Spoiler The Bear of Skyrim

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bulbaquil

...is not Sjadbek, he just runs him.
Heh. In fairness, I'm probably going to do a wholesale revision at least of Chapter 1 sometime soon, which would probably account for many of those issues. Chapter 1 is a bit... outdated, in a way, given the following events.
 

Serebro Moniker

He who moves it moves it
Heh. In fairness, I'm probably going to do a wholesale revision at least of Chapter 1 sometime soon, which would probably account for many of those issues. Chapter 1 is a bit... outdated, in a way, given the following events.
Yes, earlier chapters do read a bit like a first draft.
 

bulbaquil

...is not Sjadbek, he just runs him.
Yes, earlier chapters do read a bit like a first draft.

Heh. The monolith in particular needs to go; it's out of date; it looks as though it's supposed to be foreshadowing but future developments rendered it undone.
 

imaginepageant

Slytherin Alumni
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.
nooooooooooo128582106602473536.jpg
 

imaginepageant

Slytherin Alumni
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.
HOLY CRAP THAT WAS AWESOME.
 

imaginepageant

Slytherin Alumni
Talos’ gauntlets!
I am totally stealing this phrase. If that's all right with you.

Ulfric let loose a Shout of furious self-preservation, launching about forty approaching Falmer and inadvertently also Galmar as well into the air.

I laughed. And then felt really bad about it after the next paragraph.

Ulfric collapsed to the pavement then and there, dead.
I knew this was coming and it was still difficult to read. :sadface:
 

bulbaquil

...is not Sjadbek, he just runs him.
I am totally stealing this phrase. If that's all right with you.

I hardly have a trademark on the phrase. I am quite sure that, at some point in his life or afterlife, Tiber Septim wore gauntlets.
 

bulbaquil

...is not Sjadbek, he just runs him.
Bulba...

I'm struggling to understand why "torrent Domestic Abuse in Skyrim" is an apparent search term for your story. :p

Me too! My guess is I happen to mention the words "torrent," "domestic," "abuse," and "Skyrim" on a single page and so it shows up in those results, even though the contexts are of course totally different.
 

imaginepageant

Slytherin Alumni
Me too! My guess is I happen to mention the words "torrent," "domestic," "abuse," and "Skyrim" on a single page and so it shows up in those results, even though the contexts are of course totally different.
Suuuuuuure they are. We don't know what goes on behind the closed doors of Hjerim.
 

bulbaquil

...is not Sjadbek, he just runs him.
Suuuuuuure they are. We don't know what goes on behind the closed doors of Hjerim.

Ah, but I do. Barring a particular instance with Calder and an Argonian maid, Hjerim is a decent home with no mistreatment going on. Bakdur is healthy and Skelja and Mirska are very happy. (Well, Skelja probably wishes her husband weren't stuck behind Imperial bars, but...)
 

bulbaquil

...is not Sjadbek, he just runs him.

AS88

Well-Known Member
Staff member
Well, I've just read all 16 chapters and have to say I'm hugely impressed :) You're a great writer and I'm looking forward to the next chapter!
 

bulbaquil

...is not Sjadbek, he just runs him.
For reference. These rank listings are

Imperial Legion Ranks (4E 207)
- General
- Legate
- Brigadier
- Tribune
- Captain (n.b.: fort commanders are typically of Captain or Tribune rank)
- Praefect
- Quaestor
- Corporal
- Auxiliary/Trooper/Regular
- Recruit

[This includes additional ranks the Imperial Dragonborn never reaches because of compression.]

Army of Skyrim (formerly Stormcloak) Ranks (4E 207)
- General (navy: admiral)
- Junior General (navy: commander)
- Commander (navy: captain)
- Captain (navy: first lieutenant)
- Junior Captain (navy: second lieutenant)
- Sergeant (navy: ensign)
- Trooper/Soldier/Regular (navy: crewman)
- Recruit/Entrant

[A guerilla group like the Stormcloaks during the civil war may not have had as formalized a rank structure, but a proper army would.]

---

DISCLOSURE: As of October 8, I will be entering a full-time position. This is good for me, as it will result in compensation in the form of something called "money" that I hear is rather useful for a variety of things. However, it will also be associated with decreased time in which I can write, so expect delays. In addition, it will also be associated with a relocation, which may mean severely curtailed internet access during the relocation process.

