#sieralon

Elenwen refused point blank to leave her loyal General's side, and she would wipe the sweat from Manarion’s brow with a damp cloth or help him drink water during the spare moments where he awoke from his fevered sleep quenched for thirst, but too feeble to move from his bed. He was constantly parched, and would eagerly down whatever water she gave him, and Elenwen was relieved to see that they had not lost the older elf to his injuries. It was a constant worry now, that the Embassy would awaken to the grevious loss of one of its chief and most senior members, and that a replacement from Alinor would be sent for.  Something that not many, if any, of the Embassy inhabitants wanted. 

Such a thought made Elenwen's stomach drop into her feet, and thus, the First Emissary remained by her General’s side until his fever broke and he slept easily and peacefully all day and all night, thoroughly exhuasted by his illness and injuries. After weeks, the old Altmer  was strong enough to finally get out of bed, even though he felt rather weak and feeble doing so, and it took him several minutes to gather his strength for whichever task he wanted to complete; something that would take him only a few seconds ended up taking him five minutes. 

Elenwen found him standing in front of his frost covered window, getting dressed in his armor, which was proving just a little bit too big since he had lost some weight since falling ill, his fever having burnt it away. It had been far too long since he had been able to report for duty.  A soft knock in the form of a womer’s knuckles rapping against his door halted Manarion’s preparations, and his large ears twitched before he turned to open the door, revealing Elenwen with some food for him, balanced on a silver tray and with a pitcher of hot tea for him, scented with lemon and citrus fruits all the way from Alinor. Tinuviel had advised it to help the old Altmer feel better. 

“Milady.” Manarion said, bowing slowly at the waist, still not quite used to being up and about without a clouded, feverish head. It was such a relief to be able to move and breath and talk without frequent pain and discomfort and despite his light-headedness and drowsiness, he much preferred it to being ill and suffering and stuck in a godsforsaken bed. “Whatever can I do for you today, Madame Ambassador?” He asked, meeting her gaze with a smile. Since she had been watching over him since he had been injured and fallen sick, it had stirred some carefully hidden secret feelings that he felt for the womer before him. Feelings that he had had ever since he had first seen her, but ones that he had been too unsure or afraid to give voice to. Her endeavors to care for him warmed his heart, and although he was fairly certain his feelings towards her were entirely unrequitted on the level with which he felt them, it was nice to know she cared towards him enough to help save his life.

“Good afternoon, General.” Elenwen said with a small smile. Manarion thought it made her look much more beautiful, but he was rather biased in that regard; he thought the First Emissary looked lovely no matter what. "I came to give you some lunch." She set the tray on the end table near his bed, before untucking a leather-bound dossier from underneath one arm, holding it up so that the large male could see it. "And this. Rulindil took it upon himself to do some research on that dragon that you requested when we first arrived, since you were not.. feeling well." 

“Ah.” Manarion replied with a nod, gently taking the dossier from Elenwen and flicking it open with his forefinger. “He has my thanks.” He began to read over the notes that the Third Emissary had made, line after line of neat font in Altmeris about dragons and their place in Skyrim lore and legend. “Does he have any ideas thus far?” He asked, glancing up at Elenwen as the Ambassador took a seat in one of the two free chairs that Manarion had in one corner of his modest quarters, near the circular table where he would take his meals when he did not eat his desk whilst doing reports. 

“None, right now.” The female Altmer said, neatly crossing her legs and resting her hands on her knees, fingers interlaced together. “From what he has been able to surmise from several books and documents, dragons were highly intelligent creatures, Manarion. Apparently, they even had their own writing system and language. They have a major part to play in the Nord's culture, what little there is of it." She said, neatly arranging her robes while she sat, before resting her gloved hands in her lap.

“Yes.” Manarion said, closing the dossier with a slight snap and setting it on the end table next to the tray Elenwen had laid down a few moments prior. He picked up the platter easily with one hand before sitting down across from the First Emissary, setting it down on the low table that stood between. “Dovahzul, I believe it was called.” He leaned over to a shelf where he kept some trinkets and managed to come up with two clean cups, of Dwemer design, before pouring some tea in both of them. The huge Altmer offered one to his guest, and she inclined her head politely before taking it, her slender fingers gingerly brushing against his much larger ones. 

“Thank you, General.” The bronzed metal of the cup was hot beneath her touch, and she could feel the heat the metal gave off even through the leather of her gloves.  Elewnen sipped at her tea politely, watching Manarion over the rim of her cup with a thoughtful expression hidden carefully behind the mug. “And what are your thoughts on the matter?” She asked him, raising an elegant brow and leaning back slightly in her seat. “Some of the Justiciars are saying that the Dragon answers to Ulfric Stormcloak. That he uses something the Nords call the Voice to command it." 

Manarion managed to stifle his bark of laughter, and not spray a plume of tea across the table and upon the First Emissary. That and his newly-mended ribs still ached somewhat. “I highly doubt that, Ambassador.” He chuckled, once he had gotten his breath back, and managed to stifle his chuckles. “I think Ulfric was as surprised as we were, to be quite honest.” The older mer said, sipping at his tea in a measured pace once his humor had subsided. “Whatever is happening out there, I promise you this, Madame Ambassador,” He leaned forwards in his chair, locking his gaze with Elenwen’s, gold meeting gold. “I shall do my absolute best to protect you and deal with this. You have my word.”

“I know.” Elenwen wanted to take his hand, to take comfort in the safety and security her companion offered her. Manarion would, and had always kept her guarded and protected, but he treated her with an almost reverent respect. Like she was a treasure to be preserved and worshipped, priceless and held in the highest regard. She trusted him completely, knew he would never betray her or disappoint her. “You have never failed me before, Manarion.” The womer whispered softly. “I know you will not now.” She gave Manarion's hand a brief squeeze, before removing her hand from the top of his and leaning back in her chair. "But in the mean time, I have a task for you."

"Name it, Milady Ambassador, and it shall be done.”

Sieralon winced as he bent over to retrieve one of the saddles for the horse he was tacking up, back protesting as he heaved it up, throwing it over a grey gelding's side, which would serve as his mount as he went along with the now recovered General Elahriel as he journeyed to Whiterun on his first mission out and about away from the Embassy since the return from Helgen. The grey horse he was saddling shifted slightly, turning it's large head to look at him with dark eyes and Sieralon reached over to stroke the velvet-soft muzzle, earning a nicker from the animal. The young mer smiled and pet the satiny skin, evne though he was unable to feel it through the material of his leather Thalmor gloves.

Being one of the youngest members in the Thalmor, and one of the newest recruits often left the young mer saddled -in this case quite literally- with the more labor-oriented tasks the Embassy had to offer. Not that the barely-grown adolescent really complained. He loved the excitement and the adventure; not that he ever really left the Embassy Grounds that often. Today would be his very first time out in the field. He had barely been able to sleep the last night, tossing and turning with bright eyes at the exciting thought of seeing the sights and joining General Elahriel, the feared General Elahriel who fought alongside Lord Naarifiin in the Great War. He could not wait until he could send his parents a letter when he returned {even though he had sent a quick note this morning before rushing off to get his equipment and food ready for the quest}. 

