Cycle of the Serpent

They had set their sights on Solitude.

Delight plastered like a ray of sun on his face, Athenath hurriedly shoved their belongings into their knapsack. A sprawling, giddy grin split their features as he rambled longingly about the Bard's College, its reputation, its beauty. Did his companions know of the instruments on display? The plaques of the history they bore? The great bards who carried them? Did they know about the tapestries woven as signals for far-off armies, songs used as a tool of conquest? Songs of rebellion? Of victory?

The plan thus far was to make a grand sweep through Skyrim; first, through Haafingar, then to Winterhold, before making a solid landing in Eastmarch. This plan, the trio had agreed over a hurried breakfast, allowed for flexibility. It gave grace for Athenath to remain in Solitude, for Wyndrelis to remain in Winterhold, and for Emeros - the most experienced traveler of the three, who could handle the roads on his own - to head on to Windhelm. None of them would say it out loud, but apprehension stung the air when the talk of one of them separating off from the other two came up, and such comments ended quickly with a joke or a change in subject.

Emeros eyed the Altmer, in the process of wrapping fabric between the jingles of their tambourine. If Athenath had plans to return the Book of the Dragonborn, he didn't know them. Peace had finally fumbled itself into the alchemists talon grasp, and he was desperate to maintain it for one day. So, he watched, the subtle knit of his brow, the slight frown, all of it fading into the background of the Bosmer's features as Wyndrelis pulled the map from his bag and began to trace over it. The Dunmer quietly nudged him with his elbow, and he turned his attention to the names of towns and the delicately detailed roads. He examined the markings with the mage before speaking, his keen eyes trailing the paths drawn up in faded ink.

"We could either go by carriage," he started, the taking a sip from his tankard, watered down coffee bitter and warm on his tongue, "or we could go on foot. Personally, I'm in favor of walking, it'll give us more time to familiarize ourselves with the landscape, and we'll have all the time in the world to plan out our activities once we reach Solitude."

"Well, I know what I'm doing," Athenath smirked, sing-song trailing of his words lurking in the air as he listened to Emeros, "but you guys can do whatever you want."

Wyndrelis tittered, leaning back in his chair. He mulled it over, staring down at the map before him as he glanced over the roads and winding pathways, teeth pressed lightly at the nail of his thumb. Finally, he settled on something to say, pushing his glasses up his nose. "Let's take the route to Dragon Bridge. It looks the most direct."

Emeros brought the map closer to himself. Tugging a quill and ink from his knapsack, he ghosted a finger along a road, and finding what he was looking for, dipped the quill and marked with certain strokes a small section of the map, tapping above it. "Here, this looks like a place we can rest tonight."

The location he'd marked was further out of Whiterun than expected, but from the sparse detailing and the half-drawn lines, it appeared to be a settlement. If they went at an easy walking speed, and took the road marked, and if they left at this time... Wyndrelis worked it out in his mind, and hoped that the group would make it to an inn before nightfall. Sleeping in the wilderness was something he dearly hoped to avoid, especially with the unfamiliar wildlife of Skyrim. Not to mention the Civil War.

"The trip will take two days, at least," Emeros muttered, more to himself than anyone else, "that's not accounting for breaks, camping, and any obstacles on the way."

"Not too bad, then," Athenath ensured that their tambourine was safely wrapped and ready for the road, before plopping down on the bed. "With our luck, it'll be an easy walk." The other men gave him concerned glances, as though the Altmer had guaranteed a miracle.

"That may be the case, but we still aren't certain of the quality of the roads, the terrain, and not to mention the bandits. Ruthless bastards, and desperate here, too, I'd presume." Emeros rose, scrutinizing the room before him for anything the group may have set aside and forgotten, or anything they may need to tidy before they left. Perhaps he was merely pacing its length because he liked the place. He'd grown fond of the inn over the past few days. The constant conversations below their feet, the music of the local bard sliding through the door, the talk of the Civil War. He enjoyed Saadia and Hulda's conversations the most. He spent a good deal of time, whenever not perched near his new friends, discussing local rumors and stories with them. Saadia was newer to Whiterun, but she had plenty to tell, and Hulda had lived her entire life here. The small bits of histories he'd collected from the pair gave him plenty to think over, and think over he did, as the reason he'd suggested Solitude made itself evident again in his mind.