Chapter 17 will be up tomorrow if not today. I hope to have Chapter 18 up before the 8th.
 

bulbaquil

...is not Sjadbek, he just runs him.
Chapter 17: Blood and Empire
15th of First Seed, 4E 206 | 11:30 a.m. | Riften
Sjadbek’s Imprisonment, Day 377
Bjaknir could hardly believe he had purposefully and of entirely his own volition gone to Riften. Having been busy liberating Hjaalmarch while Sjadbek went to retake the Rift for the Stormcloaks, he hadn’t even been there for the abruptly-terminated battle for the hold three years and two months ago. Though the people he was going to see were decent enough, Riften as a whole was not exactly the kind of place he wanted to be around longer than he had to.

Skyrim, he thought, was being destroyed. He’d thought that the termination of the civil war had put an end to the chaos plaguing his beloved homeland—and for a time it had—but no, that would not be the case. We’re the children of Skyrim, and we fight all our lives… Surely the Aldmeri Dominion would want to take as much of an advantage of the situation as it possibly could. Skyrim needed someone it could rally behind, someone it had already rallied behind. The bards still sang songs of him.

Sjadbek, why did you have to go run off to Cyrodiil? Skyrim still needs you.

But Bjaknir had a plan. He had already helped free Sjadbek once; he’d do it again. No, he was not going to storm the Imperial Prison with several troops like he had Fort Snowhawk—the only thing that would do would be at best reignite hostilities between Skyrim and the Empire and at worst get them all killed. And then he’d have to figure out what to do with Windhelm, his adopted city.

In the power vacuum left behind by Ulfric and Galmar’s absence, Rolff Stone-Fist—of all people—had decided to take the throne and mantle of Jarl of Windhelm, by the simple expedient of being the first to return to the Palace of the Kings and sit upon it. Rolff did, in fact, have a legitimate claim to the jarlship of Windhelm, given that one of the potential heirs to the throne as determined by Ulfric was Galmar. The other—

Bjaknir paused as he realized. The other was Sjadbek. He had as much a claim on the throne as Rolff did. But dare he challenge Rolff, even if he knew Rolff in any sort of power would be a huge detriment to Windhelm and Skyrim? Risk his life for a struggle for the throne with an infant daughter of his own, and a three-year-old nephew whose father felt the Imperial lash on a daily basis? Would Skelja and Mirska forgive him?

For now, he’d wait. He’d talk to the Bretons he needed to talk to, and figure things out there.

---
23rd of Hearthfire, 4E 206 | 2:45 p.m. | Imperial City, Elven Gardens District
Sjadbek’s Imprisonment, Day 569

The heavy and stiff ebony shackles bit into Sjadbek’s wrists as the guards led him out of the prison and into the Imperial City for reasons unknown. Had the Empire finally decided they’d had enough with the expense of feeding him kale, stale bread, and half-spoiled rat meat? Was he about to hang from the gallows or find himself on the chopping block?

The guards moved him through a bustling market district larger than any he’d ever seen even in Solitude. At about what had to be the middle of the market district, Sjadbek was steered rightward, towards another district. Insults and jeers were hurled upon him as he walked slowly, his hands uncomfortably chained behind his back and to his ankles, but frankly he’d heard worse from the guards who watched over him like a hawk. A small girl flung a ball of mud (it had rained that morning) at the dirty Nordic prisoner, but frankly he’d, again, had far worse.

Sjadbek was led out of the market into what appeared to be an upscale residential district, though any attempt on his part to look around was met by a slap in the face and an “Eyes front, Steirsson” from the brutish orcish guard. Eventually they brought him to the second floor of a house he was unfamiliar with (after wiping off the mud from the market), forced him into a chair in front of a desk, and removed the chain connecting his wrists to his ankles only to chain it instead to something behind him.

A pleasant-looking man in Legion officer’s attire entered the room and sat in the chair in front of Sjadbek, smiling at him. “Good afternoon, Sjadbek,” he spoke. “I am Legate Carius Serenus.”

“You say that name like I should know it,” Sjadbek replied in the raspy voice that was all he could speak in these days.

