Start of Act 3
…
4E 202, The Rift
Laila Law-Giver
The defense of Fort Greenwall and the attempt to wrestle back control of the Rift against the undead had been a struggle.
Holding the walls against ordinary men was one thing — you could see the resolve break in their eyes, feel the sway of morale. But the undead? They had no morale to break, no fear to exploit, no fatigue to wait out. They came in silence or in a mindless chorus of snarls, wave after wave, until the defenders' arms grew heavy and their spirits frayed.
The being leading them, the Dragon Priest Rahgot, had taken residence in the ancient ruin of Forelhost. Wylandriah, her ever-eccentric but invaluable Court Wizard, had pored through crumbling tomes found in Greenwall's dusty stores, tracing every mention of the name until she could weave together the grim portrait of their foe.
Rahgot, it seemed, had been no mere priest in Alduin's time — he was one of the World-Eater's core generals, a commander of cult warriors, a rallying point for the faithful. Ancient songs claimed his voice could call storms and his strength trumped even some of the Dragons he called a master. To think such a being was now her enemy. Stalking the mountains above the Rift, commanding legions that never tired… it chilled her blood.
It was a grim situation, one that she had a hand in making.
Laila was no fool. She had heard the whispers that Maven Black-Briar was the true ruler of Riften. Despite her position as Jarl, it was the Black-Briar Matriarch that held the reins of the city more often than not.
Maven's influence coiled through the city like ivy choking a wall. Half of the businesses were in her paywall and a majority of the Hold Guards were in her pocket. She had the ear of the Thieves Guild and the Dark Brotherhood, with connections to important families of the other Holds in Skyrim.
There was a time when Laila truly believed that Maven worked for the betterment of Riften. She blinded herself to Maven's true nature, falling for her honeyed words. Truthfully, Laila had needed Maven.
With most businesses that weren't under Maven disrupted by the Thieves' Guild, Black-briar mead was one of the few things left that Riften could export, filling their quickly dwindling coffers and being their only source of income. By the time Laila realized it was all a plot by Maven to earn her power, it was too late. She had fallen too deep and relied too much on the Black-Briar matriarch.
Maven had secured her grip, and Laila's own position now rested on the very foundation Maven had built. That dependency shamed her more than she let anyone see.
And now, the city and her people had suffered for it.
They have had many skirmishes with the undead in their attempt to gain back a larger foothold throughout the Rift.
At the outset, the undead numbered perhaps three thousand, Rahgot's original force when he descended from Forelhost.
The attack on Riften had thinned that number slightly, but was replenished by every fallen guard, every dead farmer, every unfortunate traveler caught in the wrong place.
Her own remaining strength was meager — two hundred Riften guards still standing, bolstered by eight hundred Stormcloaks who had fought tooth and nail since the first assaults.
Ulfric, at least, had not abandoned the Rift; he'd sent two hundred more, led by the iron-willed Gonnar Oath-Giver from Mistwatch. With a proper Stormcloak Commander here, Laila didn't hesitate in giving him full command of the campaign.
Laila had certainly tried, but warfare was far from being her expertise. Commanding men in the battlefield, thinking of logistical support. None of that made any sense to her. A wise Jarl knew when to yield the sword to a sharper hand.
Which was why she now rode north, hooves crunching frostbitten soil, toward Shor's Stone. Her escort was twenty guards she trusted implicitly, ones she knew were no longer in Maven's pocket.
They rode in a tight formation, eyes scanning the snow-laced treelines for the pale shapes of draugr. The cold was biting, and though the morning sun lit the Rift in gold, the shadows beneath the pines were deep and still.
Shor's Stone was no longer the sleepy mining village she remembered. Rumor had painted it as a place of new prosperity. She had kept an eye on them ever since Filnjar came in court requesting for a city charter all those months ago.
Laila had been reluctant to give it, until the man revealed that they now harbored a rich ebony mine. After securing a deal to have them regularly supplied to Balimund, the local blacksmith in Riften, she had agreed.
More intriguingly, she was here to seek a band that she saw traveling with Maven herself. A peculiar group, by all accounts, among them warriors who bore the hallmarks of an order most thought long-dead.
The Blades.
She had seen them back when they all rendezvoused in Merryfair Farm. From her understanding, the order of the Blades was disbanded during the signing of the White-Gold Concordant.
The three members she saw seem to have been in hiding, but had chosen to forgo it entirely now. The lead woman was openly using armor and weapons that were distinctive to the Blades.
Laila had no personal history with their kind. The Rift had never been a heartland of the Empire, and the Blades' name was more legend than memory here. But she knew the old tales — the Emperor's shields, the slayers of dragons, men and women trained in arts few living could match. If even a shred of that truth remained in these survivors, they could prove invaluable in the fight against Rahgot and the Dragons.
As her horse carried her through the frost-kissed air, she felt the weight of her decision pressing in.
The Stormcloaks were not fond of Imperial relics. Aligning herself with the Blades — once lauded as protectors of the Emperor—could raise eyebrows, maybe even swords. Even if it was for the sake of survival.
But then again, Ulfric was the one who called for the Peace Summit in high Hrothgar. Perhaps the man would be more lenient in these circumstances?
And so, Laila resolved, she would meet these Blades. And if they were willing, they would escort her to High Hrothgar. The Greybeards might not meddle in wars, but if anyone could tell her how to kill an ancient priest of Alduin, it would be them.
…
4E 202, Shor's Stone
Delphine
Delphine inhaled slowly, letting the breath sink deep into her belly before exhaling through parted lips. She sat cross-legged on the floor, her sword laid across her lap, and let her mind go still as she meditated in the center of the rented room— a habit she had kept since her earliest years as a Blade.
Even here, in the relative safety of Shor's Stone, she kept her senses alert. Safety, she had learned long ago, was often an illusion.
Below her feet, the muted murmur of the tavern drifted up through the boards: mugs clinking, voices carrying, an occasional burst of laughter. She, Esbern, and Fultheim had taken rooms in one of the town's newer establishments, one of several that had sprung up since Gerron Ironbreaker had taken the once-forