Cycle of the Serpent

It took all the strength in their bodies for the three to rise from bed the next morning, to muster the courage to shoulder the world beyond warm blankets, thick furs, and the cape Athenath had draped out. Still, routines waited for no one, and yesterday had left them with more questions than answers which burned brightly at the edges of each of the Mers minds.

Wyndrelis retrieved a platter and laid it with different items from the kitchens, with fruits here, a bowl of porridge there, and warm slices of bread and slivers of recently-churned butter in a small dish. He rested the platter in the crook of his arm, against his torso for extra balance as he trudged up the stairs. Behind him, Emeros grasped the handles of three tankards, watered-down coffee still steaming hot from the vessels. Athenath handled supplies, taking some inventory before the other two returned, noting everything down on a scrap piece of parchment from their knapsack. They had enough cheese and bread, but cured or dried meats would travel well if they could get their hands on it, and the trio desperately needed to pick up bedrolls if they were going to be spending any significant time on the road.

"I have a suggestion," Emeros began, allowing a beat to pass so the other two could focus their attentions on him. He pulled a piece of warm bread over to his plate, digging out a small bit of butter and placing some fruit on top, each motion of his hands fluid and easy, despite yesterdays remains of a tremor when loud noises sounded from below the room. "But, I don't think these Greybeards are going to like it."

"Perfect, what is it?" Wyndrelis sipped at some leftover stew from last night's dinner, the warm meal bringing him back to his senses, watching the Bosmer as he pushed back his thick, chestnut hair in an absent motion of his free hand, the other prodding at the food on his plate.

"I think we should lay low for a while. I mean, what do we really know about these Greybeards?" He waited for an answer, and when none came, he continued, "exactly. I don't know about either of you, but the idea of being sent up a mountain to seek out an unknown, well, it isn't exactly thrilling. I believe we should ask for more information about this Dragonborn business. And," he took a quick sip from his tankard before finishing his sentence, "this land is in the middle of a Civil War, I don't think it will do us any favors to go around as three elves claiming to be part of some highly-held Nord legend." He darted a glance back towards the balcony as though to ensure none had overheard the hushed conversation, before he looked to his companions, awaiting an answer.

Athenath hummed, setting their comb back into their knapsack. He rubbed at his eyes, pulling a bowl from the platter and idly stirring their spoon in it for a moment, focusing on the mixture of porridge, berries, and chopped hazelnuts. He thought over a response, turning their gaze to Emeros. "Sounds good to me. I mean, you're right, y'know, what do we know about the Dragonborn? Or the Greybeards? Why're we gonna risk our asses climbing up a mountain for them if we don't know the first thing about them? So maybe we should..."

"Ignore it?" Wyndrelis finished, and Athenath nodded rapidly.

"Ignore it. I mean, just for now, maybe. I don't wanna go charging up seven-thousand steps to just be told, 'oh, you three are Dragonborns, for sure', just to be sent all the way back down."

The pair landed their eyes on Wyndrelis, already in the process of removing his map from his knapsack. He spread the parchment out along the unmade bed, tracing a finger from Whiterun to High Hrothgar, then checking and double-checking the marked road routes. He raked his hand through his hair, and pursed his mouth, thinking. After a while, he looked to his companions, startled for a second to see them standing next to him.

"It's a long journey," he finally said, "I'm not making it without reason. I believe, if we're in no rush, we should leave it to time. Travel elsewhere, wind up there when we're ready."

"So it's settled, then?" Emeros quirked a brow, and when the other two made small sounds of agreement, he sat back into his chair and sipped comfortably at his coffee. "We should still speak with the Jarl, find out more of what he knows."

"While we're at it," Wyndrelis folded the map back up, returning it to its rightful place in his belongings, "we should still pick up supplies. We have no idea how long we'll be away from towns."

"Good idea. And then...?"

"Just split up and do our own thing for a while?" Athenath suggested, the other two's surprise plain on their faces as the Altmer added, "let's get to know the city, see the sights, that kinda thing."

The idea was fair enough, despite the slight shock that it presented. The concept of separating from one another for a full day spun strangeness like thread into the air, as if someone were asking that they part with their ghost. And how silly it seemed to be so dramatic over such a thing. But as the three ate their breakfast and planned their day ahead, there was no denying that it would be nice to have a while to themselves. The grasses ruffled in the perpetual winds of Whiterun Hold, with the breeze blowing at the clothes on the line they'd set out last night, dry now and smelling deeply of the soaps they'd chosen their first full day in the city.

"So," Emeros began, clearing his throat after a brief greeting to the Jarl, "we realized this morning that we had left Dragonsreach without much direction."