“You don’t know it, I believe,” responded the man—Legate Serenus—kindly. “But you do know some friends of mine. Friends who currently make their homes in Riften?”

“Are you talking about Penelope and Heron?”

“Right you are, Sjadbek,” Serenus responded, sounding almost delighted. “I’ve been friends with them for Julianos knows how long. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.” He held out his right arm as though to shake hands with the Nord, then retracted it upon realizing that Sjadbek’s hands were not exactly in a position that rendered the gesture possible.

“Is that why I’m here rather than that stinky cell they keep me in under tight guard?” spoke Sjadbek, confused. “Just because you wanted to meet me?”

“I am a legate,” he replied. “It’s part of my prerogative.”

Sjadbek remained silent as Serenus continued. “But enough of this pointless preamble. I want the chance to speak to you properly. Guardsman gro-Bulrug, could you please be so kind as to remove the vocal inhibition collar?”

“You want me to do what?” the Orcish guard in question blustered. “He’ll blow you to bits!”

“I trust him not to, and then I want you to leave this room. This is an order.” Serenus countered. He really trusted Sjadbek enough not to fus ro dah him into Oblivion the moment the infernal collar was removed, with zero guard supervision?

“Urgh. Fine,” gro-Bulrug grunted, clearly unhappy with allowing the Dragonborn any modicum of freedom to let loose with his Voice, but complying with the legate’s request nevertheless.

“Stendarr bless you,” spoke Sjadbek with his full voice. Was that really how he sounded? It had been so long since he’d heard it. “You didn’t have to do that, you know.”

“Now we can talk properly,” Serenus responded. “Burdnar goes free next week.”

“Is it that time already?” pondered Sjadbek. “What is today, anyway?”

“Twenty-third of Hearthfire, 206. No doubt Burdnar will be heading straight back to Windhelm.”

“Well, he certainly wouldn’t be heading back to Markarth,” Sjadbek responded. Markarth had always been Burdnar’s dark secret, something he never wanted to talk about—except to Sjadbek and Bjaknir. They were the only ones who knew what had happened there.

Serenus would have taken it as a joke if not for the grave expression on Sjadbek’s face. “No, not Markarth.” The legate paused for a moment, then said, “You know, you could really use a bath.”

“Tell that to the guards. I know I could go for one too. I would love for them to take me to the hot springs of southern Eastmarch, but I know they won’t let me set foot within ten miles of the Skyrim border.”

“Definitely not. I’m not sure how much the guards, especially your Bosmer one, would feel about heading into Jarl Rolff Stone-Fist’s territory.”

“Jarl who?!” Sjadbek roared, and made to jump out of the chair before the chains binding him slammed him back down in it again. “How in Oblivion did that bastard become Jarl? Talos save us!”

“Sjadbek, I want you to calm down,” Carius spoke serenely. “I know. It shocked me too. Falmer attacked Windhelm, and the High King died in the battle.”

“Falmer…” Sjadbek spoke, teeth still gritted in fury. “Is my family safe?”

“All indications are your family is fine.”

“Good. What else should I know, Legate?”

“Skirling Twice-Bruised is now Jarl of Whiterun, after Vignar’s death, which if I recall correctly was the reason you and Burdnar came to Cyrodiil in the first place. You might have already known that fact.”

“It was, and I did. Decent man, him.”

“Are you sure about that?” Serenus said darkly, causing Sjadbek to wonder if there was something about Skirling he hadn’t known.

“Well, he was always nice to me and Burdnar…”

“You and Burdnar are Nords. Of course he’d be nice to you. But the elves… as soon as Rolff took power in Windhelm, Skirling kicked every non-human out of the city. Khajiit obviously were already banned, but Bosmer, Dunmer…they’re gone. The Legion was frankly surprised he didn’t do that while Ulfric was still in power.”

Sjadbek’s brow was still showing signs of surprise and shock. “I never thought—that he’d be the Rolff type of Stormcloak.”

“Whatever was holding him back before,” averred Serenus, “no longer applies. Let’s see… Falkreath, Riften, Markarth, Morthal, and Solitude have had no change in leadership. Jarl Skald of Dawnstar has passed due to age, but his replacement is basically the same. Winterhold has been obliterated.”

“I had friends in Winterhold. What happened there?”

