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Whiterun was a city of reputation. It was reputed to be beautiful, sitting at the crest of its small peak that overlooked the sprawling tundras surrounding it. It was reputed to be a bustling center for trade, the beating heart of Skyrim’s mercantile business. And, usually, it was reputed to be a place of peace, where life was slower and little of any import really happened–save that one dragon attack, of course. That had been a bit of an oddity, but it had gotten right back to the normal flow of things right after.Until this last week, at least. The last week was pushing it– really pushing it, and Alinor was starting to get a little sick of the excitement.“Hello again, Svog,” he said as he set his hammer down delicately on the anvil, listening to the shuffle of footsteps clambering up the stairs of the Skyforge. He didn’t need to look up to know who it was; it was the fourth time in two days that the particular member of the Whiterun guard had ambled his way onto the grounds of Jorrvaskr, looking for him, specifically. Svog Danson, son of Dan Stonebrain, a shining gem among Whiterun’s finest, here to deliver more terrible news. Alinor pinched the bridge of his nose, massaging it and trying to stave off his encroaching headache. “What can I help you with this time?”He knew what it was. It was the same thing as the last three times. It was always the same thing. Really, the only question was whether it was one or both of them.“Ashborne is being–being a… A menace .” Svog was doubled over as soon as he reached the top of the stairs, wheezing from the way he’d been hustling. “He was–”“He was passed out in the branches of the Old Gildergreen, yes. I am very aware.” The pounding headache between Alinor's eyes was not truly because of the guard, though to poor Svog that was certainly how it seemed. Svog looked up to the high elf, his face squinching up in guilt and exhaustion as he caught his breath.“I’m sorry, ser, I really am,” he said, “but it’s–it’s not the Gildergreen, this time.”“Oh. Fuck. Well then… what was it this time?” Alinor had released the bridge of his nose, the headache was determined to settle, he might as well have his hands free in the meantime.“It’s the–” Svog pointed off into the distance–and right at one of the walls of the skyforge. It was the thought that counted, and to his credit, it was at least in the right direction. “The markets. He punched a guy. Laid him out.”Wasn’t the first time that had happened that week–Xantos had gotten in an all-out brawl at Belethor’s just two days ago, though admittedly, the other participant had been a willing one.“An acolyte, of the–the temple.”…Sounded like this time was a little… Different.“We got him in custody, up at Dragonsreach, n’--n’ he says–awh, golly, why do those stairs have to be so windy,” Svog panted, “–he says a shield-brother told ‘im to, a-and–... Can I sit down?”“Ah. Please do,” Alinor gestured at one of the stools that was kept on hand, “which acolyte did he punch? That will… unfortunately help determine if one of the other Companions did, in fact, tell him to punch an acolyte.” Gods, I'm glad he didn't punch Danica. Punching a priestess is never a good look. “U-um.” Svog meandered over, plopping himself gracelessly down on the stool. “Jen… Jenssen? …I don’ think he has a last name, ser, unless his first name’s… Acolyte. …So, just Jenssen.” “I. See.” Alinor tried to ignore the twitch that was working its way behind his eye. “Thank you for the word. I shall… get this handled as soon as I am able. Rest as you need, Cerum.” He began to lay his tools to the side, it was never a simple ordeal when Xantos was involved, best to have his things in order ahead of time. At least it was just Xantos this time. It was always a small blessing when Osprey wasn’t involved. The bandit was difficult enough on his own, but since they’d returned from the Eldergleam…Alinor had few regrets in life. Not leaving his home sooner, for one—that was a big one. Every now and then, he’d thought about the offer he’d received from one Belyn Hlaalu to learn the ins and outs of farming and trade—a smaller one, but not insignificant.But right now his biggest regret—sitting solidly at the top of the list, constantly reaffirming its position—was having let Xantos spend that one night at the Bannered Mare.He and Osprey seemed incapable of keeping their damn hands off each other whenever they were in the same room for more than ten minutes. They’d been sneaking around at night, waking up the others at all hours; had gotten into the habit of hogging the baths for ages, and gods help you if you reasonably assumed they were just bathing in there and tried to use a free bath; had been caught by Tilma in the pantry, and by Vilkas on the damn dining table, and Xantos was caught scouting out the space under the forge, and while nobody had caught them down in storage, there was little doubt they’d been down there, multiple times—and all of that paled in comparison to the time one crisp and early morning, when the damn town guards had arrived at the front steps of Jorrvaskr, alarmed over the yelling that had been coming from the Sky Forge.Nobody had been getting murdered. But someone was certainly getting stabbed.And the flirting— even thinking about it made Alinor huff in anger as he tromped down the steps, rolling his eyes and shaking his head. Gods, they were always flirting—at breakfast, at dinner, out in the yard, doing chores… It was insufferable , and inescapable, and everyone seemed to think it was his job to solve this problem. Skjor, Aela, Vilkas, even Kodlak, and Svog, and Svog, and Svog, and Svog —How do you solve a hurricane? That’s certainly what he felt like he was up against. The only solution seemed to be forcing them to separate, and you could only manage that for so long–as soon as they were done with whatever excuse had been hatched to get them apart, one or the other came moseying over to see what their partner-in-annoyance was up to. Gods, he hoped Osprey hadn’t been there for this… Acolyte-punching. For all he knew, she might have been the “shield-brother” who had told him to do it, and the very thought made his headache throb. He was just reaching the bottom of the stairs when he stopped, and took a deep breath.No. No, he had a much better theory as to who told Xantos to punch the man. He wanted to be wrong, but as he made his way into Jorrvaskr, he had an unfortunate feeling that he was going to be far too correct in the culprit.It was early afternoon, and many of the warriors were relaxing in the rear yard, ‘training’ which in this case meant heckling each other as whoever the most recent idiot was– this honor usually fell to Athis– the victim of an ‘unarmed spar’ with Nadja Stone-arm.However, that activity stopped when he made his way down the stairs that marked the end of the covered back porch, a near storm of irritation in his wake. He stopped in front of Farkas and Vilkas, looking down at the twins without saying a word. He watched Farkas freeze, look up, freeze a second time, and try to make a break for it that was stopped by the firm grip Alinor had on his collar.“Farkas. I will need you to answer my question honestly .” Alinor spoke through gritted teeth as he leaned into the dark haired nord’s face. “Did. Y ou. Te ll. Xantos. To fucKI NG PUNCH AN ACOL YTE OF KYNARETH ?! ”From where they were sitting a little ways away, Ria and Torvar started laughing uproariously.Alinor was Done. “Do the pair of YOU want me to come over there!? I can CERTAINLY come over there if you wish it!”Ria and Torvar, looking like spooked animals, were no longer laughing uproariously. There was a quiet ‘ohhhh’ from Vilkas as the smarter of the two twins took his leave. “Told you not t’ do it.” was the only comment Vilkas offered as he meandered his way back into the mead hall. A little two finger salute was the most comfort Farkas got before he had to deal with hurricane Alinor on his own. “Now then. Farkas. ” Alinor turned his gaze back to the man who he had in his steel grip. “ Please answer my question.”“Uhhh. Who's Farkas?” Farkas asked, and then his face squinched up with instant regret that only deepened when Alinor began to shake him. “Who’s Farkas!? You know full fucking well who’s Farkas, you fucking glan’nt. Who’s fucking Farkas!?” Alinor realized he was not quite as in control as he preferred to be, but he felt he was allowed this indiscretion as he hissed the next words. “The question I actually asked. Answer it. ”“I uh...” Farkas started to ramble, throwing out a thousand excuses including, “it was just business,” and “the ouster was gonna bite him so I suggested punchin’ instead,” and as he continued Alinor’s eyes narrowed into thin slits. He looked to be trying to disappear into his chestpiece, not unlike a turtle, looking anywhere but at Alinor. “I uh... yeah... yeah I did,” he finally admitted.“You…” Alinor shook Farkas a bit more to vent a bit of rage, and Farkas simply let him, getting wiggled about like a very thick, muscular ragdoll. “I am going to go inside and get a drink. When I leave, you will be waiting out front to help me collect from the city guards. Because your dumb fucking idea got him arrested .” With that, he dropped Farkas, and went into Jorrvaskr, Altmeris dripping off his tongue without thought.  “Fuckin’ bullshit nord nonsense. Damnable warriors and their senseless sense of bullshit.” Alinor stomped through the great hall, popping the lid off of a bottle of mead, draining it with a practiced swirl. “So gods-damned lucky I am already white-haired, or else I’d go grey from this mammoth bullshit. Fuck. ” “M’sorry Alinor,” Farkas said softly. He’d wandered after Alinor and waited, patiently, for Alinor to drain the bottle before he dared to speak. “I thought it'd be funny-” he was looking the part of chastised dog, and when Alinor looked at him he wondered to himself if those icy blue eyes could get any bigger. “T’be fair it's not like he wanted to punch the priest– or really specifically that guy.” Farkas explained. “He asked me for work n’ I had nothin’ for him to do so Athis suggested Jenssen because he snubbed us last week at the service during blessings.”“You weren't supposed to be there, Farkas. It was a private service.” Kodlak said from his reading chair by the window, overlooking the yard. He flipped the page and adjusted the spectacles on his nose with one finger. “It's not a fair chance for Ashborne to try and change if you take advantage of his station, Farkas- as I am sure you now realize.” Kodlak spoke evenly, not bothering to look at where Alinor was giving Farkas his best haughty elven glare. “It's only right you accompany Alinor to Dragonsreach and explain it's your fault Jenssen is now sporting a blackened eye and broken nose.” Alinor sucked in a deep breath. And tried to push out his irritation when he exhaled through his teeth.It mostly worked. “Farkas. I know you did not mean for Xantos to get in trouble over this.” Alinor's ears began to droop as the anger made way to tired irritated exhaustion. “But he is not in the same position as any of the rest of us. He will not be given a fair chance to explain himself to the guards, so please do not put him in this position again?”Alinor's words caused the nord to deflate even further as he followed the high elf out of the boathouse. “Yeah… You're right. Sorry that you got dragged into this.” He was silent for a moment, looking down at his feet, then glancing back over his shoulder towards Jorrvaskr like he could feel Kodlak’s silent judgment from here. “I should… prob’ly apologize to Ashborne too, huh?”“Xantos, Acolyte Jenssen, and the guards involved, yes.” Alinor listed off, headache thankfully starting to dull a bit as the mead worked its magic. “I… if you do not have work for him… just send him up to the forge next time. Why did you think it would not end poorly for him to punch a priest?”“Cause Jensen is an asshole!” Farkas insisted, Alinor squinting at him. As far as he knew, Acolyte Jensen was one of the most mild mannered members of the temple that shared a plaza with Jorrvaskr. The great Gildergreen had been chopped down after Xantos had been found napping in it, the soil it once resided in was now holding a small little sapling of a twin ashtree, a sibling. Alinor had to do a double take though, because the sapling he had delivered the week before had not been as thick around as his wrist- and the one planted was as thick as his shin. He stared at it for a moment, the moss and bark were the same, there was no way it had been swapped for an older cutting of the same tree- no... and the way the wind moved past his face carried whispers of Kyne, of healing and rebirth. He relaxed for a moment, a little smile pulling onto his face before he was leading Farkas towards the steps to the Cloud District, the breeze on the air promising rain.  “He’s been an asshole ever since we was kids! Used t’ tease n’ mock us cause our dad died!” Farkas elaborated, fidgeting with his hands and staring at the ground with a very intense look enhanced by the dark smudging he preferred as war paint. Alinor’s face softened just a touch, a sigh escaping his chest.Perhaps he would someday understand the petty community drama that was the lifeblood of the city. “Anyway, I thought Ashborne would lay him out n’ say it was from Farkas. Did he... he didn’t say I put him up to it, did he?” Farkas asked, looking at Alinor who just shrugged as they started to climb the massive staircase that led up to the great towering fortress at the crest of the hill. They passed Heimskier and his sermon, surprisingly subdued and meek today after a run in with Sybil where Sybil had bitten the man, and they passed a gaggle of guards who all gave Alinor salutes of respect and honor.Alinor wasn’t sure he was going to ever be used to that either.After a polite nod to the guards, Alinor tried to clarify something about the incident. “Did you mention to the ouster why you wanted him laid out? The fact that Jenssen was rude about your father, that is.” The high elf let out a sigh before explaining when Farkas shot him a confused look. “He does not care for people being… rude to folks about dead parents. Has… baggage I believe you have said? He has baggage about that sort of thing. And he likes you, though he would not admit it.”“Ach nah, I didn’t say nothin’ about it.” Farkas said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I just told him that someone wanted him laid out, I didn’t mention it was me.” “If you did not mention it was you… who wanted Jenssen punched–” Alinor felt the headache return with the sort of detachment that normally took years of meditation and isolation to obtain, “...why would Xantos think to say that the punch was from you?” It was taking more effort than he cared to admit to keep himself from grabbing hold of Farkas and shaking him again. “Uhh. cause I thought...” Farkas looked at his hands and frowned, humming. Alinor gave him a sidelong glance that was paired with another haughty high elf squint. The man could be so kind, so caring, so thoughtful- and yet...Farkas looked up at him, icy eyes locked on him. “M’sorry Alinor, I didn’t mean t’ make your day bad.” “You are not to blame. At least not for most of it.” Alinor glanced away from the man’s stare as they approached the bridge to the keep. A woman was storming out, Ahlam, if Alinor remembered right... she worked at the temple- a bad omen if he’d ever seen one. “Beyond that, I sincerely doubt it will get worse from here. Still, we had best retrieve Xantos.”Dragonsreach was a looming figure, ever present above them as they climbed the steps. The guardsmen at the front pulled the great doors open, allowing Farkas and Alinor to enter. The two of them stepped over the threshold, the warmth inside a welcome change from the late morning chill outside. They walked past the rows and rows of ceremonial armor from jarls long past, visible proof of the history of a building that had been standing since the first era. Alinor took a brief moment– barely a second really– to admire some of the masterwork on display. Many of the armors, if not all of those that weren’t of foreign origin, had been made in the very forge he had been working in earlier. It was a testament to the craft, to the lasting legacy of the Skyforge’s previous masters. Farkas and Alinor climbed the first set of steps, into the great hall of the fortress. Twin tables flanked a great firepit, which was smoldering with the remains of that morning's warming hearthfire. The tables were stripped bare, to be cleaned after the morning meal, and a gaggle of servants were working frantically to prepare for the evening dinner. Alinor knew that Jarl Balgruuf, if he could help it, took lunch on the great porch. Poor boy had been forced to interrupt it several times, even before Xantos and Osprey and started their mischief. Supervising them was Avenicci, the Jarl’s long suffering steward. Beside him was another man, Nazeem, if Alinor remembered correctly: A pompous little fool who seemed to think he had Avenicci’s ear, though Alinor knew full well that the man had less than none of the influence he so happily claimed. Chillfurrow farm was not nearly so impressive as he boasted, and the orchards were laughable in comparison to similar ones in the Rift– a fact that didn’t escape most of the merchants either. Above them hung the corpse of the great dragon Numinex, whispering softly from its perch. Alinor spared it a moment’s glance as well, still trying to figure out how to either get up to collect whatever wisdom the bones held, or to convince one of Jarl Balgruuf’s staff to bring it down for cleaning so that he could inspect it. Alinor, typically, approached the throne from the left, so that he would be on Jarl Balgruuf’s right. This was proper, this was how one treated nobility- it also gave his guardsmen the clearest view of whoever was approaching, allowing Irelith to perform her duties without trouble. It was polite, it was considerate- it was not what Farkas had in mind. Farkas went right, and that threw Alinor for a loop as he took a step to catch up with the big armored nord. The two of them approached the steps up to the dais, but paused. Balgruuf was in discussion with one of his thanes, a big man named Hrongar who Alinor was reasonably sure was the jarl’s younger brother. Beside them, Irileth was standing duty next to Caius- who was the captain of Whiterun’s city guard, shooting occasional haughty elvish looks of disgust at the back of Hrongar’s head as she discussed guard rotation with the stern looking captain. Unfortunately, Alinor had learned the hard way that Caius was easily bribed with mead- thanks to Xantos doing just such a thing twice during the last week. The man the two guards were keeping an eye on, Hrongar of Whiterun, so far as Alinor could tell, was a war mongering fool who seemed content to needle his brother incessantly about a threat that was not nearly as dire as the dragons or the bandits crawling ever closer to the city. The man seemed to fuss about atmoran tradition, battles, and personal slights, but did not have the foresight required to run one of the largest centers of trade in the province. Caius seemed to think much the same, if the sneer on his face was any real indication. Beside him, there was a young woman with dark hair dressed in a fresh-pressed whiterun tabard, not that much older than Alinor himself if he was judging human ages correctly. And she was doing her best impression of an emotionless pillar despite the gossip she was no doubt overhearing. Alinor took a moment to remember her face, because he had not seen her out and about in the usual guard rotation. "Have you reconsidered my idea?" Hrongar’s rough voice, carrying over the air as if this were nothing more than a regular conversation. “I haven't changed my mind, if that's what you're asking.” Balgruuf was looking at him, a dead eye’d kind of stare that spoke volumes about the number of bad ideas stopped before they could gain traction. “I won't leave Whiterun defenseless, even for a day.""If we send half our guards to aid the legions,” Hrongar whined, throwing his hands out. “Just for a few days, it could tip the scales in the Empire's favor!” Hrongar took a step closer, his hands on the throne as Balgruuf glared up at him with barely concealed disgust. The idea of leaving Whiterun to be picked over by the bandits that were making their little dens in the caves that bordered the hold obviously disgusted the man, doubly so knowing he could do so little to rout them. Alinor supposed that was how Xantos had lived, a big enough pain in the ass to be remembered, but not enough of a problem to warrant a shift in resources. “The Companions can help protect the city, and the Emperor will be in our debt."Alinor was very glad it was not Hrongar on the throne.Balgruuf ran his hand down his face, rolling his eyes before spotting Alinor. “Ah! Lad. I am glad to have you!” Balgruuf sat up straight, relief apparent on his face as he leaned forward. Irileth also looked relieved, though her stoic face barely twitched her mouth into a faint little smile. Hrongar’s head whipped over to spot Alinor and Farkas at the bottom of the steps. His eyes narrowed, his nose wrinkling in distaste at the newest proper companion of Ysgramor. Alinor sighed–deep, but slow, so that he did not look as exhausted with this conversation–with this day– as he decidedly was. He just needed to get through this. Get Xantos. Get back to the boathouse. It could be worse, he reminded himself. Osprey could be here.  Osprey, at the moment, was sitting in a side chamber connected to the great hall of Dragonsreach. She wasn’t aware Alinor and Farkas were there. In fact, she wasn’t even aware Xantos had been brought in.She, for once in her gods-be-damned life, was out on an errand.It had been masterfully arranged by Kodlak the evening before when Osprey had come to him asking if he’d seen Xantos, and Kodlak had decided, then and there, that he didn’t have the patience for that. When he said he hadn’t seen the dunmer, she’d been this close to wandering off when he’d caught her attention again, giving her a polite smile.“Sybil was looking for you, by the way, lass,” he informed her. “She wanted to see about some research related to dragon magic up at Dragonsreach some time soon.”Sybil had not been looking for her. Really, it was purely coincidence that when Osprey went to ask her about it, the girl was all about the idea. But, as far as Kodlak was concerned: whatever works, works.And so, the two of them had set out only a few hours before. They’d spent much of the day poring over old texts, bouncing ideas off of Farengar, studying the dragonstone. Farengar’s study was a comfortable little room to the side of the great hall of Dragon’s Reach, nestled beside his personal quarters and filled to the brim with all of his personal tat and ephemera. His books were jammed into several large bookcases, fit to burst. The girls had spread out a variety of scrolls over Farengar’s large desk, scattered about with notes on locations and possible connections. They’d pulled chairs into his study, made themselves something of a bookish nest around that desk, and were taking notes on anything that seemed worth pursuing, or remembering. And now, after being at it all morning, Osprey had come to a conclusion:She was getting hungry.“So here, here, here, and here-” Sybil started, pointing at different parts of the rough map they had made from the Dragonstone. “We know these graves are empty-” Sybil started, scratching her chin. “Because we passed one of them on our way to Zainab, and I made sure to make note of where it was, and we passed the other on the way to Darkwater.” Sybil hummed, looking at the pattern. “Based on your contact, Farengar, it sounds like these ones down here-” and she pointed to several graves in the southern rift, marked on the parchment in red ink. “Are also empty- are they waking up one by one?” Sybil asked. “Certainly Dragon corpses don’t just... get up?” There was a pause as Sybil stared ahead, her mind obviously drifting to the skeleton preserved and hanging above the great hall. “Do they?” “I… Think it’s the most obvious conclusion to draw,” Osprey said, wrinkling her nose. After the hours of research, she was practically lounging in her seat, her legs draped over one arm of the chair–much to Farengar’s distaste. She sounded distracted, because she was: the siren call of food was ever-present in the back of her mind.. “I think… Maybe it’s got something to do with the magic we’re, uh…” She glanced at Farengar for a moment out of the corner of her eye, then looked back to Sybil. “It… Feels some kinda way, is what i’m getting at. Rejuvenating. ”She sighed softly. “Fucking dragon necromancy.” How does that even work? Aren’t they Aedra? Can Aedra even die…? “...Maybe we should read some books on other types of Aedra,” she added after a moment, scratching her jaw thoughtfully as she looked off at the overstuffed bookshelves.“I don’t know if I’d prefer them getting up on their own, or being necromanced.” Sybil sighed, leaning on the table and resting her cheek in her palm. She shifted in her oversized robes- torn and tattered and worn thin from overuse. The deep red brocade was stained, the sigils of the school of destruction smunched down and crushed, barely more then a discoloration against the woven fabric. The trim had gone from a gold, to deep brown, unable to be washed back to its previous glory. The girl had kept the robes hitched up for so long that they seemed permanently creased where she had shoved them in the the variety of belts she wore. Her thick woolen mittens that she usually wore hung from cords attached to the long wide sleeves of the robe, the little buttons holding it keeping attached by barely a thread. The girl bat at the offending mitten, staring at the map with discontent. “What if there is a shout- like hear me out Osp-” Sybil started, shifting to her other hand. “I don’t want to think about a dragon necromancy shout,” Osprey sighed, closing her eyes as she tried to banish the very idea from her psyche.“Well no, she’s got a point.” Farengar interrupted, going over to his overstuffed bookshelf and scanning it for one of the titles. “The legends state that only a dragonborn could kill a dragon outright, that otherwise they go... what is the word? Dormant? This soul magic you keep alluding to- these whispers? They strike me as odd- out of place for something that is dead-” Farengar hummed, plucking a black bound book from the stack and setting it on the desk next to Sybil he flipped through the pages, scanning for a specific passage. Osprey leaned on the desk, leaning over to get a closer look as the court mage started to read aloud.“Lastly, we come to the question of the true meaning of being Dragonborn. The connection with dragons is so obvious that it has almost been forgotten - in these days when dragons are a distant memory, we forget that in the early days being Dragonborn meant having "the dragon blood". Some scholars believe that was meant quite literally, although the exact significance is not known.” Farengar started, picking up the book to Osprey’s distaste and starting to pace back and forth in the little study. His nasally voice was not really suited for recital, but it was passable, enough anyways.  “The Nords tell tales of Dragonborn heroes who were great dragonslayers, able to steal the power of the dragons they killed- These would be those whispers you speak of, I think.” Farengar added, looking to Osprey and Sybil. “Indeed, it is well known that the Akaviri sought out and killed many dragons during their invasion, and there is some evidence that this continued after they became Reman Cyrodiil's Dragonguard- again, that connection to dragons, and all of this - the direct predecessor to the Blades of today.”Osprey squinted. “...Doesn’t say what that power we’re stealing entails, does it?” she asked. She’d already seen some of it: the difference between Xantos’ using a shout at Bleak Falls, versus when they were on their way to the Eldergleam. Not to mention the things she’d seen on Solstheim… And of course she’d felt it, too.But, gods, what a strange feeling it was. It was hard to describe, even to herself, and she’d spent some time wondering what it was doing to the lot of them.“I uh... well no.” Farengar sighed, frowning. “All it says is- I leave you with what is known as "The Prophecy of the Dragonborn". It often said to originate in an Elder Scroll, although it is sometimes also attributed to the ancient Akaviri.” Farengar stopped in his pacing, squinting at the page. “Many have attempted to decipher it, and many have also believed that its omens had been fulfilled and that the advent of the "Last Dragonborn" was at hand. I make no claims as an interpreter of prophecy, but it does suggest that the true significance of Akatosh's gift to mortalkind has yet to be fully understood.” Osprey didn’t like that. Scholars just as clueless as we are, huh? She sighed down at the book still sitting open in her hands.Farengar scratched at the muttonchop beard that framed his face, frowning. “When misrule takes its place at the eight corners of the world, When the Brass Tower walks and Time is reshaped, When the thrice-blessed fail and the Red Tower trembles- That would be the old Tribunal Saints and the Red mountain by the way-” Farengar added helpfully. “Its said that the Red Mountain and The Throat of the world are one of many pillars apparently upholding-” Sybil gave him a look. “Right, right- prophecy.” he nodded, sticking his nose back into his book. “When the Dragonborn Ruler loses his throne, and the White Tower falls, When the Snow Tower lies sundered, kingless, bleeding- The World-Eater wakes, and the Wheel turns upon the Last Dragonborn.” he hummed, frowning. “The snow tower would be the throat of the world- kingless and bleeding though? Mountains don’t bleed do they?” “Well, I don’t know. You could definitely view an eruption as like, a…” Osprey rolled one hand on her wrist, “A metaphorical bleeding. …What’s the deal with the Throat? Not a volcano, too, is it?”“Nuhuh.” Sybil said, getting up and going over the books they already had out. “S’not- but its weird, the top is always perpetually in a storm, and the monastic group known as ‘The Grey Beards’ lives up there in seclusion.” “Mm.” Osprey’s brow furrowed, and she shifted in her chair to get a better look at Sybil. “Greybeards. Alinor mentioned them before, in passing, back… Back when we met, I think. They got some… Dragon something-or-other they’re up to?”“They speak the dragon tongue-” Farengar helpfully supplied. “Its said their voices are so powerful, even a whisper could blast a man to pieces- its this same power that Ulfric utilizes- its how he shouted High King Torygg to pieces.” “Farengar,” Osprey said. She gestured at the man, her hand flat. “ Focus. ”“No! This is focusing! They use the dragon magic like you do.” Farengar told her excitedly. Osprey seemed less than convinced at his claim of focus. “They utilize the Thuum, no doubt either a gift or stolen from dragons in the first era, and so it would make sense for them to be involved- and their fortress to be perched on one of the pillars of the world.” he wheeled around, going back to one of his shelves. “Do you already have my Atlas of Dragons, seer girl?” “Yes, its right here.” Sybil motioned to a book she had been pouring over since the conversation started. It was barely more then a list- dragon names, where they were killed, where they were buried. “You got this book from your contact right?” Farengar made a non-commital noise that meant it was definitely his shifty damn contact, because the man could not lie to save his life. Osprey watched him for a moment, her lips pursed before she righted herself in her seat. This was a lead, at least–somewhere for them to go, people who had some sort of draconic knowledge passed down. Alinor had said something about the greybeards taking students– or rather, that they weren’t. Her brow knit. How would they go about getting an audience with these ancient scholars? …Did they really need to? If they were really the last dragonborn, had something to do with an ancient prophecy, maybe… Maybe all they had to do was make themselves known.“So, this could be bullshit, Osp-” Sybil sighed, lifting the book. Osprey grunted; she didn’t seem to be listening, her gaze set on the middle distance. “But it gives the names of the dragon’s buried in Skyrim, those buried outside of Skyrim, and those who were never found-” Sybil made a displeased noise. “It seemed woefully incomplete though- no information on the dragons that apparently still live, no location or nesting grounds?” Sybil pushed the book over to Osprey. “Look though, recognize that one? “Mmm?” Osprey hummed, glancing up at Sybil, then quickly down at the book. She picked it up, scanning the page. 
Mirmulnir. Last spotted in The Reach in 2e 212.
“Well–just further credence to the whole… Dragon necromancy theory,” she sighed, her nose wrinkling in distaste at the very idea. Sure, technically, if the thing wasn’t truly dying, it didn’t quite count as necromancy, but–she shook her head. Now she needed to focus.She craned her head back slightly, looking over the book’s cover–it looked more like a journal than a printed record–then peered over at Farengar. “I know you’d sooner die than tell us about your contact, but… Who wrote this?”“Well, its a collection of records from The Imperial Blades rescued from their temple in Cyrodil, just outside of bruma.” Farengar looked around, his eyes narrowing and his voice dropping conspiratorially. “To have it is to invite Thalmor nosyness, so I would not let this book leave my study- if you must keep what is known in it, you must copy it for your- careful!” Sybil was tearing the page out of the book, the ripping noise a cacophony over the quiet air. She looked at Farengar, blinking at him as he sputtered and motioned to his book. “What? Its a copy of a copy. Just ask your contact for another one.” Sybil shrugged, tucking the page with living dragons into her personal journal. Osprey, meanwhile, lapsed back into silence. She knew of the Blades–but only of their history in Morrowind, which was lacking much of the information they needed. However, they’d been disbanded for only around two decades, so maybe–if they could find an ex-member, or bully Farengar into sharing his contact, or…Or…“Fuck me, I am starving, ” she groaned, sagging in her chair and frowning over at Sybil. As if to prove her point, her stomach grumbled audibly. “Are you hungry? …You think they’d mind if we picked over the kitchens, here…?”“They would absolutely mind,” Farengar said from where he doting over his newly injured book. Osprey didn’t seem to hear him. “They’re preparing dinner, as of now, and would find your intrusion to be annoying at best and detrimental at worst.”“If we asked politely,” Sybil said absent mindedly, “They might allow us a small meal- though tonight is going to be fraught.” Sybil hummed, narrowing her eyes. “I don't like that. Do you know where Xantos is?” Sybil asked, peeking up from her book. Osprey frowned, her nose wrinkling. If Sybil didn’t like that, she was certain she liked the vagueness there even less. “I… Doooon’t…?” she said, swinging her legs around to put her feet on the ground. “Why. What’d you see?”“I see him upstairs in Balgruuf’s rooms, but in clothing that isn’t his.” Sybil frowned, rubbing her eyes. “Its really fragmented.” “Whhhat the fuck,” Osprey breathed. Balgruuf’s rooms? Why? “Does–could you tell what… Time of day it was, or…?”Sybil shook her head, pinching her nose. “I see panic, and blood, and- Alinor?” Sybil looked up at Osprey, tilting her head and shrugging. “It's passing, I don't have much more to tell you.” “Well that's concerning.” Farengar looked unamused, his arms crossing in his robes. “Care to share, little seer girl?” Sybil sneered at him before shaking her head. “It's just the sight, it means something is going to happen and I’m not honestly sure what. Its very fragmented.” She looked to Osprey, a tilt to her head. “You'll know once Alinor is present that things are about to go south.” Osprey made a sound of displeasure, watching the girl as she weighed her options. On the one hand, she could go see if anything was amiss further in Dragonsreach; it wasn’t as if her deciding to look or not would change the whims of fate, realistically, and the safety of her people was paramount.On the other hand… How willing was she to be rushing into a fraught evening, really…?“...Let’s go check out the kitchens,” Osprey said, tossing her book onto the table and getting to her feet. She offered Sybil her hand. “And, I'm sure everything’ll be… Right as rain, nothing strange, on the way there. For now, at least.”She regretted the words as soon as they were out of her mouth. It was like she was asking for problems to arise faster. Her face squinched up even as she tried– tried– to offer Sybil a smile. “Yeah…?”Sybil frowned, shaking her head.  As Osprey and Sybil passed across the threshold of the great hall, just up a flight of stairs, Jarl Balgruuf was staring down at Alinor and Farkas wearing an expression not unlike a long-suffering parent: disappointed, but unsurprised. Alinor could tell it was not the first time he’d dealt with Farkas making a decision that wasn’t particularly well thought out, and it wouldn’t be the last, either.“So I have brought him here to apologize, and so that he can instead be the one who faces punishment, as Xantos punched Acolyte Jenssen on his orders.” Alinor wrapped up his explanation, pulling his hands back to his sides sheepishly. He glanced up to Irileth and was given pause for a moment: she was watching something behind him with a strange look on her face, tracing it across the room. 
Ohh, no. I have far too much going on to deal with that.
He could not resist looking though, and he watched as the two elder of the jarl’s children ran into the kitchens, the boy chasing his sister with a wooden sword as she shouted shrilly. Frothar was a spirited boy who was a touch spoiled, but could be reasoned with so long as a bribe for trinkets could be made. Dagny was her father’s favoritest little girl, in her flouncy dresses with new dolls every time Alinor saw her. She was very gregarious, and had asked him all about what it was like to be a companion- and then promptly asked him to ‘save’ her from the dragon skeleton attached to the ceiling. Alinor had obliged, much to Kodlak’s delight, keeping the children out of his and Balgruuf’s hair while they discussed the terms of Ashborne’s probation at the war table upstairs. Nelkir, the youngest boy who wasn’t present, on the other hand...He was an enigma. It was an open secret outside of dragonsreach that the lad’s mother wasn’t the same as Balgruuf’s elder two, but the lad was not entirely a nord, and if the child didn’t end up coming into some sort of magical gift sooner than not, Alinor would eat an ingot from the Skyforge. The lad also was of an unfortunately melancholic temperament, which made Alinor worry. He hoped that the auburn haired boy didn’t twist into a shadow as he grew.“I admire your dedication to fairness and equality Alinor-” Jarl Balgruuf said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “But Jensen does have a black eye and a broken nose- and likely a concussion.” Balgruuf explained as he shifted in his seat, shaking his head. “Throws a hellova punch... honestly-”Irileth shot him a look and Balgruuf made a high pitched noise in his nose. “What? Am I not allowed to admire tenacity and strength in someone who is now one of my subjects?” He asked the woman, who made a disgusted noise as the Jarl laughed softly before looking to Alinor. “We will have him released to your custody Alinor, and we will discuss with priestess Ahlam on appropriate reparations to Acolyte Jensen for Farkas of Jorrvaskr to perform.” Balgruuf said, motioning to Farkas as the man withered a bit beside Alinor. Alinor went straight with a little nod, taking a deep breath, “That sounds agreeable, Jarl,” the elf nodded, adjusting his stance as his ear twitched to the clatter of wooden sword against toy shield. “But Ceruval Irileth had mentioned that you’d wanted to see me separate from the incident with Acolyte Jensen, for a different matter entirely.” “Ah–yes,” Balgruuf said, nodding. “Are you terribly busy, lad? I have something to ask of you–”The sound of glass shattering brought all talks to a stop, the grousing of maids letting the guardsmen relax for a moment.  “So what are you thinking this is gonna be, huh?” Osprey asked as she and Sybil wandered into the kitchens, maids and chefs glancing over and giving them stink-eyes that Osprey refused to notice. She was laser focused, really–her gaze had stayed firmly on the door to the kitchens as they’d moved through the great hall of Dragonsreach, and she hadn’t seen any sign of Alinor during the course of that journey.Disaster wasn’t going to strike. Not yet.She leaned against a counter, grabbing a pastry off it and eating it with the utmost casualness. “Ah ‘ohw ‘oo hab a–” she wiggled her fingers mystically, “--a viffin’re poo, cuppah weeps abo, bow’ ‘aggahsweech.” When Sybil only stared at her, dead-eyed and unamused, Osprey worked on chewing faster so she might be able to communicate clearly.Like a civilized person.“Have you considered not speaking when you have half a tart in your mouth, Osprey?” Sybil asked as she swirled a bottle of mead. Osprey rolled her eyes, gesturing dramatically with the pastry as she chewed with gusto. She swallowed, then cleared her throat.“ I know ,” she said, enunciating every word with care, “that you had a vision or two, a couple weeks ago, about Dragonsreach.”She even wiggled her fingers again, for effect. Sybil nodded and took a sip of her mead. “I don’t remember them exactly, but go on,” she said after daubing at her mouth with a kerchief. “Do you HAVE to be in here?” one of the servants asked, hands on her hips as she stared at the two of them. Both of the dragonborn looked at the woman with the same unimpressed stare, blinking at her. The jarls two eldest children came in, the boy letting out a roar as the little girl squealed with mock terror and tried to hide behind Osprey, much to the little dunmer’s surprise. The boy chased her in a circle behind Osprey and Sybil, Sybil making a disgruntled face as she hauled up her robes and stepped away from the children, looking back to Osprey. “...So i’m wondering if whatever this fraught-ness is,” Osprey continued, watching the children go before turning her attention back to Sybil, “has to do with whatever you saw back then. Something about… Sons fucking maids, or somesuch?” She shrugged, taking another large bite of her pastry. Sybil pinched the bridge of her nose, grumbling softly to herself as the kids found a new table to use as cover for their little games. That grumbling went quiet as her eyes went wide and she looked up. Her head whipped around towards the cellar, the bottle dropping to the floor with a loud clatter as the glass shattered to pieces- the maid letting out a little indignant shriek as the girl trundled away, hurrying down the steps two at a time. She had hiked up her robes as to not trip, rushing down the steps, past the servants quarters- further and further into the pantry until the darkness swallowed her up. Osprey’s face rumpled in unhappiness, her shoulders sagging as she watched the girl go. “I thought Alinor was supposed to be here,” she sighed, taking another bite before she moved to follow.