TIRED, RETIRED - Retired to Skyrim 3

(If you managed to miss it, my snippets thread on Spacebattles has been jumping recently. You can find the previous chapters of this starting at that link, and tomorrow a new thread for the lot will be going up to, for this chapter to be posted to later.

If you've read those already, then enjoy!)

Zelda

Here was the situation as Zelda understood it, as told to her by the various refugees as she and Link escorted them to Falkreath.

This was the province of Skyrim, a part of a greater Empire, and it was currently in the midst of a civil war between the native Nords and their Imperial governors. The Empire had been the loser of another war and had been forced to make concessions Skyrim especially wasn’t happy about, and when the High King expressed support for the Empire, Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak had killed him, kicking off the current conflict.

The dragon was new.

There was most certainly some nuance that those people weren’t able to provide, but that was fine. Zelda was happy to do her own research when she got the chance.

Making her less happy was dealing with Jarl Siddgeir regarding the refugees.

“A dragon?” the Jarl said, incredulous. “You expect me to believe this nonsense?”

“Whether you believe it or not, that is what happened,” Zelda said evenly. “If you truly can’t accept the dragon, you must still accept that Helgen is destroyed. It would take months of rebuilding to make it liveable again, and as their ruler it is your duty to see that the displaced have somewhere to live until then.”

“Hmph. All I see is a group of smallfolk looking for handouts,” Siddgeir sneered.

Zelda looked behind her, where Torolf  stood, acting as Helgen’s representative. Though she had healed his wounds, his clothes were still heavily burnt and held together by prayer. Torolf looked upset, but resigned. Evidently he’d been expecting something like this. Zelda didn’t like that.

“Jarl Siddgeir,” she said, approaching from a different angle. “On what side of the war do you place your loyalties?”

The young man sat straighter in his throne, giving her a suspicious look. “With the Empire, naturally. A Stormcloak victory would be a disaster for Skyrim.” He pulled at his tunic. “This silk was produced in Cyrodiil. The war has interrupted trade and driven the price for silk up to ridiculous heights. If the Stormcloaks drive the Empire out, silk and other goods would become even more expensive, assuming trade continues at all!”

Zelda looked to either side of the throne, where the Jarl’s advisors stood. The warrior dressed in hides was stone-faced and staring at a fixed point in space, while the elven advisor looked faintly embarrassed. “Is that all you’re concerned about with the war?”

Siddgeir waved the question away. “Yes, yes, well. I understand Ulfric’s cries for freedom, or whatever that brute claims, but the Stormcloaks don’t understand what freedom costs.” He frowned. “Why bring it up in the first place?”

“The attack, whether it was a dragon or not,” she said, as Siddgeir opened his mouth, “interrupted Ulfric Stormcloak’s execution and killed a number of Imperial soldiers, as well as destroying the fort that was Helgen. As I understand it, Helgen was a strategically valuable location for the Imperial presence in Skyrim. And it was nominally under your authority as a settlement of Falkreath hold.” Zelda paused to let Siddgeir parse that. “How do you think the Imperials will take it if their supposed ally refuses to aid Helgen after such an unmitigated disaster?”

To his credit, and Zelda’s relief, Siddgeir actually looked thoughtful at that; even more so when the man in hides spoke up. “My Jarl, Gunter’s team is not yet back from clearing that bandits set up from Fort Neugrad, and they aren’t expected back for a week. We could easily house them in the barracks while I send a pair of guards to investigate Helgen to find the truth.”

“Hmmm…” Siddgeir nodded. “Very hell, Helvard. Nenya, see to these… people.”

“Of course, Jarl,” the elf said, and the two aides moved to carry out their orders.

Torolf gave Zelda a grateful smile, and in short order it was only Zelda, Siddgeir and the guards inside the longhouse.

The young Jarl raised an eyebrow. “Is there something I can still help you with, Miss Zelda?”

“Yes, actually,” Zelda said. “I was hoping I could entreat you to give me access to your library.”

Siddgeir’s other eyebrow raised to join its brother. “My library?”

“Yes. You see, I’m a recent arrival to Skyrim and I’m looking to fill in some gaps in my current knowledge.”

“I see. Well, as much as I would love to show you around, I’m afraid I don’t have any use for a bunch of dusty old books.”

Zelda blinked, taken aback. “No?”

“I’m far too busy with my duties as Jarl to spend my time reading,” he said. “I suppose you might find a few tomes at the general store, if you’re desperate.”

“I--Apologies,” Zelda said, still surprised. “What duties could you have that don’t give you any time for reading?” The idea was quite alien to her.