The three were still wanted men.

Tugging his cowl over his head, he cleared his throat audibly, speaking once more as he fiddled with the golden fasten that kept the fabric wrapped neatly at his shoulder. "I believe that taking the road is our best and safest bet. However, should it be necessary, I hope no one has any objections to going off of it for periods of time. Shortcuts or safety, that sort of thing."

Neither of the other Mer objected, and so they set out, saying goodbyes as they left.

The wind sighed through the distant trees, high grasses shuddering, nudging the livestock and gracing the structures of small farms that carved out their existences outside the safety of the walls. The war had yet to touch this hold in all full terror, Whiteruns neutrality feigning innocence. The war only came here to stop a while, to rest, to reach the Temple of Kynareth.

Otherwise? Silence.

As much as they wanted to stop, to sweep the beauty of the horizons into their hands, their eyes, their lungs, Athenath couldn't shake the tension that rose to their shoulders. Open fields, open sky, and not knowing what was ahead. Maybe it was the distance, far from the walls and the security they provided. Maybe it was the unknown that prodded against his mind, fingers laced around the keen edges of familiarity and wrenching it away. Whatever the case, they glanced upwards, and hoped for clear skies the whole way.

The day twirled in the smattering of clouds, the roads becoming uneven and dull, the shadow of the Western Watchtower's remains behind them now. The bodies had long been removed from the surrounding grass, entombed in the Hall of the Dead within the city walls. As much as the trio tried to ignore the chill up their spines, it tackled them all at once, the dragon's bones still sprawling on the field and slowly being picked and carried into Dragonsreach by soldiers under Farengar's watchful instruction. Today, the field was empty, which gave them less comfort than they would have liked. Emeros stopped occasionally to pluck samples of various plants, and by mid-noon, the other two had joined in, volunteering their hands to the task. It was a good distraction. Rocks stuck up like jagged limbs through the grasses, punctuating the landscape with their points. Emeros looked up into the sky, and furrowed his brow at the great, black wings of a buzzard that began to circle low.

In a slow gesture, he motioned for the other two to follow him, tucking his recent plant samples away into his bag. The elves, mystified, allowed the Bosmer to lead them up the road to where the buzzard was joined by several more, a group flocking to whatever new meat splayed out for them. It was likely just an animal carcass and nothing more, but Emeros' stomach churned, an instinct telling him that this was not the case.

"Oh, gods, not like this."

The Bosmer darted his gaze around, searching for the source of the voice, which seemed to come from the half-ruined structure of an abandoned fort up on a steep hill. Athenath clasped his fingers into the back of the Bosmer's vest, stopping the Mer from rushing through the stone entry.

"Hold on, what are you doing? We don't know what or who's out there, we could-"

"Gods," came that same, pain-hard squeak from somewhere near the stone ruins. Emeros gingerly pulled away from the younger Mers grasp.

"You don't have to follow me, but I'm going to see what's happened," He replied, rushing to the fort. He pressed a hand to the side of his mouth, calling, "are you injured?"

"Oh no, just- gah- being a little dramatic, 'tis all!" Called back the voice, nervous chittering behind every syllable as though he were trying through every strained breath to keep his good humor. Carrion birds slowed their even strides in the skies above, lumps of fabric and armor forming the figures of corpses along the ground. Athenath tried not to focus too hard on their surroundings as the three Mer climbed the high hill, stepping around the makeshift wooden spikes meant to deter anyone who might want to enter. Wyndrelis clasped his fingers, magicka pooling into swirls of purple smoke, thinning out into lines as he scanned the ruins.

Behind a bale of hay, a glowing outline formed. He gestured. "There."

