I awoke late the following morning, somewhat the worse for wear, and stumbled out into daylight with a headache and a heavy backpack. I still had the Dragonstone, and I figured I may as well make my way to the wizard’s laboratory as I had more than a word or three for him about neglecting to mention the fact the place would be crawling with draugr. Still, Whiterun was a rather large city, and I decided to do a bit of sightseeing, maybe get some better armour and put an edge on my blade. I stopped at a smithy called the War-Maiden, and was rather surprised to note it was manned – or woman-ed – by a female Nord. She moved round the forge with complete ease, and while the sound of the hammer on an anvil wasn’t helping my headache much, I found myself interested even so. She knew what she was doing, and I figured the scraps of metal and leather I was currently using could do with a bit of a patch-job.
“I’m Adrianne, I own the place…are you a kinsman of Elrindir?”
“People seem to think so,” I replied with a small smile. ”Haven’t met him, but think I’ll have to now. What can you do with this?”
She took the weapon I offered and gave it an appraising look, then snorted. ”May as well just use a pointed stick, Bosmer, if you were allowed to do so, but I know that goes against your wyrd, eh?”
“Wyrd?” I was a bit confused, I’d heard the term but didn’t understand what it meant.
“Wyrd is fate, it is the thread of one’s life which is bound or tangled or cut – everything you have done, or will do, is bound by wyrd. It’s tied to your ancestry and your descendants – try to get away from it and you just tangle up the knots even tighter. It can bind you or strangle you, or allow you to walk like a tightrope over the abyss. Up to you.” Adrianne grinned, rubbing at some of the grime on her cheek with the back of her hand. ”Granted, you don’t come to a smithy for a lesson in philosophy. Let’s see what I can do with this blade.”
She started to get to work, and even shared a little knowledge with me about tanning hides in the Nord way, smelting ore, setting stones and improving bows. In Valenwood, our bows tend to be made of bone and metal, which she found fascinating.
“I have no idea how you’d be able to put enough flex into metal to allow it to do that, but I bet Eorlund would know.”
“Who’s Eorlund?”
“He’s the best smith in Whiterun, if not Skyrim. He works the Skyforge, the oldest forge around – it was here before Whiterun was built, and he knows his way round that forge like no other. You’ll find him up at Jorrvaskr, the meadhall for the Companions. They tend to take adventurers on who may need a bit of coin, and get in their good graces, maybe Eorlund might be able to get you some kit, and a little money never hurt, eh?”
A nice gesture, of course, but I had no intention of staying that long. Surely if I needed something I could just steal it – I had done it before, I could do it now. At least that was my old way; when I forged anything it normally didn’t mean working with metal! However, that was also the way that had earned me a year chained in a galley-ship. And, as Farengar had put to me so charmingly, I stuck out considerably in Skyrim. Doing favours and earning a bit of coin would only help my position, especially here where it was obvious Whiterun didn’t want anything to do with the war.
She handed my sword back to me – considerably sharpened and repaired – and gave me directions to find the Skyforge, as well as pointed across the dusty track to the Drunken Huntsman. Thanking her for her work, I made my way over, and strode indoors to find myself face to face with Elrindir. He looked about as surprised as I was, and smile the sort of smile people tend to do when they see something familiar after ages on uncommon ground; welcome familiarity.
“I keep getting asked if we’re kin,” I told him as I leaned upon the counter with a grin.
“Well to Nords, we all look alike!” Elrindir laughed. ”It’s been some time since I’ve seen a fellow of the Tree-Sap, especially here! Please, make yourself at ease, my brother went hunting this morning, and we’ve some fresh meat and mead if you’re hungry.”
It was a considerable amount of hospitality for a total stranger, and I’m not a complete idiot – the fact I am female certainly helped to put a gleam in the scoundrel’s eye, but it wasn’t the first time I could turn on the charm if required. Besides, I needed to sell the items I’d managed to acquire in the barrows, and where better but here? We ate and talked and haggled over the gems I had found, I both encouraged and spurned his advances to get a better price, and I also got a fair bit of information out of him.
“If you’re wanting to keep out of Imperial problems, then Whiterun is definitely the place,” Elrindir said as he finished the meat from his plate and belched behind his fist. “The Stormcloaks and the Imperials both want this place as it’s strategically placed, and the mountain above Dragonsreach is the home of the Greybeards.”
“Who are they?”
“Well I’ve only heard rumours, but it seems they are mystics of ancient ways. They never come down off that mountain, and have no interest in getting involved in the wars down below. It seems they have an ancient pact with Whiterun and Dragonsreach – whatever it is, it strengthens the Jarl’s resolve to be neutral, and so Whiterun will remain.