“No no no, I remember that prophecy!” Sybil said as she lit a mage light, letting it hover just above her head. She looked around the shelves of dry goods, cheeses, wines, cured meats. It felt like the pantry went on forever, rows and rows that gave way to sacks of rice and flour, sugars, and spices. She moved carefully along the rows of shelving, diving deeper into the guts of Dragonsreach. Osprey had no idea this was all down here, her eyes darting to and fro as the little beacon of light hovering above Sybil descended deeper inside. “I remember something about blood, and blades, and patricide.” Sybil said softly, checking the shelves and occasionally pocketing bottles that looked interesting. “Ooh,” Osprey said, grimacing as she ducked under a few truly ancient garlic braids tied to a post. “ Patricide… That’s promising…”It would be easy to get lost down here, if you weren’t careful. “I remember a door, a blood stained, soaked door.” Sybil said softly, tripping over her robes and letting out a disgruntled grunt. She hiked them up again, tying them in a loose knot that she stuffed into one of the belts. Her boots were embroidered in the same way her mittens were, and they were obviously a size or two too big for her. Little flower patterns danced around her ankles, flowing into one another in perfect little hand stitching. She stomped along the rows, her eyes narrowed as she scanned the walls to see if she could find the door she had seen. The girl shivered, shoving her arms in her sleeves. “S’cold down here, ought to have grabbed my cloak.” Sybil whispered, as if the silence was oppressive. “Where, exactly, are we going?” Osprey asked. She’d started to move away from Sybil, doing a search of the area all her own. She was stepping over bags, baskets, and buckets, peeking behind furniture, as if this door might be intentionally hidden. “This doesn’t really seem like the sort’a place for–”She stopped.She’d poked her head into a little side room, narrow and cluttered with all sorts of forgotten nonsense–and there it was. At first, she’d thought it was just a closet, almost walked away from it, and then Sybil had stepped over with her little light spell and that was when Osprey spotted the stains. Blood was freckled on the open door, and splattered on the floor, staining the shelves and bags that were close enough to get caught in the crossfire. She looked at Sybil, who looked up at her. The white light of the spell made her look like a grave ghost, her gray eyes locked unblinking on Osprey. “Do you hear that?” she whispered softly, a tremble to her voice. Osprey’s lip curled. She wanted it to just be a terrible accident with a wine bottle, but she knew it wasn’t. “Fuck,” she breathed. She gave Sybil one last hesitant glance, then moved over, looking into the room with the utmost reluctance.The smell hit her first. It was sickly sweet, like incense and sex... she covered her face, blinking to adjust her eyes to the low light. It was a stone room, devoid of furniture, devoid of anything save a single long wooden table with a sword stand in the middle of it. There was a book on the table, caught in the horrible splattering of blood and viscera. On the floor was a woman, one of the lead maids. Osprey recognized her; Gods, she’d been up sweeping in the great hall when they’d arrived only a handful of hours ago.It was always a little surreal, seeing someone who had only just been so full of life, suddenly… Not.What had been done to her body was sickening. Her neck was sawed open to the bone, clumsy and deep, more failed decapitation than successful slitting–and the skin just around the wound was pulpy and raw, like her writhing had only helped the blade chew into her. The rest of the damage had clearly been performed posthumously: an attempt had been made at cutting open her chest, judging by the way her torn skin left her torso looking like a flower in bloom. They’d tried to cut through her ribcage, but failed, instead opting to slice her open at the belly and pull her organs out from there. Blood, viscera, waste, bile–it was pooled around her, nonsensical runes haphazardly drawn in it, barely recognizable if you weren’t looking for them.Osprey had never tangled with the Dark Brotherhood, never seen the Black Sacrament herself. She’d read about it, though; heard of its foul properties during her time at the Temple of Mephala, the priesthood condemning the ritual as sacrilege most profane. Even with only her limited experience, though, she felt–no, she knew– she was looking at something that resembled it, if only as a twisted mockery.She took a step back, her eyes wide. She wanted to look away, but couldn’t, her gaze traveling up from the maid’s body to her face. Her mouth was carved into a rictus grin, teeth exposed and lips removed as her eyes stared sightlessly at the ceiling. It was so easy for Osprey to imagine the scene: the way she’d tried to get free, the way her assailant must have played in her remains like–Like–The worst thing was that it was all still wet and warm, a sickly sort of humid in the little pantry as steam rose from the eviscerated woman’s torso. Whoever had done this, they’d done it fast, and they’d done it very, very recently.“Sybil,” she said, putting a hand out to keep her from venturing too close–from having to see. “Go tell the Jarl there’s been a-”There was a laugh, and Sybil let out a shriek–And then the door slammed shut behind Osprey, the click of the lock sliding into place the last thing she heard as darkness swallowed her up.  A storm was roiling outside of the castle of Dragonsreach. Thick black thunderclouds were coalescing over the plains of whiterun, rumbling with lighting that set the priests of Kynareth on edge. The water started to pour down, overtaking the light shower that had been so gentle before. The first thick drops hit the stones of the castle, splattering away like a oil in a hot pan, before the storm hit properly and started to block out the very sun.Xantos Ashborne was sitting in the first cell of the Whiterun dungeons, in the underbelly of the great keep of Dragonsreach. He was sitting on the single wooden bench directly in the middle of the small space, with his hands shackled behind him with thick iron clasps held with even thicker iron chains.  When he had been brought in, he had been forcibly stripped nude, hosed down, his hair taken down from its ties and little bronze spirals, and his weapons and armor confiscated and taken to gods knew where. He was dressed in a white linen shirt, with white linen pants, with his hair pulled out of its traditional braids- instead gathered back behind his head with a leather cord in a rough approximation of a bun at the base of his neck. He had been forced down into the bench, despite the fact he did not fight the guardsmen or the warden at any point. He did not kick, or scratch, or throw a single punch. He did try to bite when they tried to force his mouth open, but that felt fair and reasonable to him.  He had done nothing wrong. Alinor would fix it.His ears twitched, there had been a scream somewhere above him, panic, excitement. There was a commotion, something going on just a floor above him. He could hear the thunder of many feet separate from the thunder that roiled outside. He looked up, his eyes narrowing as he listened past the subtle drip of the leaking ceiling towards the front of the jails. He tracked the confrontation by sound, one of the guardsmen outside of his cell watching him with a perplexed look. “What are you on about?”Someone screamed again, a woman, and there was shouting by Jarl Balgruuf’s personal guards. “Ay, we ain’t supposed t’ talk to him.” the other guard hissed, the first one smacking his arm twice and pointing at where Xantos was glaring at the ceiling. “He’s just tryna get us to go in there so he can escape again! You heard Irileth! Twenty seven times!” the second guard hissed, the first one shrugging and settling back against the post for the door of the cell. Xantos sucked his teeth, his ear twitching. “Sm’thn goin’ on.” he whispered, his bad eye twitching. He got up, the guardsmen startling to attention as he took a step forward. “Ay! You stop that!” the second guardsman said, pointing his spear at the cell door. His voice was twinged with panic- they could hear it too. The first guard was staring at the ceiling, his fingers clutching the haft of his spear with a white knuckle grip, sweat beading on his brow as he swallowed hard. Xantos’ eyes rolled in his head, listening to the footsteps and trying to track them to his internal map of the keep. They were heading up steps, there was a clashing of weapons, a clatter of armor as panic was settling into the ranks above him. Feet, three pair, coming down the steps to the dungeon from the main hall. Running- crying. The jarl’s children? Xantos narrowed his eyes and took a deep breath. The air was wet, damp, and there was a metallic scent on it. His lip curled as he took another step forward despite the guard yelling at him. He ignored it, his eyes locking on the wall opposite-Thud thud thud thud thud-Two children burst forth from the archway, scrambling across the wooden floor of Whiterun’s processing area, past the warden’s desk and the chairs in the waitingroom. The little boy hit the wall, bouncing off of it with a grunt. They were at a frantic dead run, feet pattering hard as the little girl screamed. Her eyes were wide, her mouth open as she ran for cover behind the desk, tucking away under the shelves and throwing bloodied hands over her mouth. Her flouncy dress was stained red, splattered and bloody. She had a cut across her cheek, not clean but ragged and threatening to leave a scar. The boy was also smeared with blood, his little wooden shield stained a red brown as he clutched his dull wooden sword for dear life. His eyes darted left and right as he backed through the threshold to the dungeons. His foot slipped, leaving a smear of vicera across the stones as the guardsmen tried to interrogate him. He wasn’t listening though, wide eyes locked on the staircase as the footsteps slowed, one after another. There was a scrape of metal against stone that sent a shiver up the boy’s spine, the fear tingling across his skin in visible goose flesh as he swallowed hard. “You need to go back upstairs- we’ve told you the dungeons arent-”“This isn’t a place for children!” “He’s going to get us!” the little girl shouted, and then yelped and threw her hands over her mouth as she sucked in a trembling breath. The guardsmen didn’t ask what was wrong, or why the little girl was sobbing, or why they were covered in blood. No. They didn’t think to ask in their panic, but Xantos- oh Xantos was watching that doorway with an unblinking stare as he stood at the bars of his cell. He saw the youngest boy before the guards did. Thud thud thud thud-The youngest of the jarl’s children had been dressed in flashy greens, an embroidered collar of red and blue- Xantos knew this. He had seen the child on his way in for punching Acolyte Jenssen. The boys shirt was now dyed a sickly patchy brown, the embroidery lost in a piece of intestine draped over the boy’s shoulder like a scarf. His fingers were stained red, leaving a smear along the stone as he looked into the room, his lips split into a manic grin. The whites of his eyes were showing all around his irises, which darted back and forth like a hare caught in a trap ready to gnaw its own leg off. His pupils were pinpricks despite the low light of the dungeon, the flickering flames of the torches throwing ragged shoulders across him as he pulled himself into the room- it was like he was compelled by a leash tethered directly in the middle of his chest. Clutched in his hand was a sword, made of wicked twisted ebony that seemed to cling to his hand as tightly as his fingers wrapped around its leather wrapped hilt. It’s tendrils seemed to crawl up, extending up and into his wrist. The blade was serrated, glistening almost purple in the blood that bathed it.“Stay away! Get away from us!” the elder boy cried at his youngest brother, backing up and holding his sword out like it would do anything against such a wicked weapon. The sight of him caused the guards to freeze, their mouths open stupidly as the boy inspected them with a tilt of his head. He stepped forward, they stepped back. The first guard readied his spear, bracing the butt of it against the stones as the boy moved forward. The second guard was speaking, but it was cut short by a wild upward swing from the child, the blade sawing through fabric, leather, skin, and catching against bone-  painting the dungeon in a spray of hot crimson. The boy’s other hand caught the haft of the spear, twisting it in his grip as he brought his sword down on the wood, shattering it into a shower of splinters. Xantos backed away from the bars, hopping up and sliding his legs through the hoop made by his arms, bringing his hands around to his front. He pressed forward as the older brother screamed, crying and begging and trying to get away as his younger brother became preoccupied with savaging the corpses of the guardsmen. Xantos spotted the little girl behind the boy, her eyes locked on the carnage. He whistled, getting her attention. “The keys! Get me the keys!” Xantos hissed, pointing at the desk. Her head turned, a ring of keys hanging off a hook beside her. She stared at it for a moment, hesitating as the sickening squelch of flesh and leather filled the air. She grabbed them, the metal clattering together. It was a split second decision, and her aim was not very good.But Xantos managed to catch them with the tip of his middle finger, popping them into the air and snapping the correct key in his hands, awkwardly forcing them into the lock and twisting. It clicked, the door creaking as he shoved it open. He wrenched the ring of keys out of the lock, snapping it off in the door. The little maniac had spotted him now though, eyes locked on him as he watched Xantos move. He had been muttering little twisted prayers and carving into the guardsmen like a brutal mockery of wild game tressed for the holidays. Xantos kept his eyes on the boy, even as he listened to the elder brother sob behind him. It was obvious to Xantos, he’d seen possessions, he’d seen people not in control of themselves. That weird tether seemed to pull the boy forward, his mouth splitting again into that grin as his foot squelched into the guts of one of the guardsmen, sliding against yellow fabric dyed red. Xantos took a step back, sliding his heel against the stones. The boy charged him, that blade coming up in a wide arc that sliced through the air with the same kind of vibration as the Bloodskal. Xantos took two steps back, careful to keep his feet on the wet tones as the boy screamed in frustration, throwing out three rapid slashes in a row. Xantos kept just out of reach of each one, leading him around in a circle around the cell block’s open floor. The eldest boy took his chance, darting over to the warden’s desk to grab his sister. The manic boy’s eyes darted over to them and Xantos took his opening, stepping in close and bringing his fists down into the child’s back, trying to lay the boy out flat. Instead his head twisted to look at him and Xantos let out a grunt, scrambling to put space between them as the attacks began anew, the sword swinging wildly, catching Xantos first in the side and then across his cheek under his good eye. Xantos didn’t blink, keeping his eyes locked on the boy as he moved backwards. The sword came down in a over head chop, Xantos catching the blade with the chains of the shackles. It snapped them in half, cutting down and leaving a deep groove in the stones that was filled with blood as quickly as the boy pulled the sword back. The boy screamed in rage, charging at him with reckless abandon. Xantos stepped to the side and the boy stumbled into the jail cell as Xantos kicked the door closed with a click. Xantos took a frantic step back as the kid wheeled around, letting out a feral roar and running to the bars, trying to slash at him from the gap. “Y’okay kid?” Xantos asked, not taking his eyes off the feral beast thrashing against the bars. “I... I think so?” the elder boy stuttered, holding his sister close as she sobbed into his shoulder. “I don’t know-”“S’alright.” Xantos said as he let his hands drop, rubbing at the shackles. The young boy in the cell had gone still, his eyes locked on Xantos and full of malice. He lifted the sword, aiming it at the broken lock as Xantos’ face contorted into a grimmace. “Shit.” he twisted, running towards the other two children. “Up the steps up the steps up the steps!” Xantos shouted, the little girl unable to handle it anymore and sinking to her knees in a violent sob that shook her whole body. Her brother was trying to pull her to her feet, but Xantos did not have time to hesitate. He scooped them both up into a tight bear hug, his arms constricting around their chests as he took the steps two at a time. He twisted, risking a look over his shoulder as he rocketed up the steps and into the darkness above.At the bottom, wreathed in the glowing red light of the torches, was the youngest boy- the sword in hand. Xantos kept moving, shoving into the first door he could find and barreling into the servant’s quarters. The servants screamed, barricaded behind wardrobes and beds in the corner. “RUN!” was the only thing Xantos could shout as he tore through the next chamber, down hallways and leaving a bloody trail of footprints down yellow woven rugs. He heard screaming behind him, the scramble of adults as the youngest child entered the room. Xantos shouldered through another door, almost falling on his face as his feet hit slick stone instead of hard wood. He fell on his side, curling around the screaming children in his arms. He let them go, shoving himself up as the little boy pulled his sister away from the open door. Xantos kicked the door closed as he got to his feet, panting heavy as he listened to the boy. There was a scuffle, violence beyond. “We need to go.” Xantos said, jutting his chin towards the staircase. The boy nodded, hauling his sister up them as Xantos stood at the base of the steps, his eyes locked on that door. He could hear the screams, the scuffles, smell the blood. “We need t’ find ya’ da’, n’ Irileth!” Xantos spared a glance at the boy, who was struggling as his sister cowered against the steps. Xantos watched them and let out a long suffering sigh, taking the steps and scooping the little girl up by the back of her stained dress. The boy looked up at him as he shifted her under arm like a sack of flour. “Y’need carried too?” Xantos snapped, the little boy shaking his head frantically and scrambling up the steps with Xantos hot on his heels. The three of them made it into the jarl’s family quarters, a maze of rooms and hallways that made Xantos’ head spin. He’d never made it that far into the keep before, so he was lost in a maze that could hide the little serial killer behind a myriad of doors, closets, and little side rooms. Luckily, the boy seemed to know his way, leading Xantos down the halls with confidence, taking his bad hand and rushing through doors. “Da ought t’ be up on the porch, we’re supposed to meet on the porch if we’re attacked-” The boy sucked in a ragged breath, trembling like a leaf as he looked left and right at an intersection- afraid his own brother might be at the end of either corridor. Xantos shifted the little girl against his hip, the girl clinging to his shirt like he was the only real thing in the world as she stared into the void. Gods he hoped they didn’t get ambushed up here- it would be hell to try to get away. They crept through the halls, Xantos’ ears twitching to listen.He didn’t hear the youngest with the sword anymore, but he did hear panic below in the servant’s quarters.All he knew was that blade was not just ebony, and something wasn’t right with the jarl’s youngest son. The boy led him through a door that opened up onto the great balcony above the great hall of Dragonsreach, the hearth below snuffed out an a gruesome painting of brown and crimson staining the tables and the rugs below. Xantos stared at it for a moment before the tugging on his hand drew him towards the war room, towards voices.Towards Irileth, towards Balgruuf, towards Alinor...Sybil crying-Xantos’ insides twisted up, his eyes going wide as he darted across the balcony towards the voices, through the archway and feeling the sting of a spear in his shoulder, the bite of metal on bone. “S’me!” he snarled, throwing his weight opposite to shove his way past two whiterun guardsmen who were trying to block his path. He shot out between them, crimson trailing behind him as he looked around, guards trying to mount a defense, “ALINOR!” Xantos shouted, twisting to avoid another spear as he backed up towards the open doors to the great porch. There was panic, the elder boy screaming for the guards to stop as the little girl sobbed in Xantos’ arms. “Hold! Hold your spears!” Alinor’s voice called out as Xantos felt a blade slash past his face under his good eye, digging the cut already there a little wider. “That is Ashborne! He has the children!” “Xan!” Sybil cried out, Xantos turning to see her- And catching a club to the back of his head.And suddenly his world was black.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