Smiling to himself, the young Justiciar in training bent and tightened the girth of the saddle around the grey gelding's belly, before grabbing a pair of reins from a nearby post. He looked over his shoulder as the main doors of the Embassy were opened easily, and the General and Ambassador strode out and down the front steps. The General was once again in his armor, black trimmed with gold filigree to give the impressions of feathers against the dark Eclipsed Moonstone of his breastplate, and wearing a vast black cape with the Thalmor Insignia and Dominion's eagle-crest epulets near his shoulders. The First Emissary was dressed in her black Ambassadorial robes, an ebony silken cape wrapped her shoulders to keep her warm from the bite of the snow laden, icy wind. 

The two older mer were apparently deep in an important conversation, judging by the crease in the Ambassador's brow and General Elahriel's stern, serious expression as he nodded before replying to her. Sieralon was not able to hear what was being said between the two, no matter how much he strained his ears in a vain attempt to catch any words said between the two leaders, but he could get a faint glimpse of their snatches of conversation from reading their lips.

However, a stern, sharp glare from Captain Esitra, the General's austere daughter, sent the younger mer scrambling back to his work with a hurried apology, fumbling with the saddle bags and throwing them over the grey's back under Estira's watchful eyes. The General's massive palomino charger was led up to where he and the Ambassador halted at the snowy foot of the stairs, the huge horse's breaths coming out as powerful plumes of silvery steam as he tossed his great head, evidently pleased and excited to see his master once more. Manarion reached out to stroke the stallion's muzzle, and the warhorse fell silent once more, standing still as his own golden statue while he nuzzled contently into his master's gloved hand. Sieralon finished his task, saluting to Captain Estira and standing beside his grey gelding as he eagerly awaited the order to mount up, practically vibrating with excitement.

The Ambassador and the General spoke a few more quiet words, before the womer nodded her head, a gesture returned by Manarion with a nod and a bow at the waist, before lifting his head and gaze to meet the Ambassador's. Sieralon caught a faint, 'as you command' from the older mer before he turned, placed his booted foot into the stirrup, and pulled himself onto his golden stallion's back. He urged the charger forwards with a softly spoken word in Altmeris, and the huge horse jogged forwards towards the gates. Beside him, Corporal Sanyail and  Captain Estira swung themselves up onto their own mounts - a storm grey stallion with white feet for the massive Corporal and a dappled silver-grey for the Captain. 

Sieralon clambered clumsily onto his own horse, taking a moment or two to figure out how to swing his leg over the gelding's broad back. The grey warhorse stood patiently until his rider was situated, obviously used to rather incompetent riders, and waited until Sieralon has settled before trotting lazily after the rest of the group. The young Altmer clasped his legs tightly around the gelding's sides, gripping the reins tightly in his gloved hands as the grey trailed after the rest of the horses. 

The road they took led them down from the snowbound Thalmor Embassy, bordered on either side by massive pines cloaked in frost and swaying slightly in the icy Skyrim wind. Sieralon was slowly but steadily getting used to riding on horseback, and allowed himself to relax in his posture, loosening tense shoulders as he looked about him with excitement. The smell of crisp snow and green pine was upon the cold wind that blew in from the Abecaen Sea, carrying with it a faint tint of ocean salt. 

The youngest mer in the small company of Thalmor clumsily urged his grey gelding closer to Corporal Sanyail's massive black stallion and smiled at him, earning a smile back from the burly Altmer before speaking up, voice piqued with naive excitement. "Have you ever been to Whiterun before, Sanyail?" He asked, instinctively falling into Lower Altmeris and looking up at the larger elf curiously; even sitting the other male towered over him by a good deal. 

Sanyail loused a deep, rough-sounding chuckle in response, adjusting his grip on the reins with a creak of well-worn, oiled leather. "Many times, youngling. We passed through Whiterun on our venture down to Helgen with the Ambassador. It is one of the few dominion cordial places in this frozen wasteland." He said, in his typical booming voice; Estira looked over her shoulder as the two spoke, silently raising a stern brow in question. Sanyail smiled a goofy smile and gave her a playful wink, earning a roll of the eyes from the womer before she turned her attentions to speaking to her General father. 

Sieralon shrunk down into the saddle at the austere Captain's expression, before one of Sanyail's huge hands clapped him on the back with a near thunderous laugh. "Do not worry about her." He chortled in his throat, giving a large smile to the younger mer. "She is all bark and no bite." The smaller male gave a somewhat skeptical look and Sanyail chuckled once more, giving a acquescing nod of his head. "Well, maybe a little bite. But in the best possible way." He added with a lecherous grin that went completely over Sier's head. Ahead of them, Estira whipped around in her saddle to fix Sanyail with an absolutely mortified look, her pale features flushed crimson at his words. Beside her, the General made a throaty sort of growling sound, glowering at the Corporal out of the corner of one eye. It would seem, that the father of the Captain did not find this particular joke very funny. 

Sier offered an embarassed looking smile, hunching his scrawny, narrow shoulders up in apology as General Manarion's gaze fell upon him. The old mer sighed and gave a slight shake of his head, giving Corporal Sanyail a half-hearted, heated glower before he turned back around, calling over his shoulder, 

"Let us make haste. We must reach Rorikstead by nightfall." 

It was going to be a long, long day.

Manarion's back and hips ached steadily more and more every mile traversed, but he kept the small group's pace at a brisk walk, alternating between making the horses to trot, and keeping them at a walk. They soon left the town of Dragon Bridge and its ancient namesake behind them, the sun high overhead to indicate noon. Sieralon talked with Sanyail the entire way, excitedly asking the other male to tell him stories about whatever topic happened to be his interest, and the hulking Corporal obliged quite happily, soon regaling a wide-eyed elven youth with tales of the Great War. With a clench in his gut, Manarion tuned them out, noticing that to his right Estira looked equally uncomfortable and tense. 

With a silent movement, Manarion reached out to touch his daughter's hand, and she looked over at him with a small, but sincere smile before he straightened up and drew away. Estira had never been one for talking, and had always been a rather quiet and serious elfling, but her father understood her moods and silences better then most people and she took great refuge in the fact she could always expect his support for her without even having to ask. Hurricane tossed his head quite happily as he trotted down the road towards Whiterun, loping along easily in a stride he could carry for hours if he wanted or needed to. Manarion allowed the massive stallion his head, so long as the armored horse remained on the road that wound its way lazily across the green plains between the Hjaafingar and Whiterun Holds; Hurricane had traveled this way before and he knew the way he was supposed to go and the rest of the Thalmors' horses followed the huge stallion as he plodded along at the front of the small group. 