“Indeed, Whiterun is the safest place for you I think,” Elrindir added, leaning forward and gazing solemnly at me. ”Same as it is for me. I don’t know what brought you here, and it’s no business of mine, but I’ll tell you trying to get back…well, it’s not as easy as it sounds. This isn’t Valenwood; there’s trolls, bandits, spiders, giants and from what I’ve heard, dragons now, not to mention being captured on the road by either one side of the war or the other, either trying to recruit you or, in the case of Stormcloaks, exterminate you if you aren’t a Nord. You won’t get out on your own…you wouldn’t be the first to try, and probably the last, but trust me, sap-sister…you won’t make it.”
I listened to his words, and my heart sank. Never get out of Skyrim? But of course he only spoke the truth I had been refusing to acknowledge up to this point; I didn’t know this land, or its dangers. I had no money, no travelling companions, and unless the war blew over and ended soon, there was precious little chance of me getting out of the area alive. I closed my eyes, seeing the forests before my mind’s eye; green and beautiful, but so far away.
“Don’t despair,” Elrindir said quietly. ”It may be we see the Forever Green one last time, but it won’t be now. For now, make friends, establish yourself here, and earn your fortune. You seem resourceful, and the Jarl seems to favour you. That’s not all bad, surely? Who knows, maybe you’ll even settle down, eh? Fine Bosmer like you…”
“You’re right,” I sighed, trying to bolster my spirits. although I eyed Elrindir warily. Maybe I had poured on the charm a bit too much, or maybe the mead was talking. Still, I was reminded now to get myself to the Wizard’s laboratory and be paid for my work. I still had the Dragonstone in my pack, and now Elrindir was getting a bit too friendly for my tastes. I made my excuses and promised to visit another time – though I had already put it in mind I wouldn’t be in any kind of hurry to do so. Let the fire cool a bit!
Fed and rested, I managed to make my way up to Dragonsreach, to find the Jarl holding court again, his brother at his side, and a rather severe looking Dunmer before him. The hall was full of guards, and one was making a report, trembling in his boots.
“So it seems the fight is being brought to us, then. I hope Farengar has managed to find some information of worth from that Bosmer,” the Jarl said, but the Dunmer snorted.
“I rather doubt it, my Jarl, I didn’t like her look. I suspect she’s halfway across Skyrim right now.”
It stung, I admit it – especially as it had been my first thought, but now I was here and only too happy to prove the Dunmer wrong. With my jauntiest expression, I strode forward. ”Who, me? Actually, I’ve got the item I was told to get, right here.” I handed the stone over to Farengar’s eager hands and he immediately bolted toward his rooms, mumbling all the while. It gave me time to stare right at the Dunmer’s sour face and smile as sweetly as I could muster. Old wench.
“See here, Irileth, she returns,” the Jarl said, surveying me with his calm grey eyes. “And considering she has had expertise in dealing with these flying creatures before, I want you to take her with you to seek that dragon out and bring it down.”
“Pardon?” Suddenly the smile wasn’t on my face anymore. ”A dragon? All I did was see one, I didn’t fight it.”
“Nevertheless, I have reports that my men spotted a dragon outside our gates.” the Jarl continued. ”You will accompany my housecarl Irileth and a cadre of men to confront the beast. If we can bring it down, perhaps we can learn more about them and why they have returned.”
“Very good, my Jarl,” Irileth responded with an edge to her voice – she didn’t grin, but I could hear it in her voice. Match to the Dunmer then.
I cursed under my breath. So…the joke was on me, then. There was no chance of running from this one – the damned Dunmer was watching me like a hawk. Nothing else for it but to tighten my swordbelt and make my way toward the gates. The men were as nervous as I was.
“When was the last time anyone has ever fought a dragon? Couldn’t have been for thousands of years,” one man muttered beside me, but Irileth turned and addressed them all with cool assurance.
“Regardless, we will bring it down, and we will do our jobs. Your are Nords, sworn by oath to your Jarl, not milk-drinkers. Are you not?”
“Yes, Housecarl!” the men rapped out in reply.
Irileth turned her blood-red eyes to me, her face impassive. ”Well, almost all of us anyway. I have my eye on you Bosmer. Aim with your bow, but don’t think of running and hiding. I’ll have your head if you try.”
Wyrd…damn wyrd. Grimly, I made my way out of the gates of Whiterun, on the maddest mission yet. With a sour humour I told myself at least it wasn’t draugr.
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