me, $PlayerRace? Extort money from me? Arrest me on trumped up charges?" (Choices: G4, G5)
Bjaknir Response G1 (player is Nord): "Figures you would be. Betraying your own people for the cause of an Empire that's already dead. You here to mock me, 'kinsman'? Extort money from me? Arrest me on trumped up charges?" (Choices: G4, G5)
Bjaknir Response G2: "The war, you fool. You won. Ulfric's dead. Are you happy?" (Choices: G1, G3)
Bjaknir Response G3: "Feeling a bit regretful, are you? You should. You just handed Skyrim to the Thalmor on a silver platter. Leave me now - before I do something I might regret." (Terminate conversation)
Choice G4: "Nothing of that sort!"
Choice G5: "Actually, I am."
Bjaknir Response G4: "Then leave me now, before I do something I might regret." (Terminate conversation)
Bjaknir Response G5: "Over my dead body you are!" (Terminate conversation, Bjaknir ATTACKS)
 

bulbaquil

...is not Sjadbek, he just runs him.
Dang, Bulba, you are hardcore! :p I should do one of these as well. Though, I'd never be able to choose what to start with! :eek:

Heh, yeah. I'm not sure how you'd start a Kathodos-themed quest either :)

I finished my outline for a Bjaknir questline. Decided to add a little flair by making things you do after the questline matter :)
 

bulbaquil

...is not Sjadbek, he just runs him.
READER ADVISORY: This chapter contains a ritual sacrifice scene which may be disturbing to some readers. If you do not want to read this, when you reach the headline for the "28th of Second Seed, 4E 205" use Ctrl-F and search for "21st of Evening Star, 4E 205".
Chapter 15: Magistrix Falmerorum
27th of Sun’s Dawn, 4E 205 | 6:25 a.m. | Cheydinhal, Cyrodiil
Something about that mead had been a little off, but neither Sjadbek nor Burdnar had the mental inclination to think about it. Mead was mead, after all, and he was expecting to have to swill down unpleasant-tasting Cyrodilic ale. They’d swigged three mugs apiece before turning in to bed—it had been strong stuff. Much stronger than Black-Briar standard.

Sjadbek’s eyes blinked as he stirred back into awakening. He had a splitting headache—how strong was that stuff?—and no doubt a massive hangover to come this morning. He also felt as though he was paralyzed, and then suddenly felt as though a tomato had just hit him in the face.

Tomato?

A few more seconds allowed context to re-enter his mind. I’m in the stocks. But why? What in Oblivion could he possibly have done that night? He tried to ask someone, but no words would come out. Of course—it was no secret that Sjadbek’s Voice was as deadly a weapon as anything he could hold in his hands.

“Good morning, boys,” came an awfully familiar voice.

“Rodavius Randilus,” Burdnar growled. “What brings you here?”

“I live here, Halvikson,” Rodavius responded as Sjadbek made a muffled growl. Nord names do not work that way!

“Are we under arrest, Randilus,” asked Burdnar, wanting to figure out just why they were in the stocks, “and if so, then for what?”

“Treason against the Empire, of course. You should know that all too well, Halvikson.”

“Nord names don’t work that way,” Burdnar responded, echoing Sjadbek’s unspoken thoughts. “Shouldn’t we be on the chopping block, then, not in the stocks?”

“If I had my way, you would be,” Randilus growled, “especially Steirsson, but alas, the Emperor has decided against it. You are to be escorted under heavy guard to the Imperial City, where the Legion will deal with you according to however it sees fit to.”

A contingent of guards showed up later that morning to transport them. Sjadbek and Burdnar were roughly and tightly bound, and made to walk along the roads of Cyrodiil to what they felt had to be certain doom.

_illustration_chapter15.png

As they marched along the cold stone pavement of Cyrodiil westward to the Imperial City, Sjadbek’s heart filled with dread. If they did chop his head off—Skelja would never see him again. Bakdur would have hardly known his father; fortunately, Bjaknir would be able to raise him, and Sjadbek at least was confident that Bjaknir would do well. He’d made sure he’d turned out all right, after all.

Was it his place to die in the Imperial City, so far from home, at the hands of an enemy he’d thought forgotten? How he so desperately longed to be back in the security of Skyrim right now, among familiar lands and friendly faces… was getting rid of an already marginalized assassin’s guild worth it?

Stendarr, he prayed, can my service to Skyrim be done already?

Amidst the howling winds of the late winter, Sjadbek could have sworn he heard Stendarr reply.
---
27th of First Seed, 4E 205 | Between midnight and 3 a.m. | Imperial Prison, Cyrodiil
Sjadbek’s Imprisonment, Day 24

Sjadbek woke fitfully on the small and uncomfortable hay pile that constituted his bed, situated in the back of a cell quite a bit smaller than that of Falkreath’s jail. It was between midnight and three in the morning. He could tell this for a fact because of the way the guard cycle worked: Sjadbek had eight guards assigned to him, four at a time, with one rotating off shift every three hours. Two were Orcs (and both of them nasty ones at that), three were Imperials, one was a soft-spoken Bosmer mage, and the other two, surprisingly, were Nords.