Manarion hated bed rest, even if he absolutely needed it, and it was certainly a breath of fresh air to be out and about instead of confined to his room until his injuries healed. He had practically had to beg his Ambassador to let him go on this mission, as she was still reluctant to let him out of her sights, but Tinuviel had decreed him fit and the First Emissary had eventually decided to release him {with some stern warnings, of course}. She had sent him off towards Whiterun, to speak to Jarl Balgruuf about the Statue of Talos in the Wind District of his city, where some idiotic priest by the name of Hiemskr was still foolish enough to preach the word of Talos to anyone who would listen. At least, that's what Rulindil's information had gotten them. Manarion had been so eager to leave the Embassy as to avoid going stir-crazy, he leapt at the chance to have something to do. 

The small group of Thalmor rode their horses past the partially-crumbled Watchtower that stood alone beside the winding, paved road, and directed their horses past the cluster of farms that were hunched near the foothills of the mountains that separated the plains of Whiterun from the thick and shrouded pine forests of Riverwood, and dismounted from their steeds at the stable. The owner took one look at Manarion and paled considerably, recalling his last brush with the then irate General, but stood his ground rather reluctantly, not seeming to want to leave his son to deal with the towering Altmer and his two intimidating compatriots. 

"G-go-good morning, my lord Ge-general." The Nord stammered, staring up and up at Manarion as the large High Elf looked down at him from under the shadow of his intimidating eagle helm. "Ho-how may I be of service to-today?" He asked, running his work-roughened hands over one another nervously, sweat beginning to break out against his grimy forehead and the sides of his neck.

"Good morning to you as well." The tall General replied, feeling rather badly about how he had growled and grumbled at the human before. His wounds had made him foul of temper, but there was no excuse for his scaring the poor man. "I require our horses fed, watered, and rubbed down. They have had a long journey and have earned their rest." The man nodded, appearing a good deal more reassured that the armored elf was not angry or upset with him; he was obviously still anxious and apprehensive about setting the huge Altmer off. "We shall be spending the night in the Bannered Mare, but we will require them tacked at dawn's light tomorrow." 

"Of-of course, my lord." The dark-haired man replied, bobbing his head up and down before taking Hurricane's reins when Manarion held them up and offered them to him. The stableowner called his son over, and the younger male came and took Estira and Sanyail's horses as well, before leading them over to a post and tying them to it. "It will be thirty gold for each of them for the night." He said, looking up at Manarion nervously; the old mer nodded and shifted to reach into his pocket and withdrew a coin purse -which clearly held more than one hundred septims - , not even bothering to count it out as he dropped it into the Nord's waiting hand. 

"Here you are and my gratitude." The High Elven General said, before turning upon his heel, patting Hurricane's rump gently with one hand as he walked away. His daughter and her partner-Corporal fell into step behind him, their armor giving faint clicks as they followed suit. Sieralon needed a grunt from Sanyail to remind him to follow and the young elf trotted to keep up, hunching his shoulders apologetically as Estira gave him a look of warning. 

The four Thalmor made their way up the road that led across a drawbridge over an outlet of water, and turned to the left where the main gates of the city stood. Two guards, garbed in the rich golden yellow of Whiterun with the pale stallion's head of Jarl Balgruuf painted upon their shields flanked either side of the huge doors, their faces hidden behind iron and leather helms. 

The pair of men's helmeted heads turned as the huge General approached them, flanked by his daughter and her partner and a wide-eyed Sieralon that was turning his head every which way in a vain attempt to look and see everything. They both bowed their heads to the Thalmor, easily recognizing the large High Elf as one of the Thalmor officers in employ of the Dominion and aligned with the First Emissary Elenwen. They stepped aside, opening the massive doors with a creak of well-worn hinges and large timbers of wood. The group of Dominion representatives moved forwards into the bustling city of Whiterun. 

Manarion, Sanyail, and Estira wound their way through the city, immediately heading up the flight of carved stone steps right beside the guard's barracks right inside the gates and into the Wind District, where the noble and ancient families of Whiterun made their homes. A wedded pair of Reguards stood arguing outside their house, a beggar was beseeching passersby for coin and food, and a Priestess of Kynareth sat beside an orphan girl in a rough, patchwork dress. The statue of Talos stood to the right of another set of stairs carved from dark stone, with no priest in sight; he had likely seen the Thalmor coming and fled before they could see him. Manarion snorted and curled his lip, rolling his eyes as he mounted the steps up and up towards Dragonsreach, ignoring the stares he got from the townsfolk and the guards that patrolled the neat paved streets of Whiterun in their golden-yellow garb.

The guards at the gates of Dragonsreach looked up at the approach of the small group of Thalmor, and like their counterparts at the outer walls of Whiterun, they too opened the doors and allowed the three to enter the palace of Dragonsreach. The hall of Jarl Balgruuf was pleasantly warm, heated by roaring flames from the center hearth in the middle of Dragonsreach. A Dragon's skull hung over the Jarl's throne, bony jaws parted and teeth the size of daggers gleaming in the firelight. It possessed no eyes, only dark hollows that seemed to swallow all the light thrown at them and it's long horns, large as greatswords swooped up, jet black and ending in deadly sharp points.

Balgruuf himself lounged on his throne, one hand resting on the armrest of his chair, and the other tucked under his chin with curled fist. An Imperial man dressed in fine clothes dyed indigo and deep blue stood at one side, and a Dunmeri woman in well-crafted leather armor with a castle-forged sword belted to her hip shifted impatiently from one foot to the other stood opposite. All three looked to Manarion and his two followers, Balgruuf straightening up in his chair with furrowed brows and the look of a man that was seeing a sabre cat taking up residence upon the threshold of his home. 

"General Manarion Elahriel." Balgruuf said, watching the mer skirt with slow, purposeful grace around the large hearth in the center of the room and approach the steps that led up to the Jarl's dias. Sieralon struggled to keep his mouth shut as he gazed up at the large skull dragon skull that was mounted to the wall above the Jarl's head, but his expression must have slipped a little because he felt Captain Estira shoulder him a little; he clicked his teeth shut and shuffled his feet, focusing. "I trust you have something vitally important to speak to me about, General. Or else Elenwen wouldn't have sent you, I suppose."

"Ambassador Elenwen." Manarion corrected with a laid back rumble, shifting his weight and resting a hand lazily upon the eagle's head pommel of the greatsword belted at his waist. The Dark Elf woman glowered at the tall Altmer, looking as though she was resisting the urge to draw her blade and threaten him for the gesture. For his part, the old General's golden-eyed gaze flickered over to her for a second or so before his attention returned to Jarl Balgruuf; she was acknowledged, but deemed a minimal threat. "Indeed. The First Emissary has sent me to oversee the destruction of the Talos statue in the plaza of the Wind District as it breaks the rules and conditions state in the White-Gold Concordat. As a kingdom beneath the authority and laws of the Cyrodiilic Mede Empire, you are to dismantle the statue and any other artifacts of Talos worship within your city as well as your hold or face the full consequences of the law." He reached into a fold of his brigandine and withdrew a letter with the Ambassador's seal and offered it to the bald Imperial male with a slow blink. “This letter states the same." 