The trio stepped closer, Emeros producing a potion from his knapsack as they neared the battered and bleeding form. Into their sights prodded the scrawny visage of a young Altmer, ears arching high away from his shaggy, light blond hair, lengths of which stuck out from his head like the feathers of a canary. When he locked eyes with the group, he jolted, his hand making a small motion at his side, a twitch of his wrist against the hay, a quick and nearly imperceptible motion. Wyndrelis recognized it as the tiniest fragment of magicka from someone running on their last reserves, but heard no chimes, no sounds. Perhaps whatever the Altmer cast had fizzled out.

"By Syrabane-" the boy cut himself off, swallowing hard, adams apple bobbing in his throat as he spoke. The shadows of the three standing Mer towered over him, his pulse shivering in his veins violently as he craned his neck to finally gaze upon them. "I'm- I'm fine! I'll be fine, certainly, I know my way around-"

"You're absolutely not fine, and I won't have you insist a bold-faced lie like that," Emeros handed over a glass bottle as he spoke, the red potion inside swirling with the motion, kneeling down beside the young Mer. "Drink some of this, and tell me what happened."

The younger Mer graciously swallowed down a large swig of the healing potion, a warmth settling in him that made him shudder. It cleared through his abdomen, mitigating most of the worst damage, still not tackling the outer injuries. That would come later, potions working from the inside out. For now, the flesh of his injured muscles and deeper gashes were knitting back together, and whatever deathly pallor had been in his features before melded away into hues of gold. He swallowed another long drink of the potion before Emeros gingerly took the bottle back, setting it aside.

"You know," the young Mer heaved an anxious laugh, the sound skipping the air, stone tossed along water's rippling surface, "from the sound of your voice, I thought you were..." he trailed off, swallowed, and looked down, "...I mean-"

Emeros raked his fingers through his chestnut hair with a heavy sigh. "Tell us what happened, if you don't mind."

"There were these-" the young man grimaced, inhaling sharply. He darted his gaze around the courtyard of the ruined fort, formulating something in his muted green eyes, "these warriors. We tried to rob them, I know it was-" he turned to face Wyndrelis, the Dunmer lightly removing the Mer's arm from where it clutched his abdomen, applying Restoration magic skillfully as the other continued on his story, "I knew it was stupid, but these men, they weren't like ordinary men, they carried these-" he sucked in another sharp breath as the sound of a rib snapping back into place whipped the air, dizziness sliding his eyes up momentarily, "they carried these curved swords, and fought like sabre cats. Not even our leader could- that's him over there," he pointed to a corpse laying face-down on the stones, "brilliant soldiers, the both of them, but petrifying, and I mean- I knew it was a bad idea, horrible idea, gods, it was..."

He trailed off, breaths haggard, thick, his dark clothing soaked darker by the blood. His spectacles hung around his neck from a chain, lenses cracked and stained, his pock-marked face wearing a nervy grin as he tried to keep his wits together. His scraggly appearance and awkward posture barely lent itself to the idea he could be a bandit or have fallen in with some, but this was not the time for questions, despite how many formed in the other elves' minds. Emeros, grave-faced, knelt there in the silence. He leaned back on his knee, tapping the pads of his fingers together.

"And did these warriors happen to say where they were heading?"

The blond Altmer shook his head. "No, sir." Turning to Wyndrelis, his eyes lightened. "Are you a healer?" He asked.

"No."

The blond tapped his tongue to the roof of his mouth. "Oh, a shame, your... Your work is good, I hardly feel like I've been injured at all now!"

"Good for you." Wyndrelis spoke plainly through grit teeth. He'd need to sip a magicka potion before too long in order to regain what he'd lost here, his eyes darting to the bodies surrounding the courtyard. "I think you'll survive if I stop. Shall I?"

"Um-" the blond swallowed hard, scrunching his brow, eyes wide, "well, I mean, if you insist! I mean, you probably know more- I'm more of a, uh, Illusion mage, myself-"

"Oh, you're a mage?" Wyndrelis pulled his palms away, staggering to his feet, brow coated in a thin layer of sweat. An uneasiness settled on his shoulders, but he pushed it out of mind.

"Um, well, kind of. Not really. I mean, I'm not much good at it."