Admittedly he was a bit surprised they allowed Nords to guard him, but they were a warrior race, after all, and certainly Felgund Limb-Splitter, on duty from noon to midnight, lived up to his name. The other Nord guard, Stalgir Brown-Hawk, Sjadbek rather liked. He was on duty from 9 p.m. to 9 a.m., and occasionally woke him up in the 3 a.m. – 6 a.m. period when only he, the Breton mage, and a couple Imperials were on duty for a couple sips of mead. That was the best time of day.

The opposite period, 3 p.m. to 6 p.m. – that was absolutely brutal. Felgund and both Orcs were on duty at that time, and they absolutely loved tormenting and humiliating him—sometimes by ordinary beating, sometimes by insulting him in whatever way they saw fit, sometimes by doing something like knocking over his waste bucket and making him pick up the residuals.

It wasn’t as if he could Shout them away, either. Apparently the Imperial tinkerers and enchanters had come up with a voice-suppressing collar that the guards had locked around his neck. The best he could speak was in a hoarse and raspy whisper as his vocal cords simply refused to cooperate.

He vaguely wondered how Burdnar, who’d been sentenced to nineteen months hard labor (“one for every month between the time you joined the Stormcloaks and the time you took over Solitude”) was getting along. The Imperials were honestly a bit scared of Sjadbek and his power, but Burdnar had no special powers to stave off the guards’ full wrath. They were likely working him like a dog, especially given the endurance he’d built up by spending so many years wearing heavy plate armor much of the time.

Talos smite me, he thought to himself as Stalgir the friendly Nord guard made a vaguely sympathetic facial expression towards him. Sjadbek was a child of Skyrim, and should not have left it, Dark Brotherhood or otherwise. And he’d dragged Burdnar into the mix, too. And poor baby Bakdur—when he finally got out of here, his son would be almost as old as he was now.

At least, that’s what Sjadbek thought would be the case.

---
2nd of Second Seed, 4E 205 | 6:05 p.m. | Riften
Sjadbek’s Imprisonment, Day 60

Jarl Maven was pleased to receive the artifact Maul had retrieved from the Imperial adventurer who had been dispatched to wrest it from the barrow southwest of Bruma it was hidden in. The final, twenty-fourth stone of Barenziah, the last of them all. With it, Maven could make the Crown of Barenziah, the legendary artifact that, together with the Eyes of the Falmer and a little help from the daedric prince Boethiah, she would control them. The Falmer. The snow elves.

Maven cradled the ancient Telvanni ritual book in her hands, as she muttered the beginning of the spell she would be casting: Mor namyn belec on tal merethys. It was this book, acquired in an unusually excellent windfall in 197, that had prompted her to get her hands on the stones of Barenziah in the first place. Getting someone to ensure she pronounced the archaic Dunmeris correctly had been an absolute necessity—these rituals tended to be rather punctilious about pronunciation and intonation—but fortunately for her, her connections with the Empire stretched sufficiently far enough to find a Dunmer scholar who specialized in House Telvanni studies who knew how to pronounce the words properly.

Hardly anyone knew that Maven worshipped Boethiah in secret—to the best of her knowledge, only the trustworthy Maul and her children Hemming (the result of a relationship between her and Maul) and Sibbi (the result of a relationship between her and Igmund the former Jarl of Markarth) knew it. She didn’t dare tell Ingun—she might let something slip in the heat of an alchemical experiment—and certainly not Wylandriah; who knows what the scatterbrain would say?

Maul approached Maven, presenting her with the gemstone as though it were a wedding gift. “Number twenty-four.”

“Excellent,” Maven replied. “Now I just need a sacrifice. Hmm… go ask the Guild how much money Bersi Honey-Hand owes them.”

“I thought we weren’t touching Bersi because we didn’t want to anger Sjadbek,” Maul protested.

“Sjadbek now rots in the Imperial Prison, and will be there for nearly twenty years yet. But we do need a pretext. We need a shill job done on Honey-Hand.”

“Who do you suggest?”

“Not the Breton that married Brynjolf; she’s too friendly with the man. How about that dark elf whose name sounds like his?”

“Halsyn Barsi? He’s only been in the Guild for seven months; you really think that—”

“I do really think that. Seven months should be enough experience for a simple shill job on a 56-year-old pawnbroker. We arrest him, then I have him brought up to be sacrificed.”

“How are we going to explain a death sentence for a minor ‘theft’?”

“Death sentence? No, he’s only to be imprisoned three months. The other prisoners beat him to death, of course. Thought the merchant was hiding smuggled mead or skooma. Ordinary jailhouse brawl.”

---
7th of Second Seed, 4E 205 | 7:10 a.m. | Riften
Sjadbek’s Imprisonment, Day 65

The Pawned Prawn’s proprietor awoke later than normal that morning. Riften was weighing heavy on his mind, as it did so often these past two months. Penelope and her family had been a great help in mitigating the excesses of the power-hungry Jarl of Riften, but lately Maven Black-Briar and her sons Hemming and Sibbi had become bolder. Just last week Hemming had come into Bersi’s shop and demanded two hundred septims’ “merchant tax”, to be paid to him right then and there. Everyone else he had talked to claimed the tax was only fifty septims.

A loud knock on the door jolted him fully awake. “All right, Honey-Hand,” a gruff voice shouted from outside. “We know you have it.”

Know I have what? the mild-mannered shopkeeper pondered, before coming to the only logical conclusion: Shill job.

“Don’t try to play dumb with me, Bersi,” the guard replied. “Open this door or we’ll break it down.”

Bersi had absolutely no idea what item the guard was talking about. All he knew was that he’d been shilled. For the hundredth time Riften had proven itself to be corrupt and rotten.

Drifa, Bersi’s wife, tried to plead with them—“No, Bersi wouldn’t do this!”, but was brusquely rebuffed.

“Make whatever excuses you like,” declared the Riften watchman as he placed Bersi in binds. “I see Unmid’s stolen emerald in that sack perfectly well. Just face the facts—Bersi stole it. It’s only three months; it’s not like we’re hauling him away forever.”

Except, of course, that they were. But not even the guards knew it.

---
28th of Second Seed, 4E 205 | 11:30 p.m. | Riften
Sjadbek’s Imprisonment, Day 86

“Is it time?” Maul asked the Jarl of Riften.

“I think… now it is,” Maven responded. Everything was in place, and the Crown of Barenziah was perched atop her head. “Bring him in. Bind and gag him first. We don’t want him to be able to easily inform anyone what is going on.”

A few minutes later and the bewildered merchant found himself marched into the Jarl’s quarters, Maven silkily looking at him. “Bersi, Bersi, Bersi,” she spoke haughtily, patting him on the shoulder, “for too long you have been a thorn in my side. For far too long you have been able to bribe and use your own influence and that of the Dragonborn to cheat the Black-Briar estate and the city of Riften out of your profits.”

The pawnbroker responded only with a shake of his head and a muffled protest. It was all he could say.

“Set him up,” Maven ordered. Maul and Hemming brought Bersi to what appeared to be a sacrificial alter of some sort, with individual single-arm shackles pointing to the northwest and northeast, and individual leg shackles pointing due southwest and southeast. The shopkeeper made a few futile attempts to struggle, but Maul was an experienced brawler (he had, after all, defeated the Dragonborn in a brawl) and was able to subdue him.

“Calm down, Bersi,” Maven insisted in a mockingly pleasant voice as the shackles secured the man, who now stared upward into an octagonal candelabra. “You should consider this an honor—you will play an integral role in supporting my ascendancy into divinity. I always wanted to be a daedric prince. Now, how do I do this again?”

The question was rhetorical, and Maven handed her sons a steel dagger each, enchanted to drain the life force of the assaulted. “Ah, yes, that’s right. By a thousand cuts.”

Maven stood to loom over the thoroughly immobilized Bersi, held the dagger due north, and begin to speak the ancient ritual incantation she had memorized. “Mor namyn belec on tal merethys,” she began. “Melugra ec mora, val vos maruc silyn morobiah. Nal navus redir telmas na Bersi Honey-Hand poral tal merus.”

Sibbi sliced a gash in Bersi’s left arm, just below the elbow, with the dagger; Hemming did the same to Bersi’s right arm. Blood spilled out onto the man’s tunic and altar as Bersi let out a muffled yell.

Per nasil molag mid nabal noro salec,” Maven continued. “Rogan mal niric sybal mor namyn belec on tal merethys. Keruthi beliah nah moric nabal noro salec.” Hemming and Bersi made another gash on their respective sides, this one just above the elbow.

Metan Boethiah! Bar nomal kivec alar, siv net mal kadaric sthylmac!” And another pair of slices at Bersi, these ones right on the shoulder blades.

Pegnil maralis nabal tythenic molag kenthi poryn. Mutag peleg mar nasethi vorynis kelon. Kelon!” As if injuring the merchant wasn’t enough, the ritual required that sprinkles of salt be poured out onto the wounds—they couldn’t be allowed to close before the sacrifice was complete. Is this Boethiah we’re summoning, or Molag Bal?

The ritual then repeated itself, with the gashes being made just below the knee, above the knee, and at the upper thigh respectively rather than on the arms. Bersi’s cries and yells were becoming weaker now as the life ebbed from him.

Suddenly the shackles broke and Bersi stood up. A raspy voice much unlike his own emitted from the now-deceased merchant’s vocal cords, bypassing the gag on his mouth and clearly audible. “Why have you summoned me?”

“It is not you we summon, O Boethiah,” responded Maven as per the ritual, “but your power. Matag furynal kelitac! Let it fill these eyes of wisdom and truth, let it fill the eyes of the Falmer! May they behold me!”

“What—what blasphemy is this?” Boethiah cried through Bersi? “To think you can dictate terms to a daedric prince!”

It was part of the ritual. Maven Black-Briar picked up a polished iron spear set aside for this purpose, and ran Bersi through in the stomach with it. Power flowed along the shaft from Boethiah to Maven as the former howled in agony. A massive lightning storm erupted over Riften, with intensely bright flashes once every five to ten seconds.

Not all of Boethiah’s power had been stored in the vessel that was Maven, of course. But enough of it had. She put on the crown of Barenziah.

“Pull out the battle maps,” Maven demanded as Maul turned to comply. “We have a great deal of planning to do. And dump this”—she kicked Bersi’s corpse—“pathetic milk-drinker in the lake.”