“Oh, you know,” Siddgeir said flippantly, standing from his chair. “Eating the finest-cooked meats, sampling the best ale, and hunting with my hounds. And, of course, delegating to my steward.”

“...I see. That is what being Jarl means to you, is it?” Zelda asked flatly.

“Of course.” He grinned viciously. “You really should try it sometime.”

Zelda’s stern disappointment wiped that grin off his face very quickly. She gave him a long, hard stare, and Siddgeir would swear he felt a pressure in the room that made it hard to breathe. Even the guards in the room seemed affected.

And then she turned. “Thank you for your counsel, Jarl Siddgeir.”

Siddgeir breathed a sigh in relief once she was gone. “What in the world was that?”

-----------------------------------

Zelda found Link talking with Falkreath’s blacksmith as the man worked.

“...Are you sure going after a wild dog is the best idea, Lod?” Link was saying.

“You wouldn’t be calling him wild if you’ve seen him,” the blacksmith said. “A fine, strong beast, he is. If I could afford to take the time off I’d go after him myself, but the forge needs to keep going.”

“And this is really better than just purchasing a dog?”

Lod grunted, dousing hot axehead.. “I don’t know about better, per se. There’s a lad who wanders between here, Haafingar and the Reach who raises dogs for sale. Good-looking animals, too, but he gets so attached. The last time someone bought a dog off him the boy broke down crying during his goodbyes.” He coughed awkwardly. “I’d just as soon avoid all that, if it’s all the same to you.”

Link nodded. “That’s fair.” He perked up, and turned as Zelda approached. “Hello again. How did your meeting with the Jarl go?”

Zelda groaned, falling onto the blacksmith’s bench. “That man is one of the most insufferable fools I’ve ever met. The nobles back home at least had the decency to pretend they did their jobs, but Siddgeir can’t be bothered to do that much. Was there no one else for the position at all?” she asked, directed at Lod.

“Depends on who you ask,” he answered. “If you ask Siddgeir, he forced his uncle Dengeir to step down on account of being too old and weak to lead us through these troubled times. If you ask Dengeir, the Imperials ousted him for supporting the Stormcloaks and put his nephew in place as a puppet ruler.”

“And what do you think, sir blacksmith?” she pressed.

Lod set his tools aside and sighed. Quietly, he said, “I think that Siddgeir is a brat and a disgrace to Falkreath. Dengeir is a great man, but he let his paranoia get the better of him and now we have to deal with this arrogant lout.” He gestured vaguely. “It’s not all bad. We’ve mostly been kept out of the war since we’re so close to the border with Cyrodiil, and Siddgeir doesn’t send more men to fight then he gets asked to, which is good, because Falkreath’s graveyard is too big already.”

Zelda hummed, and Link asked, “And what do you think of the war?”

The smith shrugged and returned to his work. “Don’t much care for the Stormcloaks. That’s all I have to say.”

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Lod,” Zelda said.

“And good luck with your dog situation,” Link added.

Lod waved an acknowledgement, then looked up. “Oh, one more thing. You saved my brother Gunnar when you brought all them from Helgen. If you ever need something from me, just say the word.”

Link nodded his thanks, and then Zelda and him walked off towards the gates.

They went up the forest trail back towards Helgen, for lack of any further direction, listening to the sounds of the woods. Like all of Skyrim, it was chilly, but not so much that it was a major bother.

“...This is a mess of a country,” Zelda said, once they came to a fork in the road.

“Sure seems like it,” Link agreed. “Civil war. How long has it been since Hyrule had a real war, not against demonic forces but against a neighboring country?”

“I… can’t remember actually,” Zelda admitted. “That situation with the pirates from New Oshus hardly counts, and the war with Labrynna turned out to be orchestrated by Ganondorf in the end… Where did he go off to, anyway?”

Link shrugged. “I don’t… care?” He sounded unsure, then repeated himself more firmly. “I don’t care. As long as he isn’t causing a mess for me to clean up, he can do what he wants.”

Zelda frowned, but ultimately let it drop. “I’m glad we were able to assist the residents of Helgen.” She stopped and looked back over her shoulder. “I suppose… It would be proper for me to stay nearby, until the guards return with their report. I don’t think I trust Siddgeir to give them fair treatment even after he confirms the destruction.” She looked back at him. “There’s no real reason for you to stay with me if you don’t want to.”

A tension Link hadn’t fully let go of finally released as his shoulders dropped. “Thanks, Princess.”

“What do you plan on doing?”

Link rubbed his chin in thought. “Before everything happened, I was actually looking forward to running Gram’s store this go-round.” He grimaced. “Goddess, I hope she’s okay… But, I figure I could try my hand at the whole traveling merchant thing.”