“Well, they’re probably dead now. We’re not sure exactly—some magical experiment gone awry. Of course, Rolff and Skirling are blaming the elves in general. Maybe that was actually what engendered the crackdown.”

“Legate, I have to get back to Skyrim. I have to fix this—”

“You feel you have some responsibility over the situation,” Serenus replied. “It is your prerogative to believe that.” Lowering his voice, he added, “So how do you intend to do it?”

“Well, obviously, I can’t do anything here about it, not locked up with the sewer rats and cutpurses…”

“So you have to get out. But you can’t do that—you’re too well guarded and chained up like a rabid werewolf. If you tried to escape, you wouldn’t make it past the bastion.”

Sjadbek paused for a moment. “I don’t know whether it’s Stendarr or someone else, but something tells me, though, that all hope is not lost for me. Something or someone is telling me I’ll be gone from Cyrodiil well before 225 Fourth Era.”

Serenus looked at him thoughtfully. “Give me a few months. We’ll meet again.”

“Sure,” responded the Nord. “All I have these days is time, it seems. And broken ribs.”

“I’ll talk with the guards about your treatment,” Serenus issued sternly. “Hmm… maybe I’ll have a birthday present for you.”

---
9th of Sun’s Dawn, 4E 207 | 8:30 a.m. | Markarth
Sjadbek’s Imprisonment, Day 708

As Arnbjorn had pointed out, the Dawnstar sanctuary was no longer secure. The increased naval presence of the Skyrim military was testament to that—hardly a day went by without some naval ship entering or leaving the northern port. Not to mention, with the frequency of contracts in Hammerfell, relocating the Dark Brotherhood to a point nearer the Redguard nation, or even in it, would be preferable. But Hammerfell had its own factions of assassins, much like the Morag Tong in Morrowind, and it simply would not be—as Nazir would have said a long time ago—particularly prudent to set up shop there.

So Markarth it was, then. The city of stone had a particularly morbid feel to it, if perhaps not as overtly as in Falkreath—but, as was so often said about the city, “blood and silver are what flows through Markarth.” The real challenge on the part of Beradin of Wayrest, by far the most successful Dark Brotherhood assassin in over a decade, was the issue of purchasing a house from the Jarl of the realm. It didn’t help that he was a Breton—the Forsworn tribes who plagued the region were, for the most part, genetically Bretons, and it was therefore crucial that he make clear that he was a full-blooded, non-Forsworn, High-Rock-origin one.

This would not, in fact, be easy, given his involvement in the escape of Madanach from Cidhna Mine. He was, in fact, the mysterious Breton who had led him and his pack of Forsworn from the prison mine and into Druadach Redoubt.

You want to purchase property in Markarth,” Jarl Thongvor Silver-Blood spoke disparagingly as he set his eyes on the still-young Beradin. “Didn’t you help Madanach escape? Continue and perpetuate the Forsworn rebellion—bring it out of control?”

Beradin was prepared for that eventuality. With a disgusted-looking face, he answered. “Most certainly not! That was my brother, Beradin.” He spat the last two words as though they were a vile potion involving a mixture of human brain and daedra heart. “Thinks he’s so soft-hearted, don’t he. Like he doesn’t know the Forsworn are just using him as a tool. I’m Balveyn, of course also of Wayrest. We’ve long since disowned him, and best of luck to him if he ever tries going back to High Rock.”

Thongvor furrowed his brow and spoke in the tone of voice that seemed universally around Skyrim to indicate “the Jarl is thinking.” After an uncomfortably lengthy pause, the Silver-Blood patron replied, “Hmph. That may be true, but I need a show of trust from you. Have you skill with blade, bow, or spell?”

“I fancy myself the marksman,” Beradin replied. It was true; his marksmanship was at least decent, though he was far more fond of the shock and frost spells—not that the latter did him much good in Skyrim against the cold-inured Nords that inhabited it. But the Forsworn, of course, were not Nords, and Beradin had an inkling he knew what Thongvor was going to ask.

He was right. “Good. I want Madanach’s head delivered to me on a silver platter. Find him. Hunt him down. Kill him. If you are in fact Beradin, you’ll have to betray him before I let you buy that house. And if you are in fact Balveyn as you claim to be, then you should have no qualms about it, should you?”