---
21st of Evening Star, 4E 205 | 5:45 a.m. | College of Winterhold
Sjadbek’s Imprisonment, Day 293

Ancano’s position at the College of Winterhold had kept him relatively insulated from the geopolitical issues of the day. Despite siding with the Stormcloaks fairly quickly after the inception of the rebellion, Jarl Korir had never made any particular effort to expel the representative of the Thalmor from the College. In fact, Jarl Korir seemed to desperately wish the College out of existence, which was just fine by Ancano. It helped him achieve his goals out of the prying eyes of proximity to Ulfric.

The actions of Sjadbek the Dragonborn were of little consequence to him. It was no secret the man despised the Thalmor, and as such Ancano made himself scarce during Sjadbek’s roughly semiannual visits to Winterhold (once in Sun’s Dawn 202, once towards the end of Frostfall the same year, then again in Second Seed and Sun’s Dusk 203, and First Seed and Sun’s Height 204).

Hedrik and Fjalod, the couple who were friends with Sjadbek, were of more interest. Though Hedrik had not as of yet gotten much far beyond intermediate destruction magic, Fjalod the former basket-weaver had actually shown a far stronger aptitude for magic… and a dangerous once. Specializing in alteration and conjuration, she had managed, about a year and a half ago, to uncover the mystical Eye of Magnus, a vessel of pure magical energy itself.

Fjalod was dead as of the 17th of Hearthfire, 205. She had died on an expedition to Labyrinthian, a Nordic barrow equally as ancient as Saarthal, in an effort to retrieve the only artifact that could possibly stop Ancano from achieving his goals. With enough magical power at his back, he could reshape reality itself, imposing Elven rule not only now but retroactively throughout the past. The Empire will have never existed; the Nords will have never ruled Skyrim.

Who was going to stop him now? Sjadbek, from his perch in the Imperial prison? Not likely.

Wait. Something was wrong. The power flow had rapidly increased. Too much power too fast could destabilize the system. Ancano tried to cease drawing power from the Eye, but there was too much of it to simply stop at the whim of one mer. The entire Hall of the Elements glowed in incandescence, and the Thalmor mage was annihilated—followed shortly thereafter by the rest of the College, and then by what remained of the once-proud city of Winterhold.

When the explosion reached the Elder Scroll, the combined forces of the two powerful divine artifacts created a rupture in the space-time continuum. Buildings from Winterhold’s more glorious past appeared in mid-air and promptly fell, splattering against the ground. A propeller aircraft from Nirn’s distant future en route from Atmora to Valenwood with the intent of making a refueling stop in Windhelm sputtered to a halt, its systems disabled, and crashed into a cliff face.

Everything within a ten-mile radius of Winterhold was heated to five hundred degrees Fahrenheit as the time rupture dissipated the explosion. Water boiled, wildlife died, and snowpacks underwent sublimation. As the magical release ebbed, the normal heat-diffusion processes took over in Winterhold Hold; the collision of excessively hot air from the magical reaction with the ordinary frigid air of northern wintertime Skyrim resulted in furious weather patterns.

Freezing rain can, falling in sufficient quantities, result in devastating ice storms. It occurs when precipitation falls through a layer of air sufficiently warm enough and thick enough to completely melt the snow, then falls through a lower, colder layer ultimately landing on below-freezing ground. This structure happened to describe the air above and around Dawnstar and Windhelm often over the week or so following the Winterhold explosion.

A strong ice storm besieged the city of Windhelm on the 26th of Evening Star, 205, followed by another one on the 30th and 31st. Three and a half inches of ice coated just about every surface that could withstand the pressure As Ulfric came out of the Palace of the Kings on New Life Day, 206 to give his speech, still unaware of what had transpired in Winterhold, he looked around the bleak, ice-battered city and began his proclamation.

“Windhelm has been besieged. Not by the Empire or by the Aldmeri Dominion, but by a simple act of nature. While this storm was worse than any I’ve seen in my life, I don’t—”

Galmar interrupted him, having just received an urgent report. “This is highly irregular, Galmar. Are you sure about this?”

“Hjarfi Steel-Brick is not the type of woman to play practical jokes in the middle of important speeches,” Stone-Fist responded. “There are Falmer on the surface and they are headed this way.”
 

Start Dale

I got 99 problems but a Deadra ain't one.
Nice, very nice use of maven and the Falmer. Maybe i should get on with my epic stuff once i have finished the two prequels. You are inspiring me to get back to the fun crazy stuff and leave the character development behind. Nope discipline. First finish the prequel tales that we can go back to the present and get the going gone.

Weird rambling right? Just means i like your stuff a lot man :D
 

Docta Corvina

Well-Known Member
Poor Bersi. :sadface: Poor, poor man. I'm gonna give him extra hugs and gold next time I jump into the game, that's for sure. </3

Overall though, I'm really quite fascinated with the direction you're taking Maven! Very creepy. I like it! :D
 

bulbaquil

...is not Sjadbek, he just runs him.
Poor Bersi. :sadface: Poor, poor man. I'm gonna give him extra hugs and gold next time I jump into the game, that's for sure. </3

Overall though, I'm really quite fascinated with the direction you're taking Maven! Very creepy. I like it! :D

I know. If Sjadbek's speechcraft wasn't at only 53, I'd make sure he invests in Bersi ASAP.