Balgruuf narrowed his eyes while his advisor took the letter from Manarion, the hand beneath his chin curling into a fist even as his jaw set beneath the fair blond hair of his braided beard. "That statue has stood in Whiterun for over one hundred years, General." The Jarl of Whiterun stated, resting his hand on the armrests of his throne, so that his nails dug into the stallion heads that were carved into the wood. "It is as much a part of Whiterun's history as Jorvaskr and the Skyforge are, or  the Gildergreen or Dragonsreach. Tearing it down would be like destroying the Temple of the Divines in Solitude."

"Unfortunately, Jarl Balgruuf," Manarion began, voice deepening to a low growl, amber eyes narrowing, like a wolf that caught the scent of blood on the wind. "I would be disinclined to agree." The tall Thalmor General gave a slow shake of his head, adjusting his grip upon his crested helm, his fingers drumming against the metal slightly. "Talos worship is relatively new, compared to the worship of the other divines. Nevermind the fact that he was not and never will be a true Divine." Balgruuf grit his jaw even moreso at the Altmer's words, and Manarion's thin lips curled into a slight smile, almost hidden in his neatly trimmed beard, but there was still the feral gleam of teeth, revealed in a smile that was reminiscent of a dragon's leer. "You will tear down the Statue, or answer to the Dominion for refusing to adhere to the White-Gold Concordat, and your Emperor can deal with you after I have." He wasted no time leveling a threat towards the stubborn Nord, not heeding the armed and armored womer that stood by his side; Manarion did not fear her, nor her Jarl. Circumstances were quite the opposite; they should fear him, and judging from the expressions on their slack-jawed faces, fear was what he had achieved. 

"Gen-General." The Imperial to Balgruuf's left stuttered, but spoke out and stepped forward nonetheless, eyeing the massive Altmer warily, now that his gaze was fully upon him, like an eagle spotting a helpless mouse below and debating whether to snatch it or let it go. It all depended upon a whim. "Of course we wish to follow the White-Gold Concordat, but -" 

"But what?" Manarion questioned, his deep, rumbling voice cold as a chill Skyrim wind and as soft as gravel. "You have dwaddled at destroying that particular piece of heretical garbage for nearly a year, Balgruuf. The Ambassador, the Dominion, and I have lost our patience with your clear hesitation and lack of.. motivation." The General sneered, narrowing his eyes, straight white teeth gleaming in the firelight, lips pulled back in smiling snarl. "Destroy it, or we will." 

Balgruuf opened his mouth to reply, but the sounds of his words was cut off with the banging of doors and the rush of footsteps. Manarion, along with Estira and Sanyail turned, Estira drawing her sword and Sanyail shrugging his battle-axe off of his back as two guards approached, wheezing desperately for breath and covered in soot and streaks of ash and absolutely soaked through with sweat. 

"Jarl Balgruuf!" One panted, stumbling up to the Jarl's dias before almost collapsing as his knees buckled and almost gave out on him. "Jarl Balgruuf!" The man gasped, tearing his full-faced helmet off before letting it drop at his feet with a hollow, metallic clank. His face was red, drenched with sweat, making the grey ash run down his face in lines like dark tear tracks. "We saw it coming from the south. It was fast... faster than anything I've ever seen." He wheezed, bending to drop his hands on his knees as he struggled to regain his breath.

"What, boy?!" Balgruuf bellowed, leaping to his feet, muscles tensed. "Speak! What did you see?" 

"A-a dragon, my Lord!" The guard gasped, going deathly pale with fright. "It was just circling overhead when we left. I never ran so fast in my life... I thought it would come after me for sure. It grabbed Sindri as we ran, and the horses bolted. It took them too." His companion nodded in agreement, his breath sonding harsh and grating against the metal that still covered his hidden face. "Never saw such a sight in my life." 

"The dragons were killed a long time ago." Balgruuf said, voice weighted clearly by sheer disbelief, blue eyes wide as he looked down at the two panting guards, before shifting his gaze to this Imperial advisor and his Dunmeri housecarl. "Some say Helgen was destroyed by a dragon, but that's impossible. It was Ulfric escaping and setting the city ablaze."

"Actually, that is quite untrue, Jarl Balgruuf. A dragon did indeed destroy Helgen." All eyes turned to General Manarion, and silence reigned between all those assembled, only interrupted by the sounds of breathing and the crackle of flames in the center-hearth. "A black beast with red eyes." Manarion folded his arms across his breastplate, his cloak shifting with his movements as he gazed at the Jarl before him. "Perhaps it is the same creature now that threatens your hold and your people." 

"And how would a Thalmor know about this?" Balgruuf growled, taking a step closer to the towering Altmer and glaring up at him from beneath furrowed brows. "I was at Helgen, Jarl." Manarion curtly replied, snorting at the human's attempt to stand tall against him. He had no fear of someone like Balgruuf, even with the man's aggressive displays to intimidate him, especially since the Nord was almost half his size and weight. "And I fought the beast myself." The General Warrior turned and began to walk away, Sanyail and Estira falling into step behind him, and Sieralon scrambling to follow suite in a similar manner, barely sparing Balgruuf's housecarl a second glance and leaving the Lord of Whiterun in a stunned silence for a second or two before the man burst into a series of angered blustering. 

"And where are you going, General Elahriel?" He growled, moving to follow after the hulking Altmer. Sanyail let out a low, throaty rumble as the Nordic man approached, while Estira silently laid a hand upon the hilt of her elven sword, and Sieralon looked puzzedly at the other two soldiers before readying a small flames spell, the other hand drawing a dagger, but Manarion simply raised and waved one hand to call them off. The pair dropped their arms back down to their sides and continued onwards, following their commanding officer as he walked through the main hall of Dragonsreach. Sieralon hurried after them, clenching his hand to snuff the flame and shoving the dagger back into its sheath. He drew close to Sanyail, who gave him a reassuring nod. 

"I am off to go make myself some dragonskin boots from the ugly bastard. I owe it a sword to the fucking brain." Manarion snarled, glancing out of the corners of his eyes at Balgruuf. "Maybe I can mount its head above my chair in my office. The only thing I like about your nord decorators." And with that, he turned on his heel and marched out, black gold-trimmed cloak flowing out behind him as his long legs carried him swiftly away, Estira and Sanyail trailing in his wake with Sieralon nearly tripping over himself in his haste to follow, looking like an eager puppy.

Balgruuf was left in stunned silence, standing beneath the silently snarling dragon skull as the Thalmor General left him to his advisers and guards. 

The Western Watchtower was smoking in the distance, a vast plume of thick black smoke billowing out into the cloudy evening sky, a clear sign of the death and destruction that the dragon had already wreaked that day.  The stench of blood and death was heavy on the smoke-laden air. The horses had been left behind at the stables by Manarion's command, and the Thalmor had jogged down the road towards where the remnants of the Watchtower stood smoldering a mile down the stone-paved road that wound its lazy way towards Rorikstead and Solitude to the West, bordered on either side by lush green grass and myriads of mountain flowers in a variety of colors and large bunches of vibrant purple lavender bushes swaying lazily in the deathly wind. 