Zelda smiled, then burst into a most unladylike snort. “Sorry, sorry. I just imagined you wearing that ridiculous bug-shape pack Beedle carries around everywhere.”

Link laughed too, then looked more thoughtful. “...Well, before I do any of that, I need to find work. Talking to Lod reminded me of those times I was a blacksmith, so maybe I’ll do that for a while. Lod wasn’t looking for an apprentice, but I’m sure someone is.”

“Once the situation in Falkreath settles, I’m going to head north,” Zelda decided. “I’ve heard of a college for magic in Winterhold. It would be fascinating to discover entirely new forms of the practice, and a college would no doubt have a library for me to peruse. There is so much to learn about this place,” she finished, excitement leaking into her tone.

“Sounds like a plan.” Link rubbed the back of his head, feeling awkward. “It feels weird to just leave you like this.”

Zelda shook her head. “I have a solution for that. You still have access to your inventory, correct?”

“Yeah, I always have my inventory.” Link reached behind his back and pulled out a boomerang. He gave it a considering look before stowing it away. “Why?”

“Well.” Zelda clasped her hands together, and with a flash of light, a rough-cut gemstone on a string appeared. “I might have spent some time digging in the treasury and found this old trinket.”

Link grinned. “Let’s not forget to actually use that thing this time around, yeah?”

---------------------------------------------

Ganondorf

Riverwood was decidedly… well, Ganondorf supposed he could call it “charming.” A small collection of wood houses by the river. The “walls” of the town only consisted of three gates on the roads leading out, but with the steep cliffs surrounding it to the east, Riverwood didn’t need much greater defenses. The river was shallow, but would still serve to slow down anyone attacking from the west, and the roads were narrow and winding. Throw up a few log walls to properly surround the town, and Ganondorf reckoned that a small squad of perhaps ten archers could keep Riverwood defended from invaders for as long as the food supplies held out.

He paused, then discarded that line of thought. In truth, it was nice here. A village nestled between the water, the mountain and the trees, surrounded by nature on all sides. It was peaceful. Even during his downtime between Heroes, Ganondorf was used to chaos. Bokoblins and their ilk were a rowdy bunch, and no amount of making examples out of them made them behave for long. They were just too stupid to learn their lesson.

“Hm, actually…” Ganondorf looked at his hand, flexing his fingers. Bokoblins… He shook the thought away. Not important.

Right now, Ganondorf was sitting on the bench outside the blacksmith’s house. He’d been invited inside, but it was not a large building and with five people inside it was already cramped. So he’d elected to wait outside. Admiring his trophy.

He’d been mostly joking when he mentioned the fang would make a good hilt, but after examining the tooth, he was beginning to seriously consider the idea. It was a good width for it, his hands fit around it comfortably. It was the right length for a two-hander--probably closer to a hand-and-a-half sword once it had been properly carved into shape. Then he remembered the ancient dragons and how their shed scales and teeth had magical properties, and looked at it through his magical senses, and the tooth shone.

It wasn’t a magic he’d ever felt before, but in his very soul he felt the power coming off it. Time, like the Princess often felt. Twilight, but not the same way he had felt once before. It gave off the overwhelming sensation of the end.

It would make for a potent weapon. How best to make use of it? He could carve symbols into the enamel that would focus its power in a specific direction. Time, for impossibly fast swings? Twilight, for that added kick of shadow magic? Death, for quick and clean kills? The possibilities…

“A dragon! I saw a dragon!”

“What? What is it now, mother?”

Ganondorf looked up from his musing.

“It was as big as a mountain, and black as night. It flew right over the barrow!” the old woman insisted.

The young nord scoffed. “Dragons, now, is it? Please, mother. If you keep on like this everyone in town will think you're crazy. And I've got better things to do than listen to more of your fantasies.” He shook his head and walked away, not sparing her a second glance.

“You'll see! It was a dragon! It'll kill us all and then you'll believe me!” The old woman huffed and stormed into her home, looking upset.

As the young man passed him by, Ganondorf said, “You should pay your mother more respect, boy.”

He jerked, surprised, and turned towards his voice. “Excuse me? What business is it of yours?”

Ganondorf snorted. “None at all. But what if there were dragons?” he asked, turning the tooth over in his hand.

The Nord looked exasperated. “There are none. The Blades killed them all long ago. And I’d thank you not to encourage my mother’s stories. She’s going dotty in her old age. It’s frankly embarrassing.”

“And what a good son you are, saving your poor mother’s reputation by chastising her,” Ganon said dryly.

“I’m not sure I like your tone, stranger,” the Nord said dangerously, approaching.