“No, my Jarl.” Betrayal of ostensible friends was part and parcel of being in the Dark Brotherhood. The giver of a contract in one year, the practitioner of the Black Sacrament in one year, could be the target of a different contract the next. It was just business. It had to be done—because they needed a stable base in order to accomplish their real goal. The highest target of them all.

---
24th of Second Seed, 4E 207 | 12:30 p.m. | Imperial City, Elven Gardens District
Sjadbek’s Imprisonment, Day 812

In actuality, it took Carius Serenus another month than he’d expected to take care of everything that had to be taken care of before he could appropriately meet with Sjadbek again. In the meantime, Falmer attacks had destroyed Morthal and caused Snowhawk to become the capital of Hjaalmarch hold—on the bright side, Helgen was being rebuilt, albeit by elven and prison labor (the two now being one and the same, in most cases). Serenus vaguely wondered if he could put in a transfer for Sjadbek to Falkreath’s jail—he’d probably love to help rebuild the town he’d once called home—but figured against it. No, that’s just not possible.

“Pleasure to see you again,” he said to Sjadbek as the prisoner, surprisingly still quite robust, was made to sit in the chair before him.

“Pleasure just to feel fresh air again,” Sjadbek replied, smiling.

The legate beckoned for the guard—this time a Dunmer battlemage that Sjadbek actually found somewhat humorous—“Morthal was severely damaged by Falmer recently, and there was even an attack on Solitude. From what I’ve heard, this is not normal Falmer behavior.”

“To attack people and cities? I’ve dealt with Falmer before, Legate; rest assured they are far more violent against those not of their kind than even the worst of the Thalmor.”

“No, of course attacking people and cities would be in their nature. What isn’t is the targeting they seem to be using.”

“Targeting?” The idea seemed puzzling to Sjadbek. What did that even mean, Falmer targeting?

“The Falmer should be attacking indiscriminately, but aren’t,” Serenus explained. “During the battle at Windhelm, when Ulfric and Galmar made their presence known, the Falmer—all of them left alive—stopped attacking whatever target they were attacking, and charged head-on towards the High King and his housecarl. This, by the way, is your brother Bjaknir’s report. I’d wager every septim I have you consider him a reliable source.”

“Bjaknir would definitely not lie about something like that,” Sjadbek affirmed.

“Exactly. And you see it in the other reports from the various battles. The Falmer were attacking as a collective, rather than out of their individual interests. And they were berserking—no regard to their individual health at all. They didn’t even bother defending.”

“Did they look like a proper army, do you know? Was there any clear leader or commander?”

“No, as I said—in Solitude, a report from a Commander Fjalma reads quite the opposite. She found it unusual, and I did too. It’s just—a collective.”

“A collective—so like a hive mind, then?”

“Yes, exactly.”

“But a hive is ruled by a queen bee,” thought Sjadbek aloud—he knew enough about bees and honey simply by knowing his meads. “The queen issues the ‘orders’ to the rest of the hive, so to speak. There has to be a leader somewhere.

“Exactly. There has to be a queen,” Serenus repeated. “And if you kill the queen—well, then you still have Falmer running around, but that’s another problem. But who could the queen be?”

Sjadbek and the legate’s meditation on the matter was interrupted by sudden turmoil in the streets of the Elven Gardens District, followed by frantic and turbulent knocking on the door. Upon the Dunmer guard outside opening it, a harried, young Redguard in Legion light armor stepped in, gave a rushed salute, and panted.

“What’s this all about, Trooper Stremus?”

“Legate, sir,” he spoke haltingly, as though trying to catch his breath, “it’s bedlam out there. The Emperor is lying dead in the streets, as is General Halcius of the Second Legion.”

Carius breathed heavily as potential culprits came to mind. The Thalmor? The Dark Brotherhood? The Alik’r of Hammerfell? The Argonian state? Some pathetic bowman who’d thought his taxes were too high? A daedric cult? Julianos forbid it’s the f---ing Mythic Dawn again; we had enough of them two hundred years ago.

Sjadbek’s mind was also reeling. Emperors didn’t just drop dead. All it meant was more questions and more puzzles—something was out there that wanted the Emperor dead—and the odds were it wanted the Dragonborn dead too.
 

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