A quick murmur from Manarion to stay alert was given as they reached the Watchtower, and the group of Thalmor dispersed, squinting through the smoke and the smell of burning flesh and wood. Sieralon coughed back the urge to gag, his stomach roiling, but he pressed onwards, following his General as he was bid. Ashy cinders of wood crunched beneath his booted feet, trying to step where Manarion stepped and swallowing nervously. Manarion moved over the curled up corpse in the remnants of burnt and partially melted guard armor, quite grateful that his many-times broken nose prevented him from getting the majority of the smell that was most likely coming off the scorched corpses. It did not make him look extraodinarily pretty, but it had its uses if he thought about it with a bitter humor. 

The faintest glimmer of stars in the darkening, smoke streaked sky could be seen as Estira made a call, summoning the three Altmer males to her side; she had found a survivor. 

"He's under a beam." She said, as the massive General and hulking Corporal made their way over, rocks tumbling from beneath their feet. "Help me with it." The two males nodded, and grabbed either end of the large timber, heaving and grunting with all their considerable might. The wood creaked as they moved it, Estira and Sieralon slipped their hands down to grab the man underneath his arms and pulling him swiftly out from under the timber. The man grunted and whimpered in pain, but as soon as he was clear, the two larger pair of mer dropped the timber again with a crunch of wood against wood and stone. 

"Thank the Gods." He gasped, looking up at his unlikely rescuers; never in his life would he have thought he would be grateful to see four Thalmor looking down at him. "We need to get out of here. The dragon-the dragon will come back. I don't want to be here when it does!" His eyes, reddened from the smoke, went wide, and he pointed a trembling arm up towards the sky, past Manarion and Sanyail's broad shoulders. "Gods save us, here he comes again!"

A thunderous roar heralded the arrival of the dragon, followed by the shadow of vast wings overhead, dark against the oncoming dusk. Manarion looked up sharply, catching the glimpse of a dragon, grey of scale with darker iron markings on its leathery wings, and black horns. Not the beast that had burnt Helgen to near cinders. This one was smaller and paler with a beige underbelly, not as inky in color as the creature he had faced down to save his Ambassador. But that did not mean it posed him a lesser threat. The rush of wings signaled the dragon was turning again, apparently spotting them against the smoke and fire of the ravaged Watchtower. 

Sanyail snarled as the dragon chose to hover, glaring at the three Thalmor and wounded Nord with baleful yellow eyes. Manarion drew his greatsword, Sanyail readied his battle-axe, and Estira unsheathed her sword, readying a lightning-bolt spell in her opposite hand, the pale blue-white sparks dancing against the black leather glove she wore. Sieralon summoned one firebolt spell and one lightning-bolt, not quite sure which one would work better; both tended to do a good enough job putting bandits and Stormcloak soldiers down, according to his mentors, but he had yet to be in any real battle. 

Until now, that is. 

The dragon bellowed again, before beating its wings and wheeling above them, its shadow falling across them, much, much larger then any bird's and much, much more intimidating. The smoke and gathering night helped its darkly-colored body blend in, but Manarion could hear exactly where the beast was by the sound of its loud, raspy breathing and the leathery snap of its bat-like wings. Estira could hear it as well, and her hand shot out to send a blast of lightning at the dragon. Pale blueish sparks danced over the beast's iron-hard scales, and the dragon shrieked in pain, wheeling about in the darkened, cloud-streaked sky before it crashed to the ground clumsily, awkwardly landing hard on the road nearby. 

The beast, Mirmulnir, tossed its great horned head, grisly jaws parted and razor-edged teeth the size of daggers flashing in the fading light, before it turned its attention to the three elves that stood before it. Manarion managed a deep rumble, growling deep and lowly in his broad chest in response to the dragon's bellow of challenge. He stepped forward, hefting his shield up in his hand; a new one that he had gotten from the smith, Valerion, as a replacement for his old one that had been dented beyond repair by the black dragon's jaws. Mirmulnir's scaly lips curled, baring vicious fangs before his mouth moved to speak, in a deep, booming voice that sent tremors deep into Manarion's bones. 

"You are brave, fahliil. Bahlaan hokoron." To Manarion's left, Sanyail shifted nervously, a look of fear crossing his angular, rough face as the dragon spoke. "Worthy enemies." The beast watched them out of malevolent yellow eyes, slit-pupiled and angered like a serpent's, but with much, much more cunning and intelligence. "Your defeat shall bring me great honor." Estira looked to her father, and the older soldier swallowed nervously, mouth going rather dry as the dragon drew its head back, chest swelling and the air around it trembled and vibrated with magic as the dov summoned its strengh into a blast of wind.

Manarion brought his shield up, steeling himself for the force of the gale-force blast that hit him. He was knocked backwards slowly, booted feet digging shallow furrows in the ground as the wind whistled past his ears. Sanyail was brought to his knees and Estira was thrown onto her back with a grunt and a swear. She picked herself up, quickly, but clumsily, as the dragon roared with laughter, apparently taking great delight in toying with its prey. 

That is, until Sanyail gave it a sound whack on the shoulder with his battle-axe, and the beast's thunderous laughter transformed into a shriek of pain, whipping its head around to glower at the Corporal with furious, blazing amber eyes. The dragon hissed in fury, bringing its wing closer to its body before lashing out with the limb, bowling the burly young Altmer over like he was little more than a minor inconvenience; Sanyail tumbled onto his stomach a few paces away, looking quite dazed and disoriented, but otherwise relatively unharmed, with only a few small cuts and bruises on his face to show for his troubles, where his crested helmet did not cover. 

Sieralon froze, terror lancing through his body and turning his blood to ice as his comrade took the devastating hit, before righteous anger took over his fear and he lashed out by sending dual blasts of fire and electricity at the dov, who screamed in rage and pain before turning it's full attention upon the young battle-mage. Luckily, Estira took the opening Sieralon had provided her and slashed at the dragon's side with her sword, carving a wound into its dark hide, but not drawing any blood and pulling its attention back towards her for the moment. Sieralon ducked behind a half-demolished column and shot another blast of magicka at the dragon, which turned to lash a wing in his direction as Estira danced away with agile swiftness. 

Manarion took the dragon's distraction as an advantage, slamming his sword into the beast's opposite shoulder with a grating of metal against iron-like hide and steel-hard scales. He threw all of the his considerable weight into the blow, until brackish dragon blood oozed forth and the beast released an otherworldly, enraged shriek of pain and anger. The dragon attempted to snap at the large General, but Manarion side-stepped the gnashing fang-lined jaws, brandishing his sword against Mirmulnir's muzzle, cleaving a line into the iron-colored scales and causing more black ichor to bubble up.

The Dragon's teeth clanged against the General's weapon as the Dov lashed out in anger. However, he was kept at bay with the razor-sharp edge of the sword. Manarion could feel the dragon's hot, acrid-smelling breath even through the sturdy leather of his gloves and he pushed against the hilt of his weapon with all of his might, forcing the dragon's head back, slowly, inch by inch. Mirmulnir giving an indignant roar of fury before he drew his head back and slammed it into Manarion's side, bowling him over as easily as a child would a toy and knocking the breath out of him in a great gust of air that made his newly healed ribs ache.