(Actually, now that I think about it, Sjadbek et al. are actually invested in Bersi's store in-fanfic and receive regular dividends. Presumably his wife Drifa will take over the store, but she appears to be more amenable to accepting "the Riften way" than Bersi would be, which would cut into the Pawned Prawn's profits, potentially quite substantially. Even without sending the Falmer to Windhelm, Maven has therefore already launched an attack on Sjadbek and his family - indirectly through finance.)
 

bulbaquil

...is not Sjadbek, he just runs him.
Chapter 16: Defense of Windhelm
29th of Evening Star, 4E 205 | 1:45 p.m. | Blackrose, Black Marsh
Sjadbek’s Imprisonment, Day 301

“You want us,” sputtered Saven-Kai, marshal of the Argonian military, in disbelief, “to declare war on Skyrim?! Now, of all times?” This Dominion representative must have been completely out of his mind to make a request like that!

“I do,” Ondolemar replied. “With your help, we can wrest control of Skyrim from the barbarian heretics that control it now and replace it with a more… compliant administration.” After leaving Markarth, Ondolemar had become the Aldmeri emissary to the neutral country of Black Marsh and had to choose his words carefully. The Argonians did not worship the Aedra, that much was true, but they also did not construct such nonsense as Talos worship.

Truth be told, Ondolemar was not like many of his Thalmor brethren. He harbored no particular enmity towards Bretons and Imperials at least, and even Nords and Redguards—he simply felt they were misguided. They kept worshipping the wrong pantheon, that was all. Did they not know the terrible calamities that could befall the world if the real gods were not worshipped? And here the Nords were with their “Talos” and the Redguards with whatever false idols they had set for themselves… Really, the Dominion just needed to correct them. That was all—no need to enslave or do anything nasty like that.

As for the Argonians, it was probably important that they continue to worship the Hist, just as the Khajiit needed to still worship the moons. It was obvious that the moons existed, that much was sure, and the Void Nights had been especially disturbing for members of all races but especially for them. No, the only race Ondolemar could not truly stand was, surprisingly, the Dunmer.

The Dunmer, traitors to merkind, spurned the Aedra almost entirely and by and large focused their religious fervor on the Daedra—and often the worst of them at that, such as Molag Bal and Boethiah. To Ondolemar, this was far more inexcusable than Talos worship—it was one thing to worship non-gods, and quite another thing to worship anti-gods. The Argonians were quite right to enslave them, and the Nords of Windhelm, devout worshippers of Talos though they may be, were quite right to shunt them off into a slum.

“I’m sorry,” Saven-Kai proclaimed. “I’m afraid—even if I had the authority, which I don’t, and even if it fit our strategic interests, which it doesn’t, it wouldn’t be worth it. In the best of conditions, even the southern border of Skyrim is a good three, three and a half weeks from here in Blackrose, and we’re getting increased gray-skin”—yes, the Argonian marshal used that slur—“resistance in Morrowind. We can’t invade by sea, not with the substantial increase in naval presence Ulfric has engendered—and we’d have to stabilize Morrowind before we could invade by land.”

It was a point well made, and it didn’t help that, unless the Aldmeri Dominion wanted to have whole armies scale steep mountains, there were only seven land entrances into Skyrim to begin with. Two of these, including one of the most accessible, were in Morrowind and could not be accessed without an outright invasion (which would result in a war against Argonia and anyone Argonia could ally against them, which would likely at least include Hammerfell and possibly the Empire). Another two, including the other of the most accessible, were in Hammerfell, and the Dominion knew full well what would happen if they tried to invade there. Many in Hammerfell were still seething about Skyrim’s failure to come to the Redguards’ aid in the immediate aftermath of the Great War; Ulfric and an independent Skyrim would almost certainly ally with Hammerfell were they to invade again. The High Rock Tunnel between Jehanna and Solitude had been closed for years now and likely indefinitely on account of ambushes by the Falmer, who made no distinction in hostility between man or mer. That left only Cyrodiil… and the whole point of invading Skyrim was to keep the Nords at bay while they invaded Cyrodiil.

“You’re right,” Ondolemar muttered. “Forget I asked. It isn’t even Skyrim we want—who in their right mind besides the snowhack brutes that call themselves Nords would want to live in such a dreary place? Markarth was bad enough; Magnus forbid we need to garrison Windhelm.

---
1st of Morning Star, 4E 206 | 8:45 p.m. | Candlehearth Hall, Windhelm
Sjadbek’s Imprisonment, Day 304

It turned out that Windhelm was garrisoning itself—preparing for an attack by forces whose names sounded like Thalmor, but weren’t. Unfortunately, this wasn’t easy—they had little time and, given the short, bleak days of the Windhelm winter—not much daylight in which to set things up.

Heron had happened to be in the city of Ysgramor at the time, and had helped in some of the initial barricade setup. It wasn’t a place he went often, but Penelope had insisted—something of value to be delivered back to a particular family in Windhelm. She would have gone herself, but being seven and a half months pregnant put a bit of a damper on strenuous activities such as late-season travel.