It took every ounce of self control in Alinor’s body to not lunge at the guard who had just bludgeoned his friend into unconsciousness. Luckily for the guard, he was less important than making sure that Xantos and the children were alright. That did not, however, do anything to stop his tongue as he hustled over and began checking over the dunmer. Sybil was on his heels, close enough to almost be stepped on.

“I am

certain

that you have a good explanation for bludgeoning Xantos into unconsciousness, guardsman?” Alinor looked up from the head wound for a single moment at the guard before returning to the head wound, healing spell working through the damage quickly.

“I uh... I panicked.” the guard stumbled out, rubbing the back of his head.

“I am not certain which is worse–” Alinor gently set Xantos’s head in Sybil’s lap as he began to check over Frothar as Dagny seemed to crumple in on herself. “–the idea that you would bludgeon any of us Companions in a panic, or that you

presumed

that he must be behind the chaos and decided he needed to be put down.” Sybil looked up at the guard, glaring at him as he muttered out an excuse about seeing the children and panicking, and not realizing Xantos was on their side, and so on and so forth- pittering into nothing as Alinor’s eyes narrowed at him.

Balgruuf had been right behind Alinor as well; the moment he saw his children he’d started moving over, laser-focused, the dunmer bandit be damned. While Alinor was making sure Frothar was unharmed, the jarl had scooped Dagny into a tight hug–as if she might float away on the wind if he let her go. When he did pull away, it was only to look her over himself, checking for obvious wounds or injuries.

“Where–where is Nelkir?” he stammered. He looked over to Sybil, wide-eyed. “You said you saw him?”

“He’s gone mad da!” the little girl cried, sobbing inconsolably into her hands. “He chased us down t’ the.. T’the dungeons!” she started bawling in earnest and Balgruuf wrapped her up in a big hug as his son came around to look at Xantos.

“Dagny let him out, da,” Frothnar said, motioning to Xantos with a single hand. “Sh’let out the criminal, and he saved us-”

Balgruuf froze, his eyes darting towards Xantos and “Did he hurt Nelkir?” Balgruuf asked, Frothnar shaking his head.

“Grabbed us and ran, locked Nelkir in a cell n’ let him scream it out t’ give us a head start.” The kid explained, taking a few steps towards the downed Dunmer. Sybil had rolled him on his back, channeling healing magic into his head and neck. The little boy looked uncharacteristically thoughtful as he looked down at Xantos, his eyes half lidded. “Da... he could have killed us at any time, took us hostage, escaped while Nelkir sliced us t’ ribbons.” Frothnar frowned, his eyes narrowing into thin slits. “But he didn’t... n’ I don’t know why.”

Sybil let out a disgusted noise, carefully letting Xantos’ head lay on the floor. “That is because he’s not a heartless monster like you lot like t’ paint him!” Sybil snarled, her eyes darting from Frothnar, to Balgruuf, to Irileth.

“Alinor?” she said,he let out a hum and sat up. Sybil was standing, adjusting her robes and the wraps around her wrists. She looked up at him, her grey eyes locking on him after a split second dart to Xantos. “I’m going to go find Osprey,” She said quietly. “I should have never run, I should have never left her down there.” Sybil pulled on her mittens, looking around the greater balcony. “I’m going to go to Farengar’s study, he’s locked himself in his room no doubt, and I’m going to take one of his staves,” She explained as she tied her robes carefully around her waist. “And I’m going to find Osprey- I know that the two of them have driven you insane, that they are oil and fire and that its like pouring wine in a hearth...” Sybil turned towards the doors, one of the guards stepping out of her way on instinct. “But she’s the nicest thing he’s ever had, n’she’s the closest thing I’ve ever had to a friend besides you.” Sybil looked over at Alinor, watching him adjust his clothes and ready his knife. “M’ not going to leave her to die to some homicidal child maniac.”

“Its not him.” Dagny sniffled. “S’that sword, I think.” she hiccuped and wiped her nose on her arm. “It whispers.”

“I don’t care.” Sybil said plainly. “Whatever it is, the sword, the kid, fuck, that guy right there-” she gestured to the guard who had clubbed Xantos. “I’m going to stop it, one way or another.” Sybil held out her hand, a little ball of silvery light starting to form between her fingers. She let it bounce a little bit as she fed it magicka, watching how it fluttered before she tossed it into the air. It flashed, stabilizing above her in a soft white light. Once it was stable, secure, she pulled a small sharp dagger from her boot with a little flourish. She looked to Alinor, giving him a little nod before heading down the steps.

Alinor nodded back without much thought, staying where he was for three heartbeats before he realized what was happening, and his eyes went wide. “Sybil!? Do

not

–” the high elf cut himself off, before he hustled after her, a quick shout of: “Watch his back, Farkas!” that was tossed over his shoulder as he followed the Breton teen back into the keep.

The floor below was silent and dark save for the hazy light that floated through the windows. Never had Alinor heard the keep so quiet. Every sound seemed to carry over the air, every footstep, every breath. Sybil crept along the wall, her eyes darting about like she had done this before. Alinor kept behind her as she slipped into Farengar’s study with naught but a rustle of her robes, moving towards his rack of staves. Her hands hovered over each one as a soft hum escaped her lips. She plucked one from the hooks, the head carved like a immaculately detailed roaring dragon in bronze and a dark hard wood for the haft. “This will do.” she whispered, looking up at Alinor as magic started to seep out of the weapon to mingle with her own energies. “We gotta cross the hall, towards the kitchens. Cover me.” Sybil did not give Alinor a chance to argue, moving across the darkened hall like a flitting shadow in her own little mage light.

The windows were aglow with the diffused orange light of sunset.

Alinor kept close, his eyes darting around the darkened halls with a twinge of a shiver crawling up his spine. He looked around, his eyes scanning over the dark keep as his ears flicked to listen. In the dwindling light of the evening they would be easy pickings if a small child with a twisted black blade decided to slide up behind them and tuck the ebony piece ever so gently nestled between their ribs. Alinor took a steadying breath, weighing the cons of seeing if he could call for the Companions, do a full search and sweep of the grounds.

Sybil’s hem pulled through the thick coagulated blood on the stones, past the bodies froze in terror. She was moving with singleminded intent towards the serving quarters and pantry- but Alinor paused to test the doors.

Locked.

He leaned down to inspect it.

Locked with daedric magic.

His lip curled like a disgusted cat, his ears pinning back. Whatever daedric prince the sword belonged to was angry, and had not been sated by the current bloodbath. It was in moments like these that Alinor was reminded that the Vigilant of Stendarr existed for good reason, even if he found them distasteful zealots personally. Once upon a time, it was a weekly occurrence to hear that a daedra had ravaged settlements, destroyed lives, tainted and haunted land for all time. He had read about it extensively in his history books, though he had never considered that he might go up against them in his own lifetime.

He turned to follow Sybil into the labyrinth depths of Dragonsreach.

It was cold in the pantry, and not because they were in repurposed natural caves that snaked down into the earth. Alinor watched the walls as Sybil picked her way past dry goods, bloodied in their bags and baskets. He would need to talk with Balgruuf about shoring these walls up, due to risk of tunneling Falmer. He had been sent on a few jobs in the Eastmarch where he had rescued Falmer hostages, and it was never a pretty thing, never a misunderstanding. The creatures, sapient or not, were foul things that seemed sadistic by their very nature- at least, so far as Alinor had seen. He shook the thought from his head, looking to Sybil’s flickering candlelight. She was crawling into a room, over bags of bloodied wheat. Alinor moved to follow her, hearing the disappointed noise from her throat.

“I was hoping she’d still be here,” Sybil’s voice, sad and despondent. She pulled her head out of a dark room, looking to Alinor as the spell threw harsh shadows over her face. “We’re too late, she’s gone-”

“Dead?” Alinor’s spine went cold, though Sybil shook her head rapidly.

“Nononono- she picked the lock!” She clarified, moving aside so he could see the bent pick still in the barrel. Alinor let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, sagging against the wall and pressing his palm to his face. He stepped out of the closet, giving a hand to Sybil to steady her as she crawled out of the closet too. His eyes went to the ground- there were Sybil’s prints, initially- dryer and crumbling. He knew she had run, and the child had caught her at the base of the steps...

But there were fresher prints, clearer ones, Osprey? Perhaps.