The aged High Elf hit the ground with a grunt, dropping his sword and rolling once or twice before he came to a halt laying flat on his back. He stared up at the sky with a dazed expression, before pushing himself into a seating position, sore and still weakened body protesting the movements he made, but adrenalin allowing him to ignore it. He had expected the dragon to take advantage of his weakness and attack him while he was downed and helpless, but what he saw rendered him speechlesss.

Seeing her father knocked aside like little more than an unwanted obstacle, Estira had taken the dragon's distraction and lept upon his back. The beast was roaring and thrashing its great scaled body about whilst the womer held onto one of the sharp spikes on his back with her hand, hacking and slashing at every inch she could reach with her sword, making Mirmulnir shriek, roar, and bellow his rage in both dragonic roars and Dovahzul, his large, sinuous tail lashing back and forth with his violent movements.

Sanyail let out an Altmeri battle-cry as he charged forwards as well, sprinting past Manarion to swing his battle-axe at Mirmulnir's now-folded wings. The sharpened blade of the battle-axe sliced through the membranes of the dragon's as easily as a hot knife through butter, and the Dov threw its great horned head back, jaws parted in an ear-splitting roar. Sieralon practically danced bak and forth between bits of rubble that offered sparse pieces of cover, sending blast of fire and lines of lightning at the enraged, now-downed dragon. Manarion lept to his feet as well, making his own attack, as the dragon turned its head to make an attempt at biting the darling and burly corporal. He grabbed one of Mirmulnir's spiraling black horns and heaved himself up onto the dragon's head, nearly slipping on the dragon's broad scales, made slick with blood.

Estira was finally tossed off as the dragon whipped its tail to one side, causing the Thalmor Captain to fly off with the swift movements the creature made, hitting the ground hard with a cry of pain and a rattle of her armor. However, Manarion was too busy struggling at his best to keep his balance upon the top of Mirmulnir's broad head to run to his daughter's side to ascertain the extent of her injuries.

He brought his sword up, before swinging it down with all the brutal force he could, putting all of his strength and might into the blow, stabbing the sword into Mirmulnir's right eye. The dragon's resulting dying scream rattled Manarion's ears, making them ring as the dragon gave several violent, jerking thrashes beneath him before it crumpled to the ground. The earth gave a brief shake as Manarion lept off of the beast's head, aided by the momentum of its fall. He stumbled briefly, before whipping around to face the dragon, paranoid that it would rise once more.

However, the dead Dov did not move. Black blood and greyish ooze trickled over its scales. Manarion prodded at its jaw with the end of his sword, poking at the vast jaws. No response. Slowly, the old General's broad shoulder relaxed beneath his armor, and he looked over as Sanyail stumbled over, face streaked with smoke, sweat, and dirt. He was supporting Estira, who leant against his side, looking bruised and battered, but other wise unharmed. Sieralon stood opposite, helping the older and larger Corporal as he limped forwards.  

Manarion was about to open his mouth to speak, but a low, crackling sound interupted him. Together, as one, the small group of Thalmor turned to the still body of the dragon, expecting the beast to get up and attack them once more. What they saw was the opposite; what appeared to be embers were swiftly overtaking the dragon's body, like flakes of fire that blazed bright in the night, gold, scarlet, and pure white. Flames burned throughout the corpse of the dragon, leaving behind burnt bones and some meager scraps of blackened flesh and tissue still clinging to the charred bones.

Then, the fire, pale as smoke with streams of gold and silver that he had never seen before in all of his long, long years,  rushed towards Manarion in a great burst. He futilely raised his sword-arm to defend himself, only to have the force pass through him, incorpreal and ignorant of his armor and the flesh that lay  beneath. He felt the magic burn through his veins, making every fiber of his body flare with energy and purpose.

Manarion, despite his best efforts to keep standing, fell to his knees, overtaken by bright flashes of images, sounds, thoughts, emotions, and memories that were not his own. They rushed through his mind like the winds of a hurricane, blazing through every crevice of his mind like an inferno. It took his breath away, leaving his lungs achingly empty, and even if he heard Estira, Sanyail, and Sieralon running to his side and asking him frantically if he was alright. They hesitated, at first, shying from the energy that spiraled off of their commanding officer like visible wisps of wind.

Soon he was helped to his feet with their hands on either one of his arms, before he managed to get his feet solidly beneath him. His head still felt like it was lolling on his shoulders, but he managed to keep his balance, despite the ache of pain gnawing at his temples, accompanied by the flashes of sounds and pictures in the back of his mind. He managed to wave his three concerned companions off, staggering away a few paces, before resting his hands on his knees, bent partially over as he took in deep, steadying breaths, feeling like a mer drowning at sea. 

Eventually the feeling passed, and Manarion straightened up, only half paying attention as Estira fussed and fretted over Sanyail, casting the Healing Hands Restoration spell upon her larger lover while Sieralon moved over to check on the guard who had remained in the watchtower, his condition rendering him more of a hindrance then a help on the battlefield. The taller mer appeared to almost preen at the attention from his partner, and she gave him a gentle cuff upside the head once she had finished healing him before she turned to see to her father, leveling a stern glare she had learned all too well from her mother at him and the old General surrendered to her stone-faced healing. He knew her well enough to judge by the look in her jade-green eyes that she was shaken, if the minimal way her gloved hands shook and the tightness along the line of her jaw.

Manarion stood patiently until Estira was finished healing him of his bumps and bruises, staring off into the distance. His thoughts still raced within his mind like the winds of a storm breaking forth in the distance, dark even against the night, with brief flashes of lightning arcing amongst the clouds. The Restoration spell did much to help with his injuries, but the aches and complaints of aged bones and worn joints remained with the ancient Altmer. Without thought to his actions, the old veteran walked a few paces from the still burning watchtower, until something within halted his steps and he lifted his gaze up towards the clouds, vision swimming as all the colors in the surrounding area seemed to burn brighter in his retinas, making his eyes sting. Until a stranger's voice broke him from his reverie.

"Gods... You're a Dragonborn." The now healed guard was regarding the Altmeri General with wide eyes, taking in the bewildering image of the ancient High Elf's form which was still wreathed in faint traces of golden-white streaming slivers of magic. The Nordic man took a step back upon seeing the mer's eyes, which glowed a noticeable amber in the dark, like two candle flames, twin pinpricks of light in the darkening dusk.

"What in Auri-El's name are you going on about? I am no Dragon-Child." Manarion's voice was little more than a raspy whisper of a growl, but it still made the shellshocked Nord shake in his fur boots. It was not every day that he came face to face with an Altmer that not only was a General, and a feared and ruthless one in addition, but also one that had taken down a dragon, and appeared to have been able to somehow absorb its form into his own. That type of insanity was on Divine level of power and the last thing that the poor man knew how to handle was a dragon-slaying, soul-devouring High Elf Thalmor General. He was entirely out of his depth here.