Athenath tugged some loose parchment and charcoal from their knapsack. Pressing it to Emeros' back - amidst sputtering protest from the Bosmer - they scribbled something down, before folding the note and handing it over into the bony hands of the blond, who furrowed his brow at the other. He seemed to be searching their face for something, his pale eyes scanning the lines of their mouth, the curve of their ears. Athenath ignored the other's stare. They'd not had the bad luck to see someone in such a state before this past month, even with their limited knowledge of injuries, they could tell that the other's condition would need more tending than the trio could give at the moment.

"You need to get to a healer. I don't know how much we can do right now, but there's a temple of Kynareth in Whiterun."

"You- oh, oh, um-" the blond unfolded the paper with delicate, shaky motions, skimming it, "thank you. That's very kind, I'm supposed to be heading to Solitude, actually, but..."

"Oh, that's where we're going," Athenath brightened as he lifted a fragmenting grin along his lips, "but I think you should talk to Danica Pure-Spring first. I mean, Wyndrelis is a good mage, but it's probably not a great idea to just act like you weren't fighting for your life."

The blond nodded hurriedly, returning the smile. "I'll do that. Thank you. Um- good luck on your journey, alright? Roads are..."

Athenath dismissed with a hand wave, stretching. They turned to the road, Emeros and Wyndrelis watching them cautiously. "Come on, I'm sure he'll make it on his own," the bard said. Emeros eyed the blond for a moment longer, before glancing around at the silent ruins. Carrion birds were already lowering, and soon this place would be spilling with sinew and meat, and he didn't intend to fend off any wild animals who caught the stench. He and Wyndrelis gave one another quiet glances, but after hurried reassurances from the injured elf, they shrugged their shoulders and decided to follow the road once more. If the scraggly Mer wanted to head to Whiterun on his own, that was his decision.

The paths welcomed them with grand, sweeping arms, the injured Mer seating himself with his back to the hay bale again, catching his breath. He watched them depart, keeping his keen eyes trained on them even when the figures turned to strained blurs in his vision. He glanced around, muttering to himself as he slid his glasses back on his nose. He knew they'd need to be repaired when he reached his destination. That was no expense to him, his uncle had plenty of coin. His stomach tightened. The thought of asking the older elf for anything sent a surge of anxiety through his chest, but he did his best to shrug it off. Breathe slow. Breathe deep.

Once the figures of the trio faded into the distance, shadows growing further away, relief took his shoulders down from his neck. He slid a hand between needles of hay, clasping his fingers around the fabric he'd hidden there. He cursed the bale for prickling his skin, pulling at the strap of a messenger bag, the dark material rising from its depths. Swiping his hand over his belongings, he gave another, long look to the littered bodies and sighed.

Plainclothes should have saved them, he thought, waving his palm. The Illusion spell he'd maintained through the last reserves of his magicka drooped and wavered in the air, before dissipating all together. He'd heard the strangers coming, his strangled calls for help a pathetic crowing noise among the jaws of the Skyrim wilderness. If he hadn't been careful, if he hadn't been swift enough, the gleaming, gilded, eagle-wing earcuffs worn by one of his bodyguards would have told the strangers all they needed to know. And whether they would have helped or killed him was a chance he would not take.

If only, he thought, the soldier now being pecked by crows had not been so haughty as to believe neutral territory were safe enough for such things. Then maybe all of them would be alive, not just the sole survivor who shakily stumbled to his feet.

Gods, what a terrible sight.

He double-checked the papers inside his messenger bag, slinging the strap along his shoulder. He'd take an alternate route to Haafingar, and hope to the gods he would not run into any more trouble. How could he have known the Alik'r warriors were in Skyrim? And how could he have predicted the arrogance of his assigned bodyguards? This was more a disaster than he'd ever signed up for. His uncle claimed this would build character, but all it did was likely give him a couple of nasty scars once he'd gotten a chance for the healers to get him back to full strength. No matter, he'd go through Whiterun like the other Mer told him to, and head up to Haafingar when he was ready. Still, what a mess.