He started to follow them, the way they kept to the walls and made full contact with each step- like she paused and waited and listened. Alinor moved with them, following the path into the servant’s personal quarters... their rooms, their baths... their own small kitchens.

The idea of the small child somehow procuring a kitchen knife to supplement the sword made Alinor frown.

“Sybil… I know you have the staff, but would you stay behind me, as close as you can manage?” Alinor spoke softly, keeping his voice from carrying down the cramped halls. “We do not want to get separated in a fight, and… there is daedric bull-fuckery enough that… I would rather we not

hurt

Nelkir.”

“Not hurt him?” Sybil asked, turning to look at Alinor. She gestured with the staff and Alinor’s nose wrinkled in distaste. “I intend to hit him in the face with a fireball.”

“Sybil. We do not hit daedrically possessed and or manipulated

eight year olds

with fireballs.” Alinor did not, however try and take the staff. He wasn’t an

idiot

. He could see by her eyes, she wanted him to try and take the staff. She was ready for him to take the staff. She was

excited

for him to try and take the staff. That was a welt in the middle of his forehead waiting to happen. “You… stop looking at me like a ratting terrier, we have to find our Osprey.”
 
Twenty minutes ago.

“SYBIL!” Osprey had shouted. The second the door had shut behind her, she’d whirled, slamming herself into it as if she could just shoulder it open—but it was already locked. The door was thick, the walls moreso, and she could barely hear what was going on outside—but—

There was more laughter. Another scream. A scuffle, and a strangled sound of pain. Osprey’s heart was pounding in her chest, her hands shaking as she felt along the unfinished wood of the old door.

“Sybil,

Sybil, SYBIL—

” she felt metal under her fingertips and her other hand shot to the collar of her shirt, reaching down into her chest wrap to pull out her lockpicks. “I’m coming! I’m coming, I’m coming—get yourself safe!”

She heard footsteps. Whatever scuffle had happened, it was over. She felt like she might be sick—but now wasn’t the time for that.

She needed to get out.

She needed to

get out.

She stilled herself, taking a deep breath. Shaking hands, panicking, would slow her down. She needed to distance herself for this. She needed to be detached. Efficient.

Fast.

She didn’t have time for error.

Her focus shifted from what was beyond the door, centering entirely on the lock.

She found the keyhole, knelt by the handle, and started to work her pick and tensioner. She had to lean in close; without her sight, she was reliant on sound, on feel. She closed her eyes, turned her ear to the door, and

focused.

Every gentle touch of metal on metal was like a pinprick on her senses, every tiny pull of resistance stopping her hands, forcing her to try something new. She could do this. She’d picked ten thousand locks. This was nothing new.

“Shouldn’t have run your mouth, elf. She wants to see you suffer.”

The voice made Osprey’s breath catch in her chest. It was the voice of a boy: young, tinged with amusement, and

right

by the keyhole. She swallowed hard, her lip curling as the boy laughed just by her ear before the sound grew more distant. He was walking away, and she could tell it was

so damn casual,

and she could hear the high-pitched grind of a blade dragging over the stone floors accompanying him.

Now she was truly alone. She was still for a moment, lost to herself.

Not the time. Not the time.

She wasn’t sure how long it took before she felt the ease of the lock giving way, heard it slide out of place—realistically, no longer than a minute—but it had certainly felt like an eternity. She shoved the door open and stumbled over bags of flour as she staggered out into the storage room, her eyes wide as she looked for signs of Sybil. There was blood—more blood than there’d been before—but no signs of the girl. She’d gotten away, of that there was no doubt, she’d heard that first set of footsteps.

Had she

stayed

away?

Sixteen minutes ago.

Osprey had tried to return to the great hall, but there was something

wrong

with the door to it, beyond what a lockpick could manage; with only a touch she’d felt the sickening roil of daedric magic repelling her, making her grimace at the feeling. It made a spike of fury shoot through her core—she was being

toyed

with, forced down a path not of her choosing, and being robbed of her agency so easily made her blood boil.

Even so, what choice did she have? She couldn’t stay here. She had to play the game, whether she liked it or not.

And so she did.

Her inability to return to the great hall forced her deeper into the servants’ quarters, down a veritable maze of dark halls—far darker than seemed natural, far more

complex

than seemed

real,

when she considered it. It was dead quiet, too, a stark contrast to the gentle sound of chatter that seemed to permeate the busy building before. What had happened? Had other denizens fled? Hidden? Or…

Gods, she needed to find Sybil.

She tried to keep the location of the great hall in mind as she quietly moved from passage to passage, through doors and up stairs, always keeping close to the wall, always alert to any hint of movement or sound. She chose her path carefully based on her heading, what halls seemed the most likely to lead her where she needed to go. Fear was playing in the back of her head the whole time, begging questions she couldn’t afford to let distract her. Was she going in circles? Where had the boy gone? Was the layout of the keep still in line with reality, or was she little more than a rat venturing through a maze?

Was it too late?

Was it too late?

Was it—

There was a distant sound: furniture being overturned, voices yelling. She stopped dead, listening closely. Somebody was crying–loud, wracking, wheezing sobs.

She rerouted her path.

Ten minutes ago.

The noise had taken Osprey to the edges of the servants’ quarters, to halls that seemed to verge on a greater grandeur, with high ceilings and arching windows that gave little light with the storm surging outside—halls that led to the Jarl’s quarters, she had little doubt. Her steps slowed and softened as soon as she had less cover, more options from where she might be attacked. She crept along the wall, her head on a swivel, and peeked carefully around a corner—

A boy was there.

He was crumpled against the door, his head lolled back, his limbs limp as if he was little more than a ragdoll. Osprey could smell him even from here: that cloying smell of viscera, and blood, and death, telling her all she needed to know about who exactly this was. Her breath had caught as she studied him, trying to work out if this was some kind of ruse—but he seemed to be unarmed, and beyond that, insensate. His lips were moving as if he was muttering to himself, but she couldn’t make out the words…

Ice formed in the space above her palm as she carefully, hesitantly, stepped forward.

His state didn’t change even when she was within grabbing range, and it wasn’t until then that her shoulders released their tension, that she was

certain

he wasn’t trying to draw her in close. With a quick glance around herself, she knelt before the boy, tilting his head to look over his face. His eyes were fluttering, looking at nothing for a moment, but they eventually rolled over to acknowledge her presence.

He was

there,

but… Distant.

“M’ sorry,” he slurred softly. Osprey shook her head, starting to check him for marks—not wounds, but telltale signs of daedric influence. While it wasn’t quite what she’d been looking for, she found puncture marks working their way up his forearm, which felt… Telling. Something inhuman had a hold on him. “I didn’t—I meant—”

“Where’s Sybil?” Osprey asked. Nelkir blinked stupidly, as if he hadn’t heard the question. “The—the breton, a blonde girl, a mage. Where is she?”

“I’unno wha’happened,” the boy murmured. His eyes started to slide shut. “I’m—I’m so sleepy…”

“No—please, I need you to stay with me.” Osprey papped his face, trying to bring him back to consciousness. “Where is—”

Her words came to a sudden stop when she saw the shadow pass over her.

It was lucky that she hadn’t let the ice spell fizzle, as it was the only thing that saved her from losing an arm. She’d whirled and thrown it blindly, and it had exploded against his blade as the man—a guard, by the looks of it—brought it down on her. It threw his grip to the side, and rather than biting deep into her shoulder, it shredded against the door and hit the stone below with a sharp noise.

Osprey stared at it for hardly a second that felt much longer. The sword looked hideous, and felt worse, reeking of daedric magic. Its hilt seemed to have melded with the guard’s hand. Her head whipped up—

Commander Caius.

At the same time that the captain of the guard wrenched the blade up, Osprey grabbed the boy and –with a strength granted to her by pure adrenaline—practically threw the child to the side, affording him precious seconds of safety. The blade swung wide, whistling just over her head as she scrambled to scoop up Nelkir, and it was only by the grace of the gods that it embedded itself in the door deep enough that Caius had to work to pull it free. He’d tried to grab Osprey as she weaved around his side, making a run for it–she felt his fingers barely graze the hem of her tunic–but the metal of the hilt had too deep a hold on him.

He was going

nowhere

without that sword.

Osprey didn’t look behind her to see what was happening. Didn’t feel the ache in her arms as she clutched the boy close, didn’t smell the rankness coming off him. The only thought, feeling,

impulse

she had was to get somewhere safe as fast as possible—somewhere she could barricade, somewhere hidden, somewhere so far through this labyrinth that there was no chance the guard captain would ever find them. She took turns with only the thought of making her escape route as confusing as possible and didn’t stop until she came to a closed door, wrenching it open and finding a nondescript room. She tossed the boy on the fur-strewn bed, closed the door behind herself and quickly barricaded it with an old wooden dresser—then stayed there, leaning her whole weight against it as she tried to listen over the blood pounding in her ears. Her lungs were burning. Her heart felt like it would explode.

There was nothing. Silence. More of that eerie, terrible quiet—the kind of quiet that followed a stalking predator.

Two minutes ago.

Osprey was moving down the hallways again, this time with an unconscious child in her arms. She couldn’t stay in that room forever, despite how every instinct begged her to—every moment that she was hiding away was another moment that Sybil could be in danger. She needed to find the little mage, needed to find where other survivors may have hidden themselves away, needed to get the boy somewhere safe. She wasn’t sure if she was even in the servants’ quarters anymore. The halls she was moving down looked different now—more expensive, but decidedly residential. Guest quarters, maybe?

She couldn’t remember the direction of the great hall anymore. It was up to sheer luck, now, for her to find her way.

She looked down at the boy in her arms, her nose wrinkling as she scanned over him. He was fully asleep now. Dead weight. She’d seen something like this before a time so long ago it felt like it might as well have been a different lifetime. She’d

treated

something like this before. Acolytes, carried out of the rooms of private rituals, delirious, muttering, having seen and felt things not of this plane...

She knew she recognized that wretched daedric magic from somewhere.

Her steps stopped. She could hear talking—quiet, but casual, and coming closer. She blinked; whoever it was, didn’t they know what was going on? She didn’t like that. It stank of a severed consciousness, an ease afforded to someone under a charm, a compulsion. She gently set the boy down behind a credenza, pressed herself against a wall, and let a new ice spell bloom in her hand as she watched the closed door the voices were drawing closer to.

They wouldn’t get a jump on her. Not this time.
 
“We are going to want to be careful,” Alinor kept his tone even as he looked over his shoulder at Sybil, who was

still

looking a bit like she wanted to bludgeon him, even though he had let her keep the staff. “Osprey is not likely to realieee–” Alinor’s sentence ended in a shrill shriek when he opened a door and abruptly found himself with a new, icy accessory in his left shoulder. “What the

fuck!?

”

Osprey’s heart had leapt into her throat, her eyes going wide. She gasped, scrambling out from her hiding place on the wall. Sybil had let out a yelp and dropped to the floor, fire magic flaring up and summarily fizzling out when she realized who had attacked Alinor, while Osprey quickly made her way over.

“Oh,

fuck,

” she hissed. Her eyes were dancing about both him and Sybil–she was looking for something, but only for a moment. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry, i’m sorry–I thought–thought you were–” her hands were up, hovering about, and she stopped her movement for a moment as her senses caught up with her. With a twist of her hand, the ice spike embedded in Alinor’s shoulder started to melt away. “I’m sorry!”

“It was not my head.” Alinor pressed healing magic into his shoulder as he spoke, waving her off as the wound sealed shut. Osprey’s grimace worsened at his statement, guilt flashing over her face. “So it could have been worse. I would rather heal a hurt shoulder than find you dead.”

“It was almost your head,” Osprey murmured, staring sadly up at him. She took a deep breath, closing her eyes for a moment, then looking about–then focusing squarely on Sybil. Her eyes widened all over again, and she ducked down quickly, pulling the girl into a tight hug.
“Fuck, Sybil, I was so fucking worried about you,” she whimpered. She smelled terrible, like death and waste, this close up. She pulled away, starting to twist the girl this way and that, looking her over. “Are you okay? What happened?”
That gave her pause. She looked up to Alinor for a moment, then back to Sybil, her brow knit. “What the

fuck

is going

on?

”

“Well. Apparently there is an evil sword?” Alinor explained. “Nelkir is… under the effects of a

quite

powerful daedra, and we are unable to leave the keep. Xantos got bludgeoned, but Farkas is watching him. We should probably go back to the Great Porch so that we can… plan a bit better in a more defensible location, actually.”

Osprey’s brow knit, her mouth drawing into a thin line. Gods, that was a lot of news to process at once. What was Xantos doing here? …What was

Alinor

doing here, for that matter? “Nelkir–the jarl’s kid, right?” she asked. “He doesn’t have the sword.”

Sybil looked excited as she looked at Alinor. “Now can I blast him in the face?!”

“I–

no,

” Osprey said, blinking at the girl in concern. “

No,

he’s… Unconscious, and can barely move… And–like–

nine

years old, or something…” She looked up to Alinor again, nodding towards the credenza. “He’s back behind that. I’ve been trying to find somewhere safe to put him…”

“You

absolutely can

not

fireball an unconscious eight year old. Actions done under provably daedric influence do not make you guilty, under Skyrim’s laws at least.” Alinor began checking over the unconscious form of the boy, a frown on his face at the wounds, brushing over them with healing magic as they weeped venomous ichor. “Mm… do not care for daedric swords. Never want to use one myself, if I have a say in it.”

“You and most folk,” Osprey sighed. She looked into the middle distance, her gaze flicking as she delved through her thoughts. “It’s Mephala, I think,” she finally added. “No–I don’t think. I’m certain of it.” When Alinor gave her a curious look, she put on an awkward smile, shrugging lightly. “I was an initiate in her temple for a little while–I know the scripture, the stories…” She eyed the boy, that smile fading away. “Seen what her influence looks like…”

“I am glad you are not there any longer,” Alinor let out a slight grunt as he scooped up the insensate noble-boy, “do you need me to lead the way back up to the great porch, or would you rather lead, either of you?”

“I–I barely know where we are in the castle,” Osprey admitted. She finally let go of Sybil, getting to her feet again. “This place is a gods-be-damned maze, so, by all means…” She gestured for Alinor to take the lead.

Alinor gave her a nod, and with his quickly unsheathed blade in one hand, and Nelkir held under the other arm, he quickly led the way back to the great hall, pace only quickening as the sounds of a scuffle echoed down the hall.

Before they could turn the corner, Avenicci came skidding into the hallway ass over tea kettle and covered in blood- his eyes wide and his fingers scraping against the floor as he shot towards the group of them. Osprey had no idea the little man could move near so fast. Alinor readied himself, eyes darting to and fro as he tried to determine if the slightly portly steward was a threat.

“Help me!” Avenicci screamed, rocketing past them as the sounds of combat started to pour into the hallway.

Osprey and Alinor shared a single glance before Alinor readied his knife and handed Nelkir to Osprey, Sybil’s fire starting to crawl up the staff. They listened, a flash of sparks ahead- sword against shield, shield against flesh, the grunt of pain, a scruff of boots against wood. A woman was thrown into the wall across from the doorway, shield on arm and steel sword still in hand. She had blood dripping down her face from her nose as if she had been bashed in the nose with the pommel of a weapon. She twisted, getting up and snarling as she readied her shield.

That was when Caius stepped into the room, a stuttery almost jerky movement. His eyes were locked on the woman, a soft mauve glow from them as the sword in his hand clutched at his arm tighter. He stopped, stuttered, and looked down the hall. The woman’s gaze followed his and Osprey saw it contort in fear.

“Run!” she called, using her shield to hit Caius in the back as he started to move towards them.

Alinor did not run, nor did Sybil. “Can I kill him?” Sybil asked, her eyes never leaving her opponent even as Alinor made a disgruntled noise. “Fine.”