"I can't believe it... You're Dragonborn." He repeated, in a helpless attempt to make himself more clear. From what the aged mer had said, it appeared had some knowledge of what a Dovahkiin was, as odd as that thought was; he didn't know that Altmer had any kind of legends regarding Dragons and Dragonborns. He looked down the road at the approaching figures of the Jarl's Dunmer Housecarl and five more guards, before looking nervously back at the elf once more, falling silent as Irileth drew near, skirting around the vast, crumpled skeleton of the downed dragon.

"What is the meaning of this, General?" She snapped at the Altmer, who gave her a bored look one would give an exceptionally annoying fly. He reached with one hand and scratched at his beard lazily, taking his time in finding an answer. The other guards gathered in a wide circle around the Dark Elven leader, closing ranks with the surviving watchtower guard, who stood shaking and shivering, but not from the cold.

"We fixed your dragon problem." Manarion replied at last, humor tinging his deep, rumbling tone, and a smug expression crossing his features beneath his beard. "And your man was just explaining to me about why he thinks I am a Dragonborn." He gave the guard a pointed look, sharp and commanding, losing all evidence of his joking tone and demeanor. The man in question jumped a little, and shook himself out of his daze. Dragons and magic and Dovahkiins he was completely unfamiliar with, but an impatient officer was something he could certainly deal with.

"From the very oldest tales, back when there were still dragons in Skyrim, the Dragonborn would slay dragons and steal their power." He gestured with a gauntleted hand towards the burned and blackened bones of the dead dov. "That's what you did... I think. There's only one way to prove it; to Shout." There was a low murmuring from the other guards, and Irileth's resulting expression was one which could have curdled milk. The gathered Thalmor drew close to their commanding officer, looking at him with faces mixed with uncertainty, concern, and the barest hints of fear. The General's eyes still glowed faintly, but the magic within him seemed to have dimmed down. "According to the old legends, only the Dragonborn can Shout without training, the way the Dragons do."

The rest of the Nords assembled fell silent,  staring at the High Elf with expectant gazes. Manarion snorted, thin lips twisting into a scowl and his large notched ears giving a tiny flick against his silver hair as he mulled this over. Sanyail and Estira exchanged tense, nervous looks and Sieralon fretted with his hands anxiously, shifting his weight from one boot to the other. At length, the General gave an uneasy, reluctant shrug before taking a few steps away. He appeared to focus for a moment or two, taking a deep breath, drawing his shoulders back before loosing a Shout. A Whirlwind of air burst forth, silvery against the sky, before it disappeared into the heavens, leaving the Altmer General panting slightly, his massive form shaking with the effort and strain the Shout had taken upon him.

"The Thu'um! The elf summons the Thu'um!"

"Like the Greybeards on the mountain."

Estira laid a gentle hand on her father's shoulder, feeling his large form shudder underneath her touch. He nodded to her in reassurance, gaining his breath back slowly while the Whiterun Guards talked amongst themselves in bewilderment.

"What say you, Irileth?" One of the men guestioned, turning to the silent Dunmeri warrior standing nearby, gazing at the dragon's black bones, her arms folded over her chest and her brooding expression thoughtful. "You've been rather quiet about all of this."

"Come on, Irileth. Tell us. Do you believe any of this Dragonborn business?" One of the other nordic men prompted, as all of the men turned their attention to her. The Dark Elven woman gave a harumph, dropping her arms back to her sides and tilting her chin up defiantly.

"Hrm. Some of you would be better off keeping your mouths shut rather then flapping your gums about matters you don't know anything about." At her words, Manarion barked out a harsh laugh, drawing the Dunmer's angry crimson gaze. "Something to add to this conversation, General Elahriel?" She growled, taking a step closer to the towering Altmer. "This is something I can understand," she added, waving a hand towards the sprawled skeleton fo the slayed dragon. "now we know we can kill them. And we don't need some mythical Dragonborn. Someone who can put down a dragon is enough for me."

"I seriously doubt that." Manarion sneered, looking down at the Dark Elf with an unimpressed expression, his golden eyes cold. "Only Dragonborns can permanently kill dragons by absorbing their souls. You and your guards would only be able to kill its body, it would always be able to come back." He added, giving a shake of his head. "But you are welcome to give it a try. It would keep your self-important ass out of my way before you get hurt, or even better, killed." He glowered down at the Dark Elf, lips curled back to show his teeth in a savage snarl, teeth glinting white in the reddish light of the flames which Mirmulnir had started on the grass and smoldering timbers. "I may not be a Nord like your men, unless my mother left that part out, but even Altmer have legends about Dragons and those blessed by Auri-El. Dragons are His children, but so is the Dragonborn. You cannot really have one without the other and even then, the Dragonborn is a being with the soul of a dragon bound within a mortal body." The massive Altmer's growling tone left no room for any doubt that he thought of Irileth as a pompous idiot.

"Hrmph." Irileth scoffed, rolling her eyes at the High Elven warrior's derogatory words. "You may be one of the Dominion's best warriors, General Elahriel, but that does not mean that you know everything there is to know about everything." She sneered, resting one hand on her hip and the opposite on the hilt of her castle-forged steel sword. Manarion met her response with a snort, but the womer continued, ignoring the massive Altmer that towered over her and directing her next words to her men. "I would advise you to trust more in the strength of your sword arm over tales and legends."

Such foolhardy words earned a raspy scoff and a roll of the eyes from Manarion as he folded his arms over his chest, unable and completely unwilling to make any attempt to hide his inherent disinterest in what the Jarl's personal lap dog had to say about anything. He waved her away dismissively before summoning Sanyail, Estira, and Sieralon to his side as he walked over to examine the bones. Manarion stepped closer to the fallen Mirmulnir's skull, running a gloved hand over the elegantly deadly curve of a blackened horn, down towards the ridge of the dragon's brow and over the now empty eye socket. Mirmulnir's bones were not white like a human's or a mer's would be, they were instead iron grey, with jet-black points along the horns and spikes and the row of snarling teeth were like small daggers of obsidian.

Sanyail kneeled down to examine them carefully, tapping the tips with the end of his forefinger and peering closely at the serrated edges; he was the son of a craftsmer and a jeweler, with the abilities to certainly appreciate the skill of the God's work in such a deadly and ferocious beast's jaws. Manarion watched the younger mer study the dragon's jaw's and teeth, arms still folded, but one hand resting near his chin where he idly stroked his beard. Estira and Sieralon waited nearby, much more cautious to approach the dov's skeletal corpse then their two more adventurous colleagues, and Estira soon made it her self-assigned duty to check her young charge of injuries, which made him preen under her quiet, but gentle care.

"General," Sanyail began, looking up and over at the taller and older Altmer, "do you think we could manage to take the skull with us? And perhaps some of the bones? I have never seen material as durable as this, with the exception of Daedric Armor." And there were few elvish smiths who would dare to touch ebony ore, let alone smelt it into something of Daedric origins. "Moonstone is smoother and doesn't have the complex grain of the bone, and the bone itself is heavy. The beast must have used some sort of magic to fly alongside its wings. " The massive Corporal's green-gold eyes were alight with curiosity and anticipation and Manarion himself could do little but smile in return, before schooling his worn features into something marginally more refined and in control.