The easy-going Breton would not have been so concerned if the particular member of the family who should have been there were there, but he wasn’t—and Bjaknir was. Having been posted at Fort Snowhawk during Bjaknir’s tenure as a prisoner there, Heron knew all too well the poor treatment the man had gotten. Though the playful Breton had never laid a hand on him, many of the other guards had beaten him to a pulp on multiple occasions, and from what he’d heard from multiple sources, Bjaknir harbored considerably more enmity towards the Legion than Sjadbek did.

Heron ordered an ale and plopped himself down next to Bjaknir as the tavern’s bard finished up her song and made to take a break. Bjaknir stood up almost instantaneously—had he snubbed him? No, the Nordic soldier simply deposited a few septims in the bard’s tip tankard and returned to the same chair, looking pointedly at the grinning Cheydinhal native.

“You look familiar to me, Breton,” Bjaknir spoke, taking another swig of his mead. “Do I know you?”

“Heron of Cheydinhal and now, apparently, of Riften,” he introduced. “Penelope’s brother?”

“Aye, Sjad—Stendarr bless the man—has spoken of her before. But that’s not where I know you from.”

“Fort Snowhawk. Remember me? The nice guard who didn’t beat you up?”

“Ah, so you are. Thanks for that, by the way.” Bjaknir did not sound particularly happy.

“We managed to retrieve Sjadbek’s helmet, and Pippa—Penelope—insisted we return it to you. For some reason the man arresting him—something like Brigadier Randilus, or something like that—”

Brigadier Randilus?” Bjaknir spat, revolting at the name and clearly recognizing it. “He’s a bloody Brigadier now? Talos’ gauntlets!”

“You know him?”

“I have had far too much experience with him.”

Heron was curious now. “Really? How so?”

“Ugh, I don’t know if I should tell you.” The man before him was, or at least had been, Legion and he wasn’t sure how much he could trust him. “I know what stripes you bear.”

“You mean the Imperial Legion?” Heron asked, to which Bjaknir nodded. “Bah, most of them are a bunch of stuffed shirts. I enjoyed the battles, not so much the waiting.

Bjaknir thought for a moment, then chose to try to divert the discussion. “And yet it seemed waiting was all we ever did half the time, too. It does help to have a friendly face to pass the time with, though. Especially over in Hjaalmarch.”

“Ahh, Hjaalmarch, one hold of Skyrim I do not miss. I could tell you all sorts of stories about my service time there, but I’d wager you don’t want to hear them. Rather nice of your brother to liberate me from that abysmal place.”

“Rather nice of my brother to liberate me from that abysmal place,” Bjaknir affirmed.

“But seriously, what’s up?” Heron asked, trying to elicit the information the Nord soldier, who couldn’t have been more than thirty but who spoke as though he was far older, was reluctant to give and that he was all too eager to learn. “Look, you’re safe with me,” he continued, holding his hands up as though to prove he was harmless. “We’re in Windhelm. If I tried anything I’d have dozens of guards on me in a second, and frankly I don’t want to spend a year or more of my life in Ulfric’s lovely Bloodworks.”

Bjaknir nodded. He’d never had the misfortune of being on the wrong side of the bars in Windhelm, but the city’s incarceration facilities were second only to Cidhna Mine in all Skyrim—perhaps all Tamriel. And the memories were bursting at the seams of his heart—they needed to be told to someone. Secrets that demanded to be expressed with someone, and not someone too close to Sjadbek. Sjadbek had plenty of reasons to hate Rodavius Randilus. He did not need any more.

“All right. 30th of Evening Star, 192,” he began. “That was the day my father, Steir, died. But the cause of his death was several months earlier. Sometime early in Last Seed of that year, he accepted an invitation by a few of the Legionnaires at the Helgen keep to play at cards. I think they expected him to be bad at it, and they’d get all his money. The butchery was doing particularly well that year; Dengeir was still Jarl and so Falkreath Hold still had decent rulership; Ulfric was still in Cidhna Mine for another month or so—I think it was sometime in late Hearthfire, maybe Frostfall, they released him, and so the Stormcloaks hadn’t really gotten underway yet.”

“I think I have an idea of where you’re going with this,” Heron offered. “The soldiers thought your dad would be an easy mark, but he turned out to be a better gambler than they expected, or he had a lucky hand, and he won.”

“He did more than win,” Bjaknir replied. “It had reached the point where it was just he and a particular soldier—then-Quaestor Rodavius Randilus—battling it out for the pot. Rodavius kept raising the stakes, to the point where he was playing with future salaries—betting debt, in other words. I don’t know the exact hands, but they were both very good. Something like face-card full house versus a four of a kind. My dad had the winning hand. Rodavius ended up losing every last gold coin he had plus getting himself over a thousand septims in debt with my father.

“Rodavius—I don’t know for sure, but I speculate he was of noble or at least gentle Cyrodilic stock and couldn’t stand the thought of being indebted to a mere butcher, let alone a ‘Nord barbarian’ one. But what could he do? Reporting my father to the Thalmor as a Talos worshipper, which he was, he could have done that, but then the Dominion would get the actual kill.”

“So Rodavius killed him?”

“Infected him with feeble limb. That, coupled with the bout of influenza he’d had earlier in the month and was still recovering from… and before you ask, I know it was him. I was up in my bed, just about to drift off back to sleep, when I saw him approach a small hole in the wall we hadn’t yet repaired from a previous windstorm and release the skeever.