Sybil moved first, bringing the staff up and swirling the bronze head of it in a small circle around her head, gathering magicka to it and starting to manifest the embers of a firebolt. The captain twitched and started to charge down the hallway- time seeming to slow down as Osprey watched the two of them move as if they were one. As Alinor moved to the side, coming up the hall, she held the staff out and started to shoot her spells. The shower of fire ignored Alinor entirely, and he seemed to trust she wouldn’t hit him as he blocked a vicious downward swipe of the blade clutching Caius’ arm with his own grip on the man’s wrist even as the ebony tendrils of the blade tried to grab at him. The guard was far more effective than Nelkir could ever been, the sword taking advantage of the fact the captain of the guard actually had the muscle memory to be a real threat.

Alinor twisted, his knife catching the captain in the shoulder and forcing him off balance as the woman brought her shield up and hit the man across the back with it. “Commander! This isn’t you!” She snarled, her eyes flashing with the sort of desperation that Osprey was all too familiar with. “Commander please!” she gasped as the man twisted unnaturally, stabbing the sword forward in a frantic set of jabs- the last of which did cut a ragged line across the length of the neck- her only saving grace the leather gambeson that she was wearing under the guard’s uniform. She stumbled back, a hand coming up to stem the bloodflow as Alinor shoved his shoulder up into Caius gut. The guardsman flailed, trying to catch Alinor’s back with the sword. A ragged gash cut through the leather Alinor had thrown on as an afterthought before leaving the forge. He shoved past Caius and scooped up the woman’s discarded sword, twisting on his heel and catching Caius’ blade as ice went flying past him.

The woman spotted Nelkir, and Osprey guarding him. “The boy! Thats the Jarl’s boy! Bring him and the steward!” the woman shouted at Osprey as Caius and Alinor clashed in the hall- tumbling back towards the guest wing- and a screaming Avenicci. The steward let out a scream only dogs could hear as the ebony blade bounced off a wooden support by his head, the grown man dropping to all fours and crawling out from under Alinor and Caius’ feet towards where Osprey was trying to defend Nelkir.

Osprey didn’t move far—she didn’t want to stray too far from the child—but once the steward was close enough, she hurried over, grabbing hold of him and hauling him to his feet. “Go, go, go—I’m right behind you,” she hissed, urging him on as she went to collect the boy again.

Sybil moved to the side away from Osprey, waving her free hand and shooting a ragged bolt of fire into the side of Caius’ balding head. The man’s gaze snapped to her and she made a little squeak as he charged her, ignoring Alinor. She threw up a shield of fire- the captain stepping through the veil despite the way the fire grasped at his thinning hair, his cloth tabard, the leather he wore. “Alinor!” Sybil shrieked, ducking as the sword sliced over her head. She lifted the staff, blocking an overhanded blow that left a thick groove carved into the hard wood. The guard captain reeled back, intending to hit it again, to snap the staff in two.

Osprey was gathered up by the woman, a last look over her shoulder towards Alinor and Sybil.

Sybil’s boot had caught Caius in the nose with a feral snarl not unlike a rabid dog- and Alinor had tackled the man in the back. The two of them tumbled into the other room, a flurry of sword swipes and thrown punches. Sybil rolled over and started getting up, giving Osprey a thumb’s up as the guardswoman pulled her into the great hall- a side door she had never noticed before. They stumbled across the dais, the woman’s strong hands on Osprey’s arms as the boy sagged against her shoulder. “Are you okay? Uninjured?” the woman asked, her dark hair a puff of disarray as her blue eyes looked first Osprey over, then Nelkir.

“I’m fine–he’s fine,” Osprey assured the lady. She was already looking back to the door; she’d had to get the boy away, but Sybil and Alinor being out of her line of sight had panic rising in her chest.

“I don’t care if she’s uninjured!” Avenicci said as he ran towards the steps upstairs. Osprey’s gaze flicked over, frowning up at the man. “If she’s injured, she can get healed when we get back to the porch! We should have NEVER left! I should have never let you talk me into it Lydia!” the man groused, throwing up his hands and pacing like a caged dog. “Lets get the jarl his son, and let him know of the guard captain’s treachery!”

“It’s not–” Osprey huffed. There was no point trying to talk sense to the man–not only was he in a panic, but he didn’t seem like the sort to care about the ins and outs of daedric influence. She looked back to Lydia, her brows coming together. “Lydia, yes? I–” her gaze swiveled back to the door for just a moment. “I need to make sure they’re okay, can–can you–” she was already trying to offload the child into the woman’s arms.

Lydia took the child and nodded. “Go get your people. I’ll let the jarl know that you lot are working on the threat- you’re... you’re Ashborne’s companion aye? He’s safe, upstairs, with Farkas of Jorrvaskr.” Lydia told her as she tossed the boy over her shoulder. The child was like a sack of potatoes, and didn’t even react. Osprey nodded quickly–the assertion had her mind whirring with more questions,

how does this lady know Xantos, what’s happened to them that i’ve missed, what the

hell

are they

doing

here

, that last question kept ringing clear in her mind–before she dashed off back towards where they had come from.

She moved fast, frantically following the path she’d remembered them going down. They weren’t in the next immediate hall, but hopefully, they were still close–she’d seen them go through a door, into a room in the guest quarters–

She reached the doorframe and stopped dead. Oh. They hadn’t gone far at all.

Alinor’s knuckles were bloodied as he crouched above the prone form of Commander Caius, a snarl on his face as he waited for the man to move, followed by a relieved sigh when he stayed unmoving. “Caught his fucking nose, that smarts.” Alinor muttered as he stood, shaking out his hands in a flicker of healing magic, leaving only blood flecks as the small bruises and knicks vanished. “Are you well, Sybil? Unharmed?” He stepped over the imperial to begin fussing over the breton teen for a few moments, “We ought to go to the great porch, before he gets back up.”

“Holy shit,” Osprey breathed softly. Her gaze was fixed on Caius as she stepped in, as if she was worried if she looked away he might be on his feet in an instant. After a lingering moment, she reluctantly looked away, staring at her companions. She’d been

so

worried, but… “Got that one handled, huh? …You… You certain he’s not dead?”

Sybil was looking around frantically. “Where did that fucking sword go!?” she asked, brushing Alinor’s hands off as she looked up at Osprey. “He’s not dead, but the sword went spinning off into the darkness and I can’t find it- can you mage light?” Sybil asked Osprey, her own little flickering lights floating over the room. Osprey nodded, giving her hand a twist and adding her own spell to the mix until room and hall alike were almost

too

illuminated.

The sword, though, was nowhere to be seen–just a bloody skid and then nothing.

“Fucking daedric bullshit,” Osprey grumbled after she’d scanned the room, letting her spell fall away. “It could be anywhere at this point–no sense wasting time here.” She looked back to the other two, her brow knitting. “Porch is where everybody is, yeah? …Let’s regroup there, figure out… I’unno,

some

sort of plan.” Her voice got low as she started out of the room. “
Maybe get a couple answers as to why they got a gods-be-damned

cursed sword

hanging about their castle.
”

“You know what?” Sybil asked, rubbing her hands a bit. “I wanna know that too, Osp.” Sybil’s inflection was so similar to Xantos it made both Alinor and Osprey double take. Sybil gave the room one last look over before Osprey and Alinor took either side of the captain of the guard. They pulled him through the hall, and through the side door. They moved quick and quiet, carefully listening for violence or grief. The little group made their way up the steps, Sybil stopping half way. “S’us! Don’t club me.” she called up, the Osprey heard one of the guardsmen grumble about how he ‘hadn’t meant to’ and ‘never will live that down will he?’ for a little bit as Sybil took the last steps up.

Yet another question for her, added to the pile.

The guards were in the war room, Irileth directing several guards to barricade the other entrances. She looked up, her eyes narrowing as she spotted Caius. “Is he compromised?” She asked Alinor and Osprey as they handed the man over to a waiting guard.

“No–no, he should be… He’ll be alright, with proper care,” Osprey said quickly. She quickly moved over, taking hold of the man’s hand to hold it up, to show where the sword had its grip on him. Sybil shuddered, her eyes narrowing at the marks. “It’s daedric influence. All of it. It’s not the people–it’s the weapon, I think.”

“Yes.” Alinor nodded at Osprey’s words, “In

quite

related lines of questioning…

Why

was there a sword related to the daedric prince of murder, betrayal, and spiders in the cellars? That seems like something that ought to have been locked in some sort of… vault or something and not next to the grains.”

Balgruuf sighed and came forward, tired, exhausted and long suffering. “We found it, unbidden, in the catacombs under the castle.” he explained, running his hand along the war table. “Deep within the mountain, in the long crypts of the halls of the dead-”

“Isn’t the hall of the dead near the temple?” Sybil asked, plucking an apple from a bowl of fruit on the table and taking a condescending bite. “Down by the temple of Kyne, near Jorrvaskr?”

“Aye, the public entrance is- the catacombs spread all the way under Dragonsreach, and there is an entrance for the jarl and his family under our feet.” Jarl Balgruuf explained. “There, I must assume, the sword has sat for the better part of the age.” He was watching the fire, the light flickering across his face as he spoke. “There had been a suicide, before Helgen, before Ulfric had killed Torygg,” Balgruuf looked up at them, taking a bracing breath. “It was a brutal thing, a priestess of Arkay, found shivering and afraid in the depths of the castle, covered in blood and viscera- she had killed her betrothed and she didn’t know why.” Balgruuf sank into a chair, pinching the bridge of his nose. “When we found the body of her fiance, it had been twisted- used for something dark. It had punctures, not unlike that-” he motioned to Caius’ arms, where the blade had sunk into his flesh. “All the way up to his shoulder, so far as we could figure- he had tried to kill the girl, and chose to kill himself instead.” Balgruuf rubbed his beard, his eyes unseeing as if he was watching it all over again. “The sword had been there, and Irileth cautioned that it was an evil thing, the dark aspect of one of her gods.” Balgruuf explained.

Osprey glanced over to Irileth, and was unsurprised to find the woman looking right back at her.

“We have sent for Vigilants of Stendarr. They were founded for this sort of thing afterall- and were trying to keep it hidden and safe until they could arrive- deal with the thing as only they would know how... but…” the jarl heaved a heavy sigh. “They have not responded to any of our letters, and news from the north says that their hall was found consumed by fire.”

Balgruuf let out a longer sigh, sinking into the chair. “When they did not respond, we tried to destroy it- bend the blade with hammer and iron, to crush it, burn it, melt it in the Skyforge and cast it away into the coals... but it remained whole, untarnished, and the very forge itself started to cool-” Alinor looked to Osprey, eyes wide. “We tried to be careful, to keep it away from everyone until the Vigilant could arrive to dispose of it, only to have my own son find it and kill so many.” Balgruuf’s voice cracked, and he took in a shaky breath as he sank into despair. “I am to blame. I ought to have cast it out, sent it away, but I feared what would happen if someone else got their hands on it, if someone had stolen it. I was weak and indecisive and it has cost countless people their lives.”

Osprey sighed. None of this was particularly surprising, all things considered; she knew how tenacious daedric artifacts could be, and if this was the blade she’d heard of, it had a particular storied past of resilience. “Would’ve been worse to end up anywhere else, I suppose,” she muttered, looking off in the direction of the great hall. She chewed on the inside of her cheek for a moment. “...Well–have to deal with this, ‘fore we can figure out proper storage. It’s somewhere, n’ we don’t know where, n’...”

Gods, I hope it hasn’t gotten out of the keep yet.

Her expression worsened for a moment at the very thought, but she collected herself quickly, looking between the lot of them. “Anybody got any bright ideas of how to handle this?”

“We grab it, we drop a big thick fuckin’ quilt over it, n’ we make sure either Osp or I are holdin’ it since Mephy ain’t want shit for fuck t’ do with either of us.” Xantos said, leaning on the archway to the great porch. He looked rough, and the white linen was stained with the old dusty brown of dried blood. Osprey’s head swiveled over and her eyes widened; it had been one thing to

know

he was around, and had been bludgeoned, and another thing to

see

it. Much to the annoyance of half the people present, she was moving over in an instant; at the very least it was just to check him over, rather than her usual flavor of bullshit.

“Saints n’ stars, Xan, what the fuck?” she asked softly. Much like she had with Sybil, she started turning him this way and that, looking for wounds that might have been missed.

“Did I not mention the bludgeoned bit?” Alinor smiled a bit at the dunmer’s fussing. “I

thought

I mentioned the bludgeoned bit.”

“You

did,

but–” Osprey reached up, going on her toes so she could pull Xantos’ head down to her height as she looked over his scalp. “--didn’t realize that meant someone had tried to cave his fucking

head

in–
and what are these other stains even

from…?

”

“T' kids were covered in blood,” Xantos told her, looking at the clothes. “I picked m' up n’ ran.”

“
Gods please do not start

necking

again…
” Alinor bitched under his breath for a moment, causing Farkas to snort in agreement; the companion had wandered out only moments after Xantos. Alinor spoke at a normal volume after a moment of mourning. “Luckily his skull is thick and he is only

mostly

magic resistant. Still. Do any of you all have ideas as to how to

track

the blade, rather than follow the spider murder trail? Because… I will be honest, I am not exceptional at tracking an

actively murdering

killer.”

Farkas gave the high elf a funny look. “Duzzat mean you’re good at tracking

not-

active-murdering killers?” he asked quietly.

“Ah… did I never…

tell

you the story of when I was in Windhelm, before I joined the Companions?” Alinor blinked at the nord for a moment. “I… you heard of the string of murders in Windhelm, yes?”

Farkas blinked. “

You

solved those?”

“Yes, it was a… very unfortunate situation on all counts.” The high elf grimaced as he thought about that situation. “Still, I am good at the investigation and tracking parts. Not so much the ‘do not get noticed by a murderer’ parts.”

“That… That’s a useful skill to have in your pocket, Ali,” Osprey said. She’d finally stopped combing over Xantos, satisfied that he seemed to be okay—but still had a hand on his arm, as if she was worried whoever had attacked him might get another bright idea. She took a deep breath, glancing at the lot of them. “As far as tracking the sword—only way I know to do so wouldn’t really be…

Possible,

by those present, not unless you got a trusted loved one who you’re particularly interested in beheading, or think you’re gonna pull one over on the daedric prince of plots.” Her brow knit lightly. “Could try and set a trap, maybe, if we got someone who seems a likely target for betrayal…”

“Absolutely not.” Irileth said, stepping into the conversation with all of the grace of a bull in a tea shop. “The most likely candidate for that is the jarl himself, and I will not subject him to that kind of danger.”

With that, Osprey gave an easy shrug–the kind that either suggested she’d never thought the plan would get off the ground… Or suggested a certain kind of nonchalance about it. It was hard to tell which. “Well, unless you got a lover you’d like to stab, next best thing we can do is… Block the exits, follow the carnage.
‘Least, far as the texts go.
”

Xantos looked to Balgruuf, crossing his arms. “I need m’weapons. N’my armor.” He did not sound like he was asking, and Balgruuf looked like he understood it. Sybil looked over as she worked on healing Caius, letting out a huff and shaking her head.

“You can’t be serious.” Hrongar interjected as he stepped between the jarl and Xantos. “You can be thinking of actually arming this criminal!?” the thane asked, turning to his brother. Jarl Balgruuf let out a long suffering sigh. Once again, Xantos had put the jarl in such a position that no matter what bad blood existed between Xantos and his family, he had done something so irrevocably honorable or helpful Balgruuf could not do anything about it.

Xantos had saved two of the jarl’s children afterall.

“That is a different tune than what you were speaking of

earlier

when it came to handling bandits in the Hold.” Alinor frowned at the thane as the man gave him a sidelong sneer. “Beyond that, if it were not for his actions, you would be mourning your brother’s

children

after the bloodshed is done.”

“The lad makes a good point, Hrongar, if it wasn’t for Ashborne, my children would be dead. All of them.” Balgruuf admitted, even as both his brother and Irileth looked like they would rather die than admit that Xantos had done something

good

. Xantos on the other hand, looked insufferably smug. He moved around, silent in those linens. The usual clatter of his steel and the rustle of his leathers gone. Osprey didn’t realize the man could get quieter, not until he moved around her and she hadn’t realized he was moving. She jumped a little bit, humming as she watched him circle the jarl like a scavenger bird. “We have a case, hinged and made of metal, would that work for containing the sword do you think?” The jarl asked, Xantos giving a nod and Irileth jogging off towards the armory to procure it for them.