Ganondorf stood up, and the Nord stopped in his tracks. He had to crane his neck to meet Ganon’s eyes, and he could see the way bruised pride fought against self-preservation. Delightful.

The door to the smithy opened. “...glad to help in whatever way I--Sven? What are you doing?” Alvor asked, walking out alongside the cat.

The young Nord, Sven, hesitated, then leaned against a pole. “Simply having a conversation, Alvor.”

“Yes.” Ganondorf grinned. “Nothing more.” He sat back down, and happily noted the way Sven’s shoulders relaxed at the act.

Alvor gave him a look, then turned back to Jo’kir. “As I was saying. Help yourself to whatever you need, within reason. But we need your help. The Jarl needs to know there’s a dragon on the loose.”

Sven slipped off the pillar, falling to the ground.

“...” Alvor gave him a strange look, then continued. “Riverwood can’t defend against a dragon. We need Jarl Balgruuf in Whiterun to send whatever soldiers he can. If you’ll do that for me, I’ll be in your debt.”

Jo’kir’s ears were folded back. He looked around, clearly seeking some kind of escape, but ultimately sighed. “This one will help. Jo’kir only hopes they will let him in the city.”

“The Jarl’s a reasonable man. He won’t judge you based on your race,” Alvor promised. Jo’kir didn’t look convinced, but he nodded. Alvor clapped him on the shoulder. “Good man.” With that, Alvor left and went back to his forge.

Jo’kir, looking glum, took a seat next to Ganondorf. “This was not how I imagined my journey would be.”

“Exciting?” Ganon asked.

The Khajiit sent him a half-hearted glare. “Among other things. ‘Do not go to Skyrim,’ mother said, ‘stay and learn hunting like your brother.’ Brother is Pahmar-raht who towers over even yourself.” He slumped, elbow on knee and chin in palm.

Ganondorf’s eyebrows raised up high, picturing a looming tiger-man using a siege bow to fell mammoths. “That must be a lot to live up to.”

The white-furred Khajiit sighed. “No kidding.”

The door opened again and Hadvar stepped out. When he saw Ganondorf he looked mildly surprised. “Oh, hello. I’ll be honest, I was half-expecting you to have left while we spoke.”

“Left for where?” Ganondorf said, making a sweeping gesture. “I’ve nowhere to go for the moment.”

“I see,” Hadvar murmured. “Well, I had a thought about that actually. If you weren’t planning anything in particular…?”

He shrugged. “Aside from forging myself a new weapon, no. Perhaps explore, pick some fights.”

Hadvar smirked. “Well, if it’s battle you’re looking for, how about you consider joining the Legion?”

The Gerudo’s expression fell flat. “You want me to be a soldier in your little army?

Hadvar actually laughed. “I doubt the kind of man who challenges a dragon to a fistfight and comes out the victor would be relegated to a common soldier.”

“He did what?” Sven demanded.

Ganondorf looked at him, surprised. “I forgot you were still here.” He made a shooing motion with his hands. “Begone.”

Sven left, almost running for the tavern.

“I wonder what’s got him upset?” Hadvar said. “Anyway. I plan on staying in Riverwood for a while longer, but once things have settled, you’re welcome to join me on the trip back to Solitude.” He leaned over so he could see Jo’kir past the larger man. “That’s an offer for you as well, Khajiit. You’re a dab hand with an axe.”

Jo’kir shrugged. “I thank you, but this one has already been volunteered to carry a message to Whiterun.”

“Ah. Well, if you change your mind, I’d be happy to vouch for you to General Tullius. As for you, Redguard, what do you think?”

Ganondorf closed his eyes in thought. “...You know… It might be interesting after all.” He opened his eyes. “When do you plan on leaving?”

“A few days,” Hadvar said. “Three or so, I think.”

“Then you’ll have your answer in two.”

Hadvar looked pleased. “Alright then.”

The cat and the Gerudo were left alone again. Jo’kir continued to sulk.

After watching the world turn around them for a few minutes, Ganondorf said, “Do you mind if I ask you a question?”

“Mmph.”

“What is a Redguard, and why do people keep calling me that?”

Jo’kir blinked several times before turning towards him. “What do you mean? Is that not what you are?”

“I don’t know, or I wouldn’t have asked.”

The cat stared at him. “Er. Human. Dark-skinned, fierce warriors. Live in the deserts of Hammerfell. Hate magic even more than Nords.”

Ganondorf hummed. “I see. Are they also composed almost entirely of women, with only a single man born in a century?”

“You--what? No, of course not,” Jo’kir said, baffled.

