Merely a decade had passed since Isran had attempted reforming the Dawnguard and all of his followers and companions abandoned his paranoid hatred. Whiterun was celebrating Lorchel’s tenth year of living in the city. An uproar of hearty cheers and laughter filled the Bannered Mare. The Nords used every excuse possible to drink an extra gallon than necessary, having a new citizen in Whiterun and staying for ten years was as good an excuse as any.
Though Lorchel, a humble and short statured, even for her kind, wood elf was quite embarrassed with the tirade. She was elsewhere, reminded of her abandonment of the Rift and her martyr; Isran.
The door slammed open and the head of the Gray-Manes walked in, shutting most of the crowd up for a moment; the Battle-Borns had started the rejoice, conflict was sure to follow.
“Have you heard, Vignar?” Idolaf called from a mug of Honningbrew, “Ulfric has been captured today! He’s going to the block in Helgen at noon tomorrow!” The other Battle-Borns cheered and a multitude of Imperial sympathizers joined in.
“Here I thought you were celebrating the elf’s stay.” Vignar sneered. Once more the inn was silent. Mikael, always daring, occasionally stupid, offered the Gray-Manes an ale to join in with the feasting, no matter the occasion. Vignar and the other shadowed Gray-Manes left the inn. Lorchel wandered over to the bar where Hulda was cleaning mug after mug.
“Is it true?” Lorchel asked, her voice soft like walking over moss in a dense forest, “Ulfirc was captured.”
“From what the Imperials are adamant about yes, I’d enjoy seeing his ugly red head roll down on the floor, however I don’t want to see him riding from Whiterun to ol’ Rorickstead along with the braggart of the song; Ragnar the Red.”
Lorchel laughed, “Have you sipped some of the ale again?”
“I might have, its hard to stay sober in a celebration as grand as this one. However I have to take care of the inn tomorrow, so I can’t visit Helgen. Would you be a charm and go for me. Tell me if he truly did get his head lopped off.”
“Any time, Hulda.”
In the end, even Lorchel had drank a glass of mead too many. Her head was spinning as she walked down the stairs in Breezehome. Through the window she saw it was already late morning, maybe nine or ten. She had a small breakfast of bread with honey before getting ready to leave. When she had her traveling attire on she looked in a mirror, examining herself from head to toe. Her chestnut brown hair in a messy bun yet her hair still came down to her shoulders. Her sky blue eyes contrasted her dark hair, which was the first sign to people she was magically talented, or so they said.
A sleeveless lamellar vest covered her upper body, immodestly leaving her sides bare for flexibility and breathing room. A belt, strapped with a steel dagger and adorned with multiple flasks and vials, and a satchel, connected her college skirt and the lamellar vest. Beige, thigh leather boots that had laces all the way up. There was nearly no heel to them, making them comfortable to wear on long journeys. Linen bracers covered her forearms and back of her hands. The whole attire was complimentary, both to her needs and to her figure. She packed an apple and other savory delights for on the road and lunch. She filled her wineskin with watered down, spiced ale. Three hundred septims should be enough for a trip to Helgen.
As Lorchel was locking her front door, Olava, her neighbor came up to her. “I had a dream last night, another vision. You were in it… greatness awaits you… as well as great sadness. It was clouded and I don’t remember much more. I wish you safety on your journey to Helgen.”
Unsure of how to reply, the wood elf thanked Olava and made her way out of Whiterun. She preferred Riverwood, it was quieter and surrounded by forests instead of the empty plains surrounding Whiterun. If she could have she would have bought a house in Riverwood, however none were for sale, she was saving up to hire a few carpenters to build a home from Riverwood’s local lumber. In the ten years she had lived in the hold she had only saved up 4,000 septims. Being a volunteer at the Temple did not pay, most of her coin she had earned through assisting Arcadia with crafting elixirs and potions on order. If Arcadia was low on time and high on work, she would send the recipes to Lorchel and she would have them ready the next day.
Riverwood, for the few people that lived in the settlement seemed to be bustling, the two children running around with their dog. Hod, Gerdur and Faendal worked hard at the mill. Alvor was sharpening a chipped axe. Embry was already thrown out of the Sleeping Giant Inn as he was slumped against the fence post. Hilde was the most frantic of all yelling at her son, Sven, “A dragon! I saw a dragon!”
“What is it now Mother?” Sven was a strongly built nord in fine clothes for his wage as the inn’s bard, long blonde hair yet not a stubble in sight.
“A dragon! I saw it fly over the barrow!” The son walked away, dismissing it, “You’ll believe me when that dragon burns down our town!”
He passed Lorchel barely noticing the short lass, Lorchel called after him, “Morning, Sven!” Sven turned around in surprise
“Hello, Lore, didn’t see you there.”
“Had your heads in the clouds again?” she teased.
“To be fair, yes I did. Camilla will be mine. However I fear that someone else is trying to court her.”
“Do tell, it despairs me that a charmer like you could lose Camilla, you make her swoon when you pass by and when you sing.”
“It’s Faendal, he has found interest in her and Camilla reciprocates that interest. Could… could you… give this letter to her and say it’s from Faendal, it should sort out the conflict and make sure she’s mine.”
He handed her a crumpled letter from his vest.
“What does it say?”
“Nothing more than what Faendal truly thinks. Please give it to Camilla.”
“Sure… I’ll sort it out now.”
She walked over to the Riverwood Traders, the only general supplies store in the town. Run by two Imperial siblings. A lot was on display, produce, weapons and potions as well as various clothes and fabrics. A fight was going on between the shopkeeper, Lucan and his sister Camilla, “I said no! No adventures, no theatrics, no thief chasing! Oh, a customer. I’m sorry you had to hear that.”
Camilla greeted Lorchel friendly, “Lorchel! How have the days been? Its been a while since you visited Riverwood.”
“They’ve been kind to me, however I’m worried about your relationships.”
“Not you as well?” she was losing interest immediately.
“Its just that Sven wants to give you this letter” she turned around however was confused by the guilt on Lorchel’s elven features. “in Faendal’s name, I don’t like lying or betraying an elven brother, nor a friend like you.”
“And you were right to tell the truth, please tell Faendal that I have made my choice and that he has won my heart. Thank you, Lorchel, you’ve always been trustworthy.”
They hugged however Lorchel could not help feeling like a child, even though she knew Camilla since the imperial was merely in her teens. Lorchel was in her late thirties, though her elven longevity and her short stature made the local nords assume she was merely a young adolescent. Only when she pushed her hair behind her pointed ears did they realize she wasn’t human at all, nor a child, though she was still damned to be mistreated that way.
She left Riverwood and made her way on to Helgen, the sun had passed her peak, she was getting close to missing the execution. To make sure there was a chance she’d be on time she put stride in her step. She was lightly built and lightly dressed; she could outrun anyone without having to revert to serious sprinting.
As she neared Helgen it was burning and nothing more than rubble remained. She pushed open the heavy gate to the town, Burned guards and villagers scattered the streets, she walked through the ghost town and as she neared the keep, one corpse stood out, it was a man in rags and hands bound, a journal was tight in his hands. He seemed like someone also headed for the block yet he was no stormcloak, he was no nord but a Redguard, nor wore an amulet of Talos, nor any blue, only rags.
She took the Journal and read the last two pages. It told the tale of a refugee from Hammerfell to Cyrodiil to Skyrim. He had gotten himself in a conflict between the stormcloaks and the imperials and was taken as prisoner of war for crossing the border. The last page was roughly and quickly scribbled and told about a dragon as black as volcanic rock, attacking the town during the execution, Ulfric had escaped and he was going to escape with Ralof, a stormcloak into the Keep, as there was a tunnel that led out of town in the Helgen keep. He saw the dragon dive at him. This is where it ended.
Curious for any survivors she entered the keep that was miraculously, from the outside still standing. However as she entered and wandered deeper, to the dungeons passageways had caved in and there was a point, past what seemed to be a torture chamber where she could go no further. It was pointless, she had to try to find the cave somewhere outside the walls of Helgen. She assumed it was southwest as that was the direction the keep had its back to.
Sure enough as she hugged the walls of the city and went slightly down the snow-covered hill she found a cave entrance, south-west of Helgen. Only ten feet inside was an open cavern, on one end lay an imperial soldier, beside a dead bear, on the other side, beside a cart lay a stormcloak. Both were near death. She rushed over first to the Imperial, checked his injuries and saw he had received a bear paw to his head, shredding his face and knocking him unconscious, he was bleeding slowly. If he weren’t bandaged soon he’d die. With a spell she closed his wounds and soothed the concussion, afterwards she quickly took out fresh linen bandages and wrapped his head to prevent infection if they opened again.
Next, she rushed to the stormcloak, his side was gashed open in the clear cut of an imperial gladius and was only just conscious. As she closed his wound with magic he stirred.
“Don’t move. It’ll aggravate the wound.”
He raised his head, “Don’t fret, lass, there’s no time. Riverwood needs to be warned, a dragon destroyed Helgen. It’s only a matter of time.”
“Don’t. Move. Your vital organs are bare, one sudden movement and I don’t want to know what will fall out.” She took out a needle and with one hand started stitching the wound soothing him as well as supporting the healing process with a restoration spell in her other hand.
“You’re damned good at this, are you a priest?”
“Used to be the Dawnguard’s field healer. I had to be quick and efficient. That’s in the past.”
“The Stormcloaks could do with someone like you in the war.”
“Not interested.”
“If you change your mind, head to Windhelm, I will tell Ulfric about your prowess. I’ll live now. Head to Riverwood, warn Gerdur. Go!”
When she thought Ralof could walk again, she left the cave and ran for Riverwood. Conflict seemed to be everywhere this day and every time she was the one in the middle.
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