“Beyond that, Xantos has not stepped outside the bounds of the law in any

meaningful

manner since he was placed into the Companions. What is the

point

of allowing someone a sentence beyond death if you do not allow them to prove themselves

better

than before?” Alinor’s body language and voice were impassioned.

“And we don’t

really

have time to be arguing about this,” Osprey added, her shoulders sagging. “The sword could already be in a new set of hands.”

Irileth went to interject about the Gildergreen as she returned, but Balgruuf raised his hand to quiet her.

“I need my sword, and I need my armor, then I’ll take care o’ya little sword problem.” Xantos promised as he hefted the long metal box under arm, a cruel twist to his mouth and a flash of sharpened teeth. He looked to Alinor and Osprey, running his tongue across his teeth thoughtfully. “My shits n’ the evidence chest if I had t’ make a guess, n’ you’ll be right happy t’ hear that I didn’t punch or maim or even bite them when they took it.” Xantos told Alinor, tapping the boy’s shoulder with the back of his hand. “I trusted you’d be able to get it back.” he said lowly, lower so that only Osprey and Alinor could hear. “Lets take big stink-ass and go get my shit, then we can hunt.”

“Who’s big stinky-ass” Farkas asked, Xantos rolling his eyes and looking at Farkas.

“I have a feeling it is you, Farkas. Your bathing habits are… what is expected for a famed nord mercenary.” Alinor offered politely.

“I’ve known bandit asscracks cleaner than you.” Xantos said plainly as he headed down the steps with Sybil hot on his heels. “Hell- I’ve known forsworn poon cleaner than you.”

Farkas’ face scrunched up, Balgruuf letting out a long suffering groan into his hand. Irileth looked away, her eyes narrowed into thin slits. It was obvious she hated this, she hated every minute of it. “I never want to be compared to forsworn cunt ever again.” Farkas said as he trailed after Alinor like a big dog.

“Then bathe.” Xantos said simply, pointing to the right and heading towards the servant’s quarters and the dungeons.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Xantos Ashborne was nothing if not efficient when he was allowed to chose his own methods. He saw no reason, when there was a clear goal, to dawdle. If one was at point A, then surely the most effective path to Z was a straight line- the rest of the alphabet could get out of his damn way. He viewed this business with the sword in much the same way.

The emptied halls of Dragonsreach were like a tomb, its hallowed archways not impressive in the gloom but more like the domed ceilings of the old crypts- it would not be a stretch for a draugr or seven to come shambling out from the darkest corners to stab him directly in the asscheek. The smears of blood and the eviscerated bodies only added to that ambiance,

As they moved from the main hall and down the steps into the labyrinthine corridors of the servants quarters. Behind him trailed Alinor with Sybil under his cloak, then Osprey, and then Farkas making up the rear.

Beyond their group, Xantos could hear clusters of servants- some were crying, some were praying, others were mourning the dead. If they were smart, they would have barricaded the doors, hidden in the dark depths of the keep to wait out the daedric possession. Xantos however, could not bring himself to care beyond that single stray thought as he manuvered the steps and corridors down to the jails that he was all too familiar with. As he walked, he listened, and as he listened he found nothing- so unless the sword was moving of its own accord, he figured he was safe enough to pull his hair from its tie and to put it into a quick, easy to manage braid.

“They’re gonna have to pay these poor sorry fucks more at the end of this.” He mused as his fingers worked through his hair with surprising efficiency considering he was missing two of them. Farkas watched his fingers, looking confused at how fast Xan was working.

“D’you do all your own braids old man?” the nord asked softly, Xantos looking over and raising his brow. “I just thought maybe Ali... or Osprey... or... I dunno- Sybil maybe-”

Xantos just gave the man a dead stare until he went quiet. “Yes, lad. I braid my own damn hair.” he pushed open the door to the dungeons. The door creaked open, the humidity causing mist to swirl around their feet as they stepped onto the landing. “Th’torches went out. I hate that.” Xantos sighed, shaking his head and squinting into the darkness. “Y’sure we can’t just... leave? Let them just handle it themselves n’ all that?” Xantos asked, looking over at Osprey as his ears pinned back. Osprey gave him an unimpressed look.

“Not unless you want to be responsible for half of Whiterun dead in a day.” Osprey grumbled as she stepped into the dungeon beside him. Her boot squelched and she stopped, her eyes going wide. She looked down towards Xantos’ feet, and he did not resist the urge to wriggle his toes in the bloodied viscera he was standing in, letting his toes squelch in the organ meat smeared across the stone floors. She looked up at him, and he carefully kept his face entirely stoic as if she hadn’t just seen that. She, on the other hand, did not. He stepped forward, stepping past the bloody child sized footprints smeared across the room.

“Please Xantos, for the love of all that Akatosh sees, do not say whether or not you would care if that occurred.” Alinor said, his boots also squelching. He stopped and his nose wrinkled up as he kept his gaze very carefully forward. Sybil made a retching noise, one of her hands still firmly attached to Alinor’s belt. Before she stepped off the stair though, Alinor picked her up without a second thought, ferrying the little magelet past the worst of the gore.

Farkas did not react when he stepped down, just stomping after Alinor like an oversized dog.

“The kid had a field day, if y’ can’t tell.” Xantos remarked, motioning idly to the warden’s body on the ground before handing Farkas the case for the possessed sword. “Went right bonkers.”

Sybil looked at it, frowning. “We could let Hrongar get it. It would be real easy- save us trouble down the line if we had to put him down.” she whispered to Alinor, Xantos’ ears perking up. He wasn’t about to let that happen, but he did consider it for a brief beautiful moment. That was a man he would not mind stabbing, all things considered, though it wouldn’t be satisfying if it was a tragedy of daedric design and not the fuckers own stupidity that got him killed.

“We do not have the right to choose that, Sybil- what will be, will be.” Alinor said like a reasonable person. Xantos hated that. He hated how reasonable the lad could be, he was of that age where he ought to be making big stupid decisions and being a brash little bastard, not the most even of their little broken family. “We can only meet the fates we help make, and one where we explicitly agree to let someone die out of convenience is not a fate I would be proud to be involved in creating.” Alinor finished, ignoring the way Farkas and Xantos were watching him.

Too even tempered for a boy so young.

But Xantos did not have time for that. He needed to find his gear, he needed to get equipt. If he had his blade, his armor, he could take on anything. He led them through the dank dungeons, over the guardsmen’s bodies, over to the warden proper- easy to tell from the fancier tabard and reek of self importance the man had in life. Xantos knelt down, sliding his hands across the parts of the man that wasn’t shredded like overcooked roast meat. He was feeling for the ring of keys he knew was still there, the ring of keys he hadn’t broken in his mad dash. The warden was sliced from crotch to collarbones, ribs carved into and guts strewn about. He lifted the shredded tabard, squinting as he looked at the remains of the man’s armor. He reached in, ignoring the squelch, ignoring the warm-cold wet sensation between bare fingers.

He looked over at Osprey.

He could be so funny right now. He could be the funniest mother fucker on all of Tamriel. He watched her for a split second, rotating the idea in his mind-

“Don’t you fucking dare,” Osprey said flatly, crossing her arms. It wasn’t with the same disgust she’d held in Bleak Falls–no, it was with a resigned, long-suffering flatness. A

done with his bullshit

tone.

Besides the humor of it all- it would not be remiss to get a blessing from the wretched lady before going up against Mephala. “I didn’t do shit. Wha’you talking about?” Xantos said sharply, like a liar. Osprey’s eyes narrowed into thin slits. “M’just thinkin’ that we might need a prince on our side s’all, nothin’ sinister.” Xantos spoke idly as he felt around for the keys.

“Xan,” Osprey said, a gentle warning in her voice.

“The strategy for fighting a daedric prince is not

another

daedric prince!” Alinor’s distressed hiss was not helped by Sybil giving him a reassuring pat on his cheek from where he was holding her.

“It’s not about the prince, Ali,” Osprey sighed. “He’s being a

gross cunt

.”

Xantos sat back on his heels, looking at Alinor with an even stare. “On the contrary lad-” he started, taking his bloody hands and making marks on his exposed forearms. His mind was made the moment Osprey had said the word cunt, if he was honest. “S’the best defense against a prince.”

Osprey’s entire face squinched up as she braced herself for the inevitable.

Alinor watched with wide eyes, frozen stock still as he watched Xantos smear the blood into the middle of his forehead in a rune unfamiliar to the young Altmer. “S’gonna be gross, you’re not going to want to watch,” Sybil warned the lad, but his eyes remained locked on Xantos anyways. Farkas made a retching noise, like a cat with too much hair on the tonsils.

Xantos looked down at the corpse, bowing low and pressing his forehead to the chest as he muttered prayers of protection and survival into the cooling flesh. He anointed the center of each palm, then he smeared the blood through his beard along the edge of his lower jaw. He lowered himself back down, whispering of his own wretchedness, of his own flaws, begging her to protect him and his own, to allow them triumph over the dread prince Mephala.

Osprey let out a long sigh, trudging back to the door. “Let me know when he’s done!” she called back to Alinor and Sybil. Farkas was on her heels without a word beyond a very quiet ‘nope’ and patter of boots.

“Oh. Why’s there so much daedric bullshit in this icy ballsack of a country?”

The lad mumbled to himself in altmeri, clearly not expecting anyone else to understand his words.

Xantos to his credit, did not snort. He was too busy with the final part of the ritual. He sat back on his heels, looking at the wounds on the corpse and mentally mapping the easiest way to get to the heart. He slid his hand up through the shredded diaphragm, sliding fingers past lungs and stomach to grasp at the heart. He twisted, feeling the arteries snap, and pulled it free with surprisingly practiced ease.

“Ali, look away.” Sybil said, hiding her face in his shoulder as Xantos held the heart in hand, pressing it to his forehead before his mouth opened. Sharpened teeth sank into cooled flesh, the meat giving away in that delicious sort of way that raw flesh could. He swallowed the bite whole before starting to consume it in earnest, a sort of frenzy in his good eye as the skittering and  whispering of the lady of rot started to surround them in the dungeon.

“I’unno why he gotta do this now,” Osprey was saying to Farkas where they were standing just beyond the door, shaking her head. She looked up at the man, her lips pursed. “Namira’s blessing or no, it’s

so much more

about the spectacle. I know it. I know

he

knows it.” She put her hands on her hips, frowning off into the middle distance. “What a pain.” Farkas nodded, unclear if in agreement or just because he was grossed out by the sight of it all. It didn’t matter to Xantos, all in all, the boy and Osprey could think anything they pleased- what mattered was if the dark lady accepted the gift to her.

The dribble of blood ran down Xantos’ face, dripping down onto his shirt as he watched the tell tale sign that the lady of rot and survival had accepted his offering, and would protect them in the coming altercation. As the centipedes and worms swarmed the corpse Xantos bowed down, thanking her profusely and repeatedly.

They would succeed. She had declared it. He was now free to do as he needed, whatever he needed, to stop the ebony blade’s violence.

“You know what?”

Alinor murmured again in altmeris, nearly whispering into Sybil’s hair as he eyed him with

something

in his gaze.

“I was expecting worse. I was expecting

something

worse. Don’t know what.”

Xantos got up, the corpse consumed by the insects and rapidly rotting away into cleaned bones and shredded remnants of leather. “She has blessed us. We will succeed.” Xantos said simply as he lifted the keys, giving them an idle spin on his finger.

“I thought that was warpaint on his chin.” Farkas whispered, his lip curled and nose wrinkled in disgust. “I thought it was warpaint!”

“Yes and no,” Osprey sighed. She barely leaned her head over her shoulder, calling back into the room: “

You done?

”

“M’done.” Xantos confirmed, unlocking the chest that held his belongings. Osprey stepped back inside, giving him more of her same look from earlier–but it fell away quickly, at least.

He would listen to all of her complaints later. It was more important that they were blessed, protected, from what was to come. He knew his religion was inherently disgusting, s’was kind of the point of it all being the lady of the wronged, the outcast. If the lad wasn’t so honorable- and afraid of daedra to his core, she’d suit him just fine too.

Given the look Alinor had fixed him with though, there was no coming around on that front. No- if he was to convert, it would be under the same unhappy circumstances Xantos did- an avalanche, the dead, and the will to survive at any cost.

Xantos carefully retrieved his armor, setting it on the floor before getting his sword from the bottom of the chest. He stood up, bending and shucking out of his linens and pulled up his own pants before wrapping his kilt around his hips, belting it in place. Then he pulled on his boots with the fur lining- Alinor had tried to get those clean to no avail. There were stains in those boots that would never lift, no matter what holy magics the kid tried, Xantos knew that all too well. He didn’t mention that though, because it was endearing listening to the kid and Tilma try and figure out how to remove the viscera from the fabrics that Xantos wore like succeeding in doing so would clean his very soul.

Next came the gambeson, which elicited a whistle from Farkas. Xantos turned, giving him a stare and a squint. “Y’know old man- I thought you wore a whole hellova lot more padding but honestly?” the companion came around, looking at the armor. “S’kinda scary how little you actually have on under that metal.” That was a fair point, though Xantos did not stop squinting at the boy. He resisted the urge to crack the desire carnally joke, because frankly he would not touch that boy with a ten foot pole- and not just because he didn’t bathe. It was as clear as the one good ear left on Alinor’s sweet little head that the boy had feelings for Farkas, and Xantos would do nothing to quash them. Instead, Xantos went back to putting on his scale shirt, adjusting it into his belts before putting on his cuirass proper. Then came his coat, comforting and gentle and right.

He worked the belts quickly, they didn’t have a whole lot of time left to linger- the blade would be on the move again and Namira’s patience would only hold for so long.

He hooked his sword into its scabbard- it was ill suited for tight corridors, and would be more a hindrance if they got ambushed by the blades newest victim. Instead, he opted to take the warden’s discarded sword, disgusted with the quality of imperial steel and not hesitating to say as much. “The guards' steel is so bad.” Xantos hissed, his nose wrinkling. “Hate that.”

“Ain’t no skyforge steel.” Farkas nodded, Xantos shoving past him brusquely. The little nord went ‘oop’ and trailed on his heels.

At least the stupid wall of a man could recognize when it was time to hunt. Small favors.

Xantos took the steps two at a time, his good eye darting back and forth as he listened. The guards gladius was in hand as he checked down each corridor, listened for movement, for breathing, for anything. He spun the sword in his grip, trying to get used to the weight of it as he listened. Every time Farkas or Sybil would try to speak, they’d get a ‘tsk’ and a glare, prompting them to go quiet.

That was when he heard it, the creak of a door opening and a clatter of cutlery, someone begging.

The kitchens.

“Upstairs-” he and Farkas spoke at the same time, both shooting off towards the main hallway that led up to the great hall. Xantos got to the steps first, taking them two at a time as Alinor hauled Sybil down the hall on Osprey’s heels.

There was a thump, a wet thud, a man crying-sobbing-begging- oh what dulcet notes to Xantos’ ears. He loved to hear a ponce beg, offer money, goods, anything for their lives. It was music to his ears, treasure in his chest and put a pep to his step. Unfortunate that it wasn’t him making the man beg.

No... from the garbled noises it was his own damn wife.

Unfortunate.

Xantos shoved open the door to the kitchens, slowing as he crept up the steps and glared out over the cold dark room in disarray. There were plates scattered, shattered, broke, all about the kitchen like improvised caltrops- luckily his boots were good, and the crunch of ceramic did not deter the woman just beyond the kitchen’s arches; it didn’t draw her attention at all as she raised the blade up, the man under her begging and his hands up in supplication as she brought it down through his neck. Her eyes were wide, filled with tears that were cutting hot paths down her cheeks.