“I never told Sjad. He was always a bit more aggressive than I was, especially during that time, when he was twelve, thirteen—kept wanting to get into sparring matches and swordfights and all that. Maybe it was the Dragonborn thing, I don’t know. But I didn’t tell Sjad because I was afraid that if he knew, he’d deliberately try to antagonize Rodavius, maybe even assault him, which… well, it would have landed him in the Falkreath jail for sure.

“I was a bit scared, because my sister Martje had married earlier that year and moved off to Daggerfall, and I also didn’t want them to send Sjad to the orphanage in Riften—I hear it’s an awful place. Not Riften, but the orphanage.”

“Riften has its downsides,” came the voice of a man who had by now spent a few years as a resident thereof. “Not the least of which is the stench. Better than Hjaalmarch, though, at any rate.”

Everywhere in Skyrim is better than Hjaalmarch,” Bjaknir reaffirmed. “But I guess they figured I was going to be sixteen in less than three months anyway; my birthday’s in First Seed—so I might as well take legal custody of Sjad. By the time the appropriate documents would have been filed and the preparations to move him to the orphanage made, it would have been First Seed already by the time he got there.

“But yeah. Not satisfied with killing our father, Rodavius proceeded to try to annoy and bully me—and Sjad too, but especially me and my friends—any way he could… which wasn’t really much until he actually managed to get in a position of power, but when I tried to contact his superiors or equals they just brushed me off. Every time. That was when I knew the Legion and the Empire were done. Once he became Tribune early in 198 and appointed that barbaric captain, Alania Caralthis… not to mention the war was starting to ramp up then… things got really bad for us. I knew there was no way for me to take on Randilus alone. Even if I won the fight, all I’d be doing is putting Captain Caralthis in full power and myself on the block. No, I couldn’t bring down the bastard without an army at my back. Fortunately, Ulfric had provided me with one.”

“So you joined the Stormcloaks.”

“So I did. Only I got sent to Hjaalmarch rather than somewhere Rodavius would actually be, and I guess he managed to escape the destruction of Helgen, which was when Sjad joined up—not like a destroyed town has much need for a butcher anyway—because he’s still out there. Over in Cyrodiil destroying what’s left of Sjad’s life.”

Bjaknir had good reason to be bitter, but Heron didn’t want him to be bitter. All things considered, from what he’d seen and what he’d heard, the man in front of him seemed like a decent soul who’d been beaten down too long by a Legion that didn’t seem to care. “I don’t think he’s the sort of person who deserves to be in the Legion, to be frank,” Heron tried to reply in defense of his long-time army. “Want me to go to Cyrodiil and beat him up for you?”

“If you think you can do it without getting yourself killed in the process or aftermath, by all means be my guest. By Talos, what I wouldn’t give to skewer that man’s head on a rusted spear.”

“And send it to the Emperor with a note that says ‘This is why you lost the war in Skyrim’?”

They continued bantering about ways to get back at Rodavius, each more outlandish than the next. Bjaknir seemed to rather enjoy it, even if it was just revenge fantasy—but overall the Nord left the tavern in a considerably happier mood than he had entered it.

---
4th of Morning Star, 4E 206 | 4:15 p.m. | Windhelm Stables
Sjadbek’s Imprisonment, Day 307

The fresh, chilly breeze bristled past Frodnar’s hair as he put on the hide helmet of his kinsmen. Uncle Ralof would be proud of me, he thought. Fresh out of basic training and still not quite fifteen, it was amazing they were even letting him fight today—but Windhelm needed every blade it could get its hands on, and Fort Amol, where the Skyrim militia (formerly known as the “Stormcloaks”) conducted its basic training, was not that far away.

Frodnar finished sharpening the first of his two axes, put it in his scabbard, and prepared to sharpen the other one when a stern but kindly voice spoke behind him. “Are you prepared for battle, boy?”

The neophyte soldier turned around and immediately snapped to attention, the voice behind him belonging to Bjaknir wearing a full officer’s uniform.

“I’m a little apprehensive, sir, I have to admit,” Frodnar responded.

“We all were there once,” Bjaknir responded, cuffing the Riverwood native on the shoulder. “But know this: You have nothing to fear from them. The worst they can do is reunite you with your uncle in Sovngarde. They take no prisoners.”

The odd thing, Bjaknir thought, is that Ulfric had ordered them to take a few Falmer prisoners if it were possible. For what, he had no clue. There was scarcely a soul alive who knew how to read, much less pronounce, the Falmer tongue—possibly no one, if the recent reports of the apparent evisceration of Winterhold from the map were in fact substantiated. They could hardly interrogate the Falmer, could they?

Whatever.

Bjaknir returned to his position as Frodnar finished up sharpening the second axe. The waning mid-winter sunlight was of particular concern. Falmer are blind, thought the veteran soldier. Night and day mean nothing to them. He could only hope the substantial bowman training he had been getting from the few Bosmer who lived in Ysgramor’s city would be enough. Don’t fail me now, Anorthir, he thought. Kynareth guide our arrowsTalos guide our blades—Stendarr guide our shields.