He stood at the front of the group in the grand, sprawling throneroom of Dragonsreach, the morning sun catching dust in its ethereal light. The stone floor spilled sun along the expanse of the hall, gilding the faces of all its residents as they passed from room to room. The people of Dragonsreach went about their morning as usual, with Proventus and the Jarl in conversation over something none of the trio had been able to overhear, Proventus fidgeting and wringing his hands as though the stresses of his duties were biting at his heels like a skeever. The long tables on either side of the hearth sprawled with fresh-cooked meals, Farengar ducking into the hall, gathering a meager breakfast, and skittering back into the refuge of his office.

"Ah, Proventus can show you on your map where Ivarstead is," Jarl Balgruuf offered, and when Proventus stepped forward, Emeros shook his head.

"That's not what I meant, but we appreciate it." He glanced at Athenath, who shuffled nervously on their feet, then to Wyndrelis, who was picking at a stray thread at the end of his tunic. "I was wondering if you could tell us more about what it means to be Dragonborn?"

The Jarl gave the question some thought, contemplating how to explain it to the three Mer as he leaned back into his throne. "Well," he started, the pause ample for him to gather his thoughts, watching a stray piece of dust float idly along a beam of light somewhere above the trio, "in the old tales, the Dragonborn heroes would use the power of their Voice to defeat the enemies of Skyrim. Wulfharth was Dragonborn. Talos, too - the founder of the Empire, back in the good old days," he spared each word carefully, but the slight turn of his gaze to the bard once he'd mentioned Talos didn't slip past any of them, "In the very oldest tales, back from when there were still dragons in Skyrim, the Dragonborn would slay dragons and steal their power."

"So in that case," Athenath tugged the strap of their bag, pulling it tighter to their form, "how could you protect Whiterun from the dragon attacks?"

The Jarl, stern in his brow, still managed a warm look to the trio as he rested the side of a fist against the arm of his throne. "With good planning and constant vigilance," he gestured a flat palm now off in the direction of Farengar's office, where the wizard had been at work for several hours now, and would be working long into the night, "even now, Farengar continues his research into ways we might drive back these terrors." He then rested loose hands against the throne's arm rests, but leaned forward, a spark in his eye, "We must also have ample reserves of water to combat the fires that will surely spread after an attack." Each word held more importance than the last, his eyes bright as a wildfire as he glanced around the room, at the trio, at the looming doors of the castle. "But our greatest weapon? Courage. For if we cannot kill the beast, we must at least have the tenacity to drive it back."

Wyndrelis met the Jarl's eye, but looked away once he caught that intensity that burned behind them, as though he didn't want to be seen by the passion that filled the Jarl's voice. "Who are these, um, Greybeards we're supposed to go meet?"

Jarl Balgruuf reclined comfortably in his throne. Evidently, there was much on his mind already as to how the city should handle the attacks, and each question dragged him further from the planning on how to keep the city intact. "They're the Masters of the Way of the Voice - of Shouting. They live up on top of the Throat of the World. If you're all really Dragonborn, they'll want to talk to you. In the old stories, they always summon the Dragonborn for training."

The gold-painted sign of a General Goods Store was enough to draw the curious eyes of the three Mer. It glinted in the light as they approached, already planning what to use their reward money from Lucan on, Wyndrelis having passed the calculated shares of coin between his two companions.

The sun's biting heat on their backs was soon replaced by the cool, shaded shop, light filtering in from the windows that seemed to strategically illuminate the shelves and merchandise. Behind the counter, a hirsute, barrel-chested man stood, watching the strangers with a gleam in his eye. He grinned widely as he called to them.

"Everything's for sale, my friends! Everything! If I had a sister, I'd sell her in a second." He laughed heartily, then rolled his eyes at the strange looks he received in return, "just a little joke." Clearing his throat, he drummed his fingers on the counter. Making an immediate turn for several shelves of books, Wyndrelis began to tug at their spines gingerly with a hooked finger, pulling each cover into his view, checking it over, then shaking his head and moving on to the next. Athenath went for the trinkets, assorted dolls and toy swords, a hand lightly brushing over some of the more intriguing items. A carved vase here, a clay pot there, some decorated, embossed silverware, items that shimmered in the early light of day. This wasn't a time for frivolity, but gods, he liked to look at anything that caught his eye. Necklaces far out of his price range caught the sun and gloriously shone in their placement on the shelves, rings embedded with amethyst, ruby, garnet, the carvings on the band braided and thick.

Emeros stepped to the counter, examining some of the potions lined along the surface, liquids inside shimmering, the alchemist shifting his attention to the shopkeeper.

"So," he began, "do excuse my curiosity, but what brings a Breton to Skyrim?"

Athenath looked up from the lower shelf they'd been examining, attention latching on the slight point of the man's ears. They weren't as pointed as Mer ears, but the skin still brought together in an arrow shape near the tips, the glimmer of small, silver earrings looping under his lobes. The Breton grinned and swept a grand gesture to the shop around the group with a large hand.