“I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m-” The woman, Ahlam- Xantos recognized her from when he punched Jensen in the middle of the market, was sitting on Nazeem’s chest, her eyes wide as the sword clutched her arm and ichor dribbled down her skin. “I’m so sorry my beloved-” she said as she raised the blade up to stab him again.

“Alinor-” Xantos started, voice cool and calculated as he stepped forward with purpose. He was blessed. He was safe. He would survive this, for better or worse. He had nothing to fear, and so fear could not take him. “He’s not going to die from that right away, she missed his spine- you and Sybil, now! I’ll deal with her.” Xantos was moving before he finished speaking, closing the distance and grabbing the woman bodily with his free hand, throwing her across the great hall into one of the tables. She hit it with a sickening thud, slumping down for a moment- stunned with the air knocked from her chest. Xantos grabbed her wrist, dropping his sword and grabbing the Ebony blade by its edge and wrenching it out of her hand forcibly as she screamed.

“Farkas!” Xantos snarled as the tendrils tried to hold on to the woman, then twisted around to try and grab him. The metal shredded her arm before it let go, covering themselves in blood as they shot towards Xantos’ arm- though they hesitated for a moment. A blessing from the lady of rot. Farkas wasn’t fast enough though, clearing the kitchen, so Xantos just threw the sword as hard as he could across the hall before it decided to make him its newest victim. “Girlie! A light!”

Osprey had already been casting mage light, shooting the large ball of golden light across the room as the sword skittered to a stop. It was inert for a moment, before the tentacles shot out and started to pull the sword along the stones in a horrible screeching lurching motion. It twisted around and shot towards them. Osprey shot shards of ice towards it, slowing it down, making it hesitate. Xantos was snarling and circling it like it was a beast– like it was one of the wolves that haunted the lad’s steps outside of civilization– the sword paused like it could think, like it had a mind of its own, then turned and started to scrabble towards where Alinor and Sybil were trying to heal the ponce who was suffocating in his own blood.

Xantos pulled off his coat without thinking, his eyes flashing as he tossed it over the sword and scooped it up in hand- wrapped thick and safe around the squirming blade. “Girlie!” Xantos shouted, tossing the coat to her in a panic- he couldn’t let it grab onto him or Alinor, if the blade grabbed either of them they would be unstoppable. Osprey’s hands knotted in the coat, panic clear on her face as she caught it.

“

Xan–

”

Osprey didn’t have time to finish the thought; the thing was barely in her hands for a second before three spindly, crooked stakes of metal jutted out of the coat quick as a shot. It tried to jab itself violently into her arm without a whiff of hesitance, forcing her to drop the bundle as quickly as she’d caught it. It was after her in an instant, stabbing at her legs, trying to get a hold on her, tearing through her boots like wet paper and leaving lacerations on her skin wherever it made contact. She scrambled back, falling on her ass when it managed to get ahold of her ankle, shredding at the tendon there, and in a moment of panic simply detonated a blast of ice both on herself and the sword.

The shrapnel of ice tore at one side of her face, at her shoulder, but that damage didn’t slow her down as she desperately pushed herself away. The thing was frozen, even if it was already twitching, the ice cracking. It gave her precious seconds to get away.

Xantos grabbed Osprey around the middle, hauling her up and away from the thing as Farkas scrambled to open the lockbox. Xantos all but bodily threw Osprey towards the great doors- not even registering that he was never going to let that thing near her ever again before he moved forward, ready to grab for it. The ice cracked, shattered, and a choked panicked “Alinor!” from Farkas that made Alinor look up as the blade rocketed towards the nord with wretched malice. Alinor stood, flexing his hands as he looked to Xantos and then to the case Balgruuf had given them.

Fuck.

“ACHACHACH!” Farkas snarled as if it were a naughty dog, rolling over and scrambling away on all fours. Farkas was running away faster than the sword could move so it stopped- tendrils twitching as Xantos grabbed the case.

It twitched, turned, regarding Alinor and Xantos as the two of them circled it. It froze for a moment before it shot away again, scrabbling against stone and rug towards not Xantos or Alinor- but towards Sybil instead. The girl let out a shriek, scrambling away- but she was not as fast as Farkas and the tendrils were already on her as she clambered up the tables. It snapped through her boots, through the leathers and layers of woolen socks, drawing blood and a scream of pain from the girl.

Xantos saw red, but Alinor was faster.

The high elf lunged, his hand unerringly finding the grip in the stark shadows from the light spell that Osprey had cast. The lad yanked the cursed blade away from Sybil, but one all too fast heartbeat later, he froze, tendrils latching on quicker than a flash as the high elf seemed to turn to stone, not breathing, not blinking, sword held as if he were about to throw it away for a precious few heartbeats.

Then, he spoke. “Well now.” The purr in the high elf’s voice was cruel in a way that didn’t suit him. “This one is so delectably full of secrets. And not

one

of you is tender to the most dangerous of them.

Delightful.

” Xantos didn’t

care

for the way the prince spoke, didn’t care for the way she seemed to be digging through the boy’s past and spreading ruin and lies. “Little lord running from his gilded cage, and none of you thought to ask his name? It’s no wonder he’s such a… moldable tool. I will be able to get

much

use out of this vessel.” The prince trailed off, eying each person in the room in turn as they all sat, petrified in place, before, at last, the prince’s gaze locked on Osprey. The little dunmer stared back, horrified and helpless, trying to put weight on her leg–and failing. “But first, my blade needs to be sharpened

further

. And for that… failed priestess of mine, your blood will do

perfectly

.”

Alinor’s body lurched forwards, sword pulling him into the whims of the webspinner as he approached Osprey, terror and disgust and apology shining from his eyes even as the rest of his body language dripped with sadistic joy. The tendrils seemed to settle further into Alinor’s flesh, writhing like a molting bug as they spread up his arm, tearing through linen and revealing evil punctures and burn-scarred flesh beneath the fabric’s remains.

Osprey struggled to get away, looking frantically between the door, and Alinor, and back to the door. She was still so,

so

damn far–

Lightning flashed through the windows, a blinding light in the otherwise dark castle. It illuminated the rivulets of blood that rolled down the blade, staining Alinor’s hands. Xantos shoved the blade away, ignoring the gruesome cut through his bad palm. “Lad-” he started, putting his hands up- his pilfered sword cast away and his proper blade not left his sheath.

He would not fight him.

“Lad, you can fight her- she does not own you.” Xantos told him, voice barely a whisper. “I don’t care what nobility you’re from, or what you did before you came here- you are not hers.” Xantos spoke as Alinor jerked forward a step. “What you do is your own choice, n’ I trust you.” Xantos’ voice cracked. “You’d never hurt us, not me, not Sybil, not Osp-” his voice was strained, his eyes locked on the blade as Alinor reeled back. “M’not gonna hurt you, I promise you, y’too-”

The sword slid through his armor with surprising effectiveness, finding the gap between the scales of metal and chain, like a razor through paper, which made some sense, the lad had been the one who repaired it for him earlier in the week. It bit into his flesh, its serrated edge dragging first through the muscles of his gut, and then into his intestines. He’d never get used to the feeling of being stabbed, no matter how many times it happened.

Osprey’s voice was so small it could barely be heard. He couldn’t see her face–but it was easy to picture. “
Xan?
”

“S’okay-” Xantos breathed, ignoring the burning in his guts as Alinor tried to remove the blade. The boy was sobbing with dry eyes, wrenching at it even as Xan’s hands wrapped around the handle to keep it in place. “S’okay.” he reached over with his good hand, grabbing the boy by the shoulder and pulling him close. He pressed their foreheads together, taking a shaky breath. “S’okay lad. Y’okay.” The tendrils on the blade let go of Alinor, twisting instead to grab at Xantos. He was unmoving though, unyielding as it stabbed his wrists and forearm over and over and over again. “S’okay.”

Xantos sank down to his knees as Alinor’s voice warbled in his ears.

He could hear whispers from the blade, admonitions of disgust. He laughed a little, sitting back on his heels. “Fuck you, spider tits.” he wheezed, darkness edging at his vision as Alinor slid the blade free even as it scrambled for Xantos- trying to do as much damage as it could before it was locked away in that metal case. Xantos did not care though, he would survive. He knew this, the good lady would not let him die here- she had promised as much. A pact made, a pact kept. He had no fear of death, for it was not a possibility. He stared down at the blood as it pooled around his knees, as he listened to Farkas and Alinor trap the thing in the box and lock it away, to the struggled noises, the whimpers, the

begging

coming from behind him. Xantos watched his blood spurt out in a thick stream with every thud of his heart.

Xantos would never be used to the sensation of his guts moving in time with a blade being pulled from them- nor would he ever be used to the burn as healing magic seared its way through pierced organs and torn flesh. Xantos sucked in a breath, then two, his vision blurring as people started to fill the hall.

Concerning but unimportant. Alinor’s voice came into focus though as Xantos looked up at him.

“No.” Alinor breathed, one part of a pattering repetition of the same denial as his hands shook in time with his breathing. “No. No. You

will

be okay.” His purple eyes locked on the wound beneath the lad’s hands. “You will not die here. I can not…” Eventually the healing slowed as the wound faded into a fresh scar on the dunmer’s gut. Alinor didn't seem to notice, his eyes locked on his wounded, bloodsoaked hands, stiff as a statue where he kneeled on the blood drenched ground, the venom and ichor from his own wounds going ignored. “No.”

“S’okay,” Xantos said again, half delirious as the room was lit by torch and lantern. “S’okay lad.” Xantos said as he reached up and pat Alinor’s cheek with his good hand. “I’ll be okay, m’always okay.” Xantos sucked in a breath, feeling the energy Alinor had shot into his insides still lingering, still fixing the damage with that weird burning violence that healing magic always seemed to act on his flesh. “S’already fixed.”

The altmer shook his head again. “Not fixed. It is not… still broken. Broke it. My fault.

Osprey!?

” Alinor was doing his best to pull Xantos into his arms, his eyes half glazed and delirious as his murmurs turned to a moment of shrill panic as he stared wildly at pounding boots, searching for the other dunmer. “Sybil? Osprey? Are you here? I did not lose you?

Please…

” The lad’s last word was altmeris again, and full of childish desperation. Xantos pressed his cheek into Alinor’s shoulder and took a breath, wrapping his arms around the boy’s shoulders and pulling him close- squishing the poor kid against his chest.

Sybil was working with Farkas, trying to keep the case shut as the blade seemed to screech with rage- the thumping of its tendrils violent against the metal and denting it repeatedly. “M’good!” Sybil shouted, before swearing violently at the case and trying to freeze it in a block of ice.

Osprey didn’t respond–not verbally. The sobs were confirmation enough. From his vantage point over Xantos’ shoulder, Alinor could barely make out the blurry heap of her body, huddled on the floor and shaking.

Xantos looked up, a little ‘ah’ on his lips. “Lad, the girlie needs you.” Xantos said softly, pulling Alinor up as he got shakily to his feet. “Come on, over this way- she needs you.” Xantos reminded Alinor softly as the boy just trembled in his arms. “One step at a time. We’re okay, it's over.” Xantos spoke gently to the boy, getting a frantic nod from him as he helped him kneel beside Osprey. She was half curled in on herself, looking up to them with wide eyes as they approached, and while she

spoke,

it wasn’t particularly coherent, lost in tears and panic. Her face was a bloody mess–and judging by the way she seemed to be protecting herself, there was more damage hidden away.

“Oss?” Alinor warbled as he flopped down next to her, hands already glowing with healing magic as he reached towards her. “Sorry. Was not… Did not… Let me help?”

Osprey shook her head, her breath catching over and over in her chest as she gasped for air. She reached for his arm, clutching his wrist in both her hands and shaking her head again–more frantically. “S’not you, s’not you,” she whimpered. “S’not–you didn’t–S’not–Ali–you’re okay?” she choked on her own breath. “
You’re okay?
”

“Hurts. Feels like… like…

lye

in my head. Burns. Hard to

focus

. Just… need to focus.”

Xantos sat back on his heels as the golden magic started to flow from the lad’s hands. He looked around the room, lightheaded but able to think. The Jarl’s men were swarming the place, and the hearth had been lit. they had settled on belting the box shut with thick leather straps, the sword having gone silent within. Sybil was talking with Nazeem, who had come to- a thick and ragged scar across his throat.

That would be a bitch to hide.

Farkas was talking with the jarl, a casual sort of ease in it that would have set Irileth on edge- if she hadn’t been busy commanding her guardsmen to clear out the rest of the keep. She and her men would probably take the credit for this- there was no way in hell that they’d ever admit Xantos having done anything of value if they had to. Nazeem’s wife, Ahlam, was being tended to by Farengar- who was prattling on about all sorts of magic stupid shit. No- people were safe, the keep was theirs again, and despite the storm raging outside, peace had returned.

It was all unimportant.

His Osprey and His Alinor and His Sybil were the most important. Sybil was safe, working in her element with barely a scratch on her- he didn’t need to worry there. No- Alinor and Osprey needed him, so he turned his attention back to them. “Y’good?” he asked with all the tact of a raging horny bull mammoth charging across the plains towards the prettiest lady mammoth it had ever seen. Good job. Fantastic. Nailed it.

Most talented skald of his whole generation.

Osprey stared up at him, wide-eyed and silent–and then made a sound that seemed like she’d started crying anew. Fuck. It was a choked, ugly, gasping sound, wavering as tears rolled down her face–And after a few seconds, it was punctuated by a little piggy snort.

She was

laughing.

Xantos made a confused noise in his throat, tilting his head as Osprey curled in more on herself. She’d started alternating between thick, goopy laughter and sobbing, a hand going to her face, smearing the blood there. Alinor kept one hand on Osprey, healing magic snaking across her wounds from his grip on her wrist. The other was gently plapping against Xantos’ own face.

“Good job, Bandit. Great job.”

The lad didn’t seem to realize he had slipped back into his first tongue, sounding like a toddler talking to the bantams in Zainab.

“I knew I’d be okay.” Xantos said indignantly. “The good lady accepted my-”

“
FuCK YoU
,” Osprey choked out, her voice seeming to be squeezed out forcefully from her chest as she weakly pounded her fist that was cradled in Alinor’s grasp on Xantos’ thigh a few times. “
FuCK’rr fuckiNG

LADY.

”

“M’alive though!” Xantos told her, a smile twitching onto his face as his eyes crinkled. “N’ we’re all alive, I think there might be a touch o’merit there girlie, y’just need to open your heart to the good lady-” Osprey let out a wheeze and Xantos let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. If she was able to do this, she’d be okay, they’d all be okay. It was alright if Osprey wanted to throttle him s’long as she was alive to do it.

And, by the gods, she did. Fueled by a newfound resolve, she moved the six inches necessary to wrap her hands around Xantos’ throat–smearing her blood there–squeeze, and wiggle him about like a limp fish. All while Alinor still had a hold on her wrist.

“Nooo.”

The lad warbled further in altmeris as he was jostled.

“We don’t throttle our friends.

Oss.

Naughty little chimer get swaddled.”

Alinor tried to take off his cloak with one hand, struggling with clumsy fingers.

“I’m blaspheming!”

Osprey exclaimed in response to Alinor’s speech, despite only having the vaguest notions of what he might have actually said. She leaned into her throttling in spite of her still-not-fully-healed-leg, and the fact she was being turned into a red great-axe patterned cocoon. It was the most coherent words she’d spoken yet, even if they were particularly gunky-sounding. “

Lemme blaspheme! He can’t live to see tomorrow!

”

This was exactly as it ought to be, and that brought peace Xantos didn’t know he could achieve into his chest. These were his people, they were his tether.

He loved them.

Oh... oh no.

Xantos watched the two of them, dread creeping up his spine. The cold unsettling fear that this would be taken away from him settling like a ball of ice into his recently healed guts. He swallowed hard, letting out a long sigh as something was dropped on his shoulders. He looked up at Sybil as she adjusted the coat on him. “It's okay,” she told him, giving his shoulder a squeeze. “It's all okay.”

“It’ll all be okay.”