Minute after terrifying minute passed, and then a horn blew, signaling the arrival of the unfriendly forces. From his vantage point, Bjaknir could see what had to be at least four hundred Falmer making their way eastward along the road that led to Windhelm from the Pale, approaching the stone towers atop one of which he had perched himself.

standalone

With the full complement of the city guard and the soldiers diverted from Fort Amol, the Falmer were outnumbered at least three to one. Even so, Bjaknir was worried. If these had been Imperial soldiers or even Thalmor, it would not have been as much a concern, but as these were Falmer…. Imperials and especially high elves had self-preservation instincts. In most instances they did not want to go against an opponent when they were not that far away from dying. The Falmer were different: They berserked far more than even a drunken Sjadbek would—they had no sense of self-preservation; their rejection of the Dwemer’s social engineering had given them an impulse to do naught but destroy, destroy, destroy. The Falmer did not yield until they were dead.

And it didn’t help that Bjaknir had never seen so many Falmer in one place at one time. While the excursion to Morrowind had resulted in he, Sjadbek, and Burdnar clearing a Falmer lair, there had been at most twenty of them and they had only faced at most three of them at a time. At least it doesn’t look like they’ve brought their “pets” with them. Chauruses were something worth having nightmares about—and a possible terror to use in the future to convince Bakdur to clean his room, once the boy was five or six.

Arrows, Bjaknir’s and otherwise, flew through the deepening night seeking the rogue snow elves, who were attacking Skyrim soldiers haphazardly and randomly. The ferocity of the attack shocked even some of the battle-hardened, to say nothing of the tenderfoot first-timers who comprised the bulk of the combatant forces.

Blood stained and darkened the snow-struck stables as the Altmer family who owned them fled eastward on horseback as the battle progressed, the Falmer’s numbers dwindling down to a hundred and fifty with about that many guards and soldiers killed. As Ulfric and Galmar emerged to join the fray, the Falmer unexpectedly ceased their random barrage on the hostile mostly-Nords and turned their gaze and gait directly at the High King and his housecarl.

Bjaknir looked upon this in alarm as he struck down his ninth snow elf of the evening. This was not normal Falmer behavior—the menaces of the deep were very much equal-opportunity attackers. They did not discriminate; they knew nothing of whether the Nord they were fighting was the Great War-veteran, Voice-wielding High King of Skyrim or a conscripted farmer who just finished basic training a week ago.

Realizing he was being targeted directly, Ulfric let loose a Shout of furious self-preservation, launching about forty approaching Falmer and inadvertently also Galmar as well into the air. It wasn’t long before he realized what he’d just done. No, Talos forbid—!

Galmar was strong and hardy, but was also pushing seventy years old, and his aging bones could not take the impact on the tree that halted his advance. He slumped to the ground, and came to in Sovngarde.

The guards battled furiously and valiantly to keep Ulfric only fighting the Falmer on a one-on-one basis, at which he was doing rather well. Bjaknir rushed down the stairwell and unsheathed his falchion to join them in melee combat. No sooner had he leapt over the second barricade than that there were only seven remaining Falmer fighting four guards and Ulfric.

“True Nords never back down!” yelled Ulfric as he plunged his blade into a Falmer’s back—six to go—at the same time as another Falmer sliced at him with a blade. A blade that happened, unbeknownst to Ulfric or any of the others, to be imbued with chaurus poison.

Ulfric continued to fight as his strength faded away, and Bjaknir joined, ending up slicing the head clean off the final Falmer as the broadside of his falchion became a bloody mess. Sheathing the weapon, Bjaknir turned to face his king, noticing that he seemed a bit peaked. “Your Majesty, are you all right?”

“No,” replied Ulfric, seeming as surprised as Bjaknir to discover that he was not, in fact, all right. “I do hope I haven’t been—”

Ulfric collapsed to the pavement then and there, dead. Bjaknir’s mouth stood agape in shock, frozen in place, not sure what had just happened. The High King of Skyrim dead. The ramifications… Ulfric had mentioned on several occasions that upon his passing, he intended to hand the Jarlship over to either Galmar or Sjadbek, but with the former also dead and the latter imprisoned for a very long time still—who was to be Jarl of Windhelm now?
 

Skarvald

Kendov – Warrior
Awesome reading! I'm wondering what's going to happen to the Stormcloaks, and Windhelm? I'm also wondering how Skar would react, when the news of Ulfric's death spreads... and I wonder what Ivan "Drakul" Lucanus would be doing at this time... Next chapter features Sjadbek? :D
 

Serebro Moniker

He who moves it moves it
Good. Very good.
I do have two complaints. For me, the first rule of fanfiction, especially fanfiction of this style, should be able to stand alone as piece. What I mean by this is that a reader should be able t understand what's going on even without knowledge of the wider universe upon which the fanfiction is based. You mention Septims and Stedarr and Talos and so on, but never really explain what they are. Sometimes a reader can work it out for themselves, but not always.
My second criticism is that you treat rather big events as small. For example:
"“I said, next prisoner!” demanded the martinet, obviously disgruntled that her beloved execution was being interrupted by such minor inconveniences as approaching dragons."
Wait, what? You never actually mentioned a dragon being a source of the roaring until then. It seemed a bit... off, to me. Other examples are how briefly you explain major events such as the raid for the Jagged Crown, and dealing with the Butcher.
Apart from this two problems, very good. Well written, with well characterized, well, characters. :)
 

Recent chat visitors

Latest posts

Top