"Isn't it obvious? Why, the wonderful weather and hospitable people, of course!" He snarked. "Not to mention my great fondness for dragons and petty political power struggles." He rested one hand on the counter, and as he carried on with his comments, he wagged and waved a finger in gesticulation as he went on, "ah, but without a doubt, the most compelling feature of this frozen wasteland is the volley of inane questions leveled at me on a regular basis."

At this, he bent his posture closer to the Bosmer, the smug grin never once leaving his face. He rose back to his full height, shifting his weight from his left to his right leg and back again, Emeros taking note of the other's more sardonic sensibilities. Emeros didn't sense any malice in his speech. In fact, this seemed to be his way of showing his hand, a litmus test of the strangers that came to his shop, something the Bosmer had encountered plenty in his time on the road.

Many people had their own ways of testing new faces. Some with saccharine kindness that helped to shade their misdeeds, some with a gruff, short-worded way that turned into comforting encouragements once their trust was gained. The Breton, he surmised, appreciated someone who could withstand his sense of humor.

"Belethor, is it?" Emeros asked.

"Wow, you can read a sign," Belethor breathed in a mock-surprise, Athenath stifling a guffaw from behind a shelf. "Yes, I'm Belethor, as in the Belethor, of Belethor's General Goods Store."

"Fascinating," Emeros breathed, matching the other's attitudes as Wyndrelis awkwardly tugged another book from the shelf, turning it over in his palms. "I'd like to inquire about any potions you may have in stock. I'm an alchemist, it'd be of great use to me-"

"Oh, if it's potions you want, I've got'em a'plenty," Belethor reached into a lower shelf of his counter, retrieving some bottles and phials that clinked against one another in his strong hands, "it'll cost you, but I've got'em."

"Ah, yes, I do believe that's how shops work," Emeros tutted, and the Breton snickered in return, the styling and cut of his facial hair giving him a wolfish appearance.

As the two bartered, Wyndrelis went back to scanning the shelves, shoulders slumping with disappointment. He rubbed the back of his neck, Athenath stepping over to look with him. Quietly, he tugged another book from a secluded corner of the shelf, black leather cover half-peeled in some places, Imperial insignia cracked with age, the metal shape of it hard against the Altmer's palm.

"What's this?" Wyndrelis asked quietly, peering over Athenath's shoulder. The Altmer shrugged.

"I haven't checked yet," they whispered back, pulling the cover gingerly open. Emeros turned, facing the elves with an arch of his brow.

"Oh, that?" Belethor called, spotting the pair as they huddled to examine the tome. The Mer looked up at him, his grin never failing. "That's a rare edition of Book of the Dragonborn, very hard to come by. Got it on a shipment of old tomes a few weeks ago. It'd cost you a nice septim anywhere else, I assure you."

Athenath ghosted a finger along the ancient ink inside, the words printed on the inner cover, ears perking up at the title. "Dragonborn?"

"How much would it cost, exactly?" Emeros asked, whirling on his heel to face Belethor again. The man waved a hand, dismissing the idea entirely.

"I'm afraid that one's already got a buyer, my friend. I'm supposed to send it with a courier to Markarth for him this week. War makes it hard for him to get on the road these days." He looked between the group, an idea forming in his mind. "Though, if you have more coin, or something of interest to offer me..." he hummed. Athenath set the book back on the shelf and shrugged away from it, examining some leather straps bundled together on another shelf.

Once the group had purchased their supplies for the road, Wyndrelis assured his friends he'd meet them back at the inn, watching as the other Mer departed. After a moment in the odd silence, the Dunmer turned to Belethor, approaching the counter.

"You mentioned a shipment of old tomes?" Wyndrelis inquired. Belethor folded his arms over his chest, pausing as he recalled the event. Some library from the Imperial city getting rid of some of their stock, he'd been told.

"Yeah, not that long ago, actually," he noted thoughtfully, the image of the cart rolling up the slopes to Whiterun returning to his mind. "Sometimes I get items in like that, old junk no one else is interested in, the likes."

Wyndrelis, spine grateful to be free of the enchanted greatsword's heft at last, tapped at the silver, star-shaped buckle of his belt. It bore four tapering points, with four smaller, thicker ends sticking out in diagonal stretches. He looked to Belethor, brow knit behind his glasses as he asked, "would any of them happen to have this on the cover?"

Belethor rubbed at the end of his ear, as though trying to force his mind to search for the image. The fabric of his well-worn, apple green tunic rumpled like a shed skin as he folded his arms again. "Come to think of it, no, but I'll keep an eye out. You lookin' for something special?" He grinned, Wyndrelis shying back.

"No, but- er, thank you. Do let me know if you happen to find anything."

With that, the Dunmer left, turning on his heel and focusing his attention on Dragonsreach.