"Take whatever you want." Manarion rumbled in reply to the hulking younger mer, before glancing over to where Sieralon and his daughter stood, straightening his back and squaring his shoulders. He called out to them, gesturing minutely with one hand to draw them nearer. "Estira, help Sanyail bundle up the bones and keep low for the moment. I am quite sure that we are not the only ones that are interested in what secrets our friend may carry here." Both Captain and Corporal nodded agreement, looking to their General attentively, but albeit reluctantly; they could sense that there was something the older mer was going to say something else. Sieralon, meanwhile, was almost bouncing in place like an excited puppy, his face streaked with soot. "Until then, I-"

"DOVAHKIIN!" Before Manarion could continue speaking with his plans, thunderous voices split the heavens, making both sky shake, for lack of better words. All gathered looked up at the star-spangled inky night sky with looks of apprehension on some and fear on the others as the rumbling echoed before fading into nothing. Manarion and his companions exchanged nervous and anxious looks with raised eyebrows and mouths partially agape; only the General's weathered face held a different expression, one of unsure familiarity and distant recollection. He still stared up at the sky with furrowed brows, jaw clenched tightly and every powerful muscle in his huge body tense.

They had called him. He must answer. Not to do so was unthinkable.

Nivahriin. Cowardly.

Slowly and carefully, Estira approached the older and larger Altmer, laying a hand lightly on his arm. He nearly jumped out of his skin when she touched him, shocked from his thoughts. His gaze jerked from the skies above to his daughter and he worked his mouth a bit, struggling for the first time in a long time to put thought into words. At length, he managed to rasp out a weak reassurance that he was fine and the Captain hesitantly away, her normally stoic and austere face a mask of worry and concern. Her hand remained on his arm and Manarion patted it gently, before giving it a calming squeeze. Even as a fully grown adult, and a rather tall womer, even amongst Altmer, Estira's hand was dwarfed in his.

The gesture seemed to placate her well enough, and she let her hand drop to her side before she gave her father a nod and went to help Sanyail look after the dragon bones. His task assauging his daughter's apprehensions done for the moment, Manarion beckoned Sieralon over to him with a quick wave of his hand.

"Sieralon, be a good lad and go to the stables and see if any of the carriage drivers would be willing to help us transport the dragon bones to the Embassy." Manarion rasped softly, his golden eyes remaining still and unmoving upon Sier's. "The Thalmor will be willing to pay him extra for his services. I am quite certain the Third Emissary will want to look at them." The youngest mer in their party let out a quick 'yes, general' and did as he was bid, running down the road back towards the lights in the distance that marked the location of the stables and farms that lay just outside Whiterun's massive stone wall. Manarion nodded silently to himself, before he lifted his gaze back to the star-studded heavens again as if he could find the answers to his questions there amongst the clouds.

Three weeks prior...

Helgen was a smoldering ruin behind him, and his wounds sang with agony, but still Marcus pressed onwards, leaving a trail of blood droplets in the snow and dirt and mud behind him. Patches of his skin, where his Imperial armor did not cover were blistered black and weeping clear fluid and blood. But still the Legionaire limped onwards with single-minded determination. He kept telling himself a little bit longer with each painful step; to that tree, to that boulder, to that sign post. And on to Riverwood. It was the closest town that could provide him with food, safety, and medical attention. Even if they were bunch of flea-bitten farmers that only grew cabbages, everyone had salves made from wheat and blisterwort. The stumpy mushrooms grew everywhere in this frigid, blasted hellhole.

The Imperial followed the river as it rushed north towards Whiterun, where it would run by in a great silver-blue torrent all the way to the sea. He concentrated on the things around him that helped lead him to his goal; the waving blades of emerald-green grass, the bright buds of mountain flowers in blue and red and purple, and the bursts of pale thistle. He collapsed against the fallen trunks of great trees three times and each time he struggled with the effort of regaining his feet. Part of him wanted to merely lay down and sleep, but he knew if he did, he would never get up again. He had to keep going. He must. He had to get back to Solitude and warn the rest of the Legion. General Tullius, if he were still alive.

Panting heavily with exhaustion, the man finally came within sight of the simple wooden surround that rose above the south entrance to Riverwood. By now his heart was thumping loud rushes of blood into his ears, and he could nothing else but the pulses of blood, his own agonized breathing, and the thuds through his body of his boots hitting the ground. He did not hear Alvor, the smith, give a confused, but concerned shout for someone to get Hilde, or was it Helga. He could not tell. He was too busy looking down, or was it up, at the ground rushing to meet him.

And then, darkness overtook him.

He did not know how long it had been when he had awoken again. Marcus blinked his eyes open wearily, looking around a blurry brown room until it faded slowly into a simple, but well-kept room, that looked like it belonged to either an inn or a small guest chamber in someone's home. The Imperial didn't have to move in order to notice the swathes of bandages that covered his middle and parts of his arm; his hand on the right, and just his bicep on the left. His mouth tasted fuzzy and dry, like sand, and he felt a great thrist even as his stomach rumbled its hunger like an angry beast.

Gazing around his temporary room, the young Imperial shifted upwards in his bed, gasping and wincing in pain as his body gave mute screams of protest, muscles trembling and his injuries burning like they were on fire. However, before he could see to his wounds, the creaking sound of a door squeaking on its hinges as someone entered his room drew his eyes from.  A blonde nordic woman had entered the room, clad in a humble blue dress with a leather outer corset. She was austere and stern looking, with deeper lines on her face and hard blue-grey eyes that looked like chips of clear ice. Marcus instantly knew that she was not a warrior to be crossed and he sat up a little straighter, ignoring the prickle of pain across his back and shoulders.

"Glad to see you're finally awake." She said, setting down the tray of stew and fresh-baked bread and a cup of ale. Marcus' stomach rumbled loudly again and he licked his lips subconciously as hunger ached at his insides. "You've been out for a while." She said with wry humor, straightening up.

"How long was I out?" The Imperial male asked, his voice rough and gruff with days of disuse. His green eyes had locked onto the Nord woman's. He wished for his sword so that he could possibly threaten her with the answer to his questions. He had no time or patience for such games.

"Three days. We changed your bandages twice. I was going to again after you had eaten." She replied brusquely, not seeming to care about his glares and glowers. Instead, she seemed to focus on bringing a moderately sized wooden box of fresh linen bandages and salve from the large shelved wardrobe pushed against the far wall, opposite of his bed. "You should eat before you try to intimidate me again. You look like a half-drowned skeever." Marcus growled at the insult, his dark brows furrowed in anger at her words. How dare she. The woman chuckled at his grumbling and set the tray in his lap, making him startle a bit. "How about you eat now, so I don't have to shove it down your throat, boy. We'll change your bandages after."

"Who are you and why did you help me?" Marcus barked at her, setting his shoulders stubbornly and narrowing his eyes at her. The woman smirked in response, like he was little more than an angry wolf-pup that had bared its teeth at it's alpha.