“Then I am not a Redgaurd. I am Gerudo.” He held out the hand that was not holding the fang and channeled fire into it. “We have no such stigma against magic.”

Jo’kir stared at the red flames intensely. “...Jo’kir has never heard of these ‘Gerudo,’ but he will say that it is a relief to hear you are a mage. He wasn’t sure his own ambition would be appreciated.”

Ganondorf extinguished the fire. “Oh? Are you a ‘mage’ as well?”

“I want to be.” Jo’kir cupped his paws together, and much smaller ember sparked to life. “The Nords have little respect for the art, but magic is capable of many wonders. Jo’kir seeks to learn the secrets of magicka, and carve a spot for himself in the world.”

Ganondorf frowned. “If you want to learn magic, why come to the country where magic is disliked?”

“The College of Winterhold has a poor reputation, yes,” Jo’kir admitted. “However, it is free to enroll.”

“Ah, I see.” Ganondorf pondered this, then held out his hand. “Are you leaving soon?”

“I should,” the Khajiit admitted. “This dragon business shouldn’t be left alone, yes? Hopefully this one can meet with one of the caravans there until I can make my way to Winterhold.” He stood and stretched out his limbs. “If I hurry, I might make it to Whiterun by evening…” He looked at the Gerudo’s hand, curious. “What are you doing?”

“Trying something.” Ganondorf focused magic into his hand. Sparkes of darkness flickered to life, but just as soon died out. “This is much harder than it normally is.”

The magic swirled and scattered, trying to form a vortex over his palm… but something wasn’t working. He’d never once struggled with this, never even thought about it really, so having it suddenly not work was deeply annoying.

Jo’kir’s brow raised, then his eyes widened in realization. “Is that a Conjuration spell? What manner of creature are you trying to summon?”

“I was… attempting to offer you a spell to summon a minion of mine, but it isn’t working.” Ganondorf let the spell dissipate, good mood mostly banished. “You aren’t even carrying a weapon, and since for some reason you have me pitying you enough to offer you protection, but it looks like that isn’t happening.”

Jo’kir’s ears twitched. “Oh, well. This is one is honored to have your pity, kind warrior, but he does have a weapon, in fact.”

When Ganondorf looked at him, the cat was holding a worn iron axe in one hand that he would swear hadn’t been there before. “...Where were you keeping that?”

“It is this one’s favorite party trick,” Jo’kir said smugly. He made the axe vanish from one hand, then into the other, then tucked it into his belt before pulling an apple from thin air. “I don’t know how it happens, but it always has.”

Ganondorf took the apple, then shook his head and chuckled ruefully. “Can’t get away from them, can I?” He clapped once. “Alright, maybe you can take care of yourself after all. The minion was mostly on a whim, but I think I might have something better to offer you. Give me your hand.”

Confused by the reaction, Jo’kir warily let the man take his hand, and then gasped when a black orb appeared above his palm. When he pulled his hand away again, the orb shifted, breaking apart into a writhing cloud of smoke. It felt similar to the flames spell, but all the heat was gone and replaced with… something. It didn’t feel like anything he recognized. It didn’t feel like anything at all…

Ganondorf hummed. “Interesting. Throw it on the ground.”

Jo’kir did, and he let out a short yowl when a dense black fog burst from the point of impact and covered the whole street.

“What in the--”

“Ahh! I’m blind!”

“What just happened?!”

Up and down the road everyone was shouting in confusion. Jo’kir blinked, feeling sheepish, then realized with some shock that he could still see. His vision turned blurry and blue, the characteristic effects of the famed Khajiiti nightvision. Because of this, he saw when Ganondorf swept his hand and dispelled the whole thing.

“Sorry, everyone!” he called out. “Won’t happen again!”

As the last of the fog faded, the drunk leaning on the inn’s porch grumbled something to the effect of “damn mages.”

“What was that?” Jo’kir asked.

“Dark Fog,” he supplied. “Or a lesser version of it. Complete darkness in a small area.” Ganondorf grinned. “Good for a sneak attack. Can you do it again?”

He could. The darkness came to his grasp readily after but a moment’s thought, though that one casting had drained him. “What is this? It’s not Destruction. Illusion? Alteration?” Jo’kir muttered to himself, then let the spell go and nodded. “Thank you, kind stranger. This one can see the usefulness of this spell.”

“‘Kind.’ Ha.” He clapped a hand on the cat’s shoulder. “My name is Ganondorf. I wish you luck on your endeavor.”

The cat bowed, thanked him again, then turned and left through the north gate.

Ganondorf watched him until he crossed the bridge, then made his way to the forge. “Alvor, do you have any tools fit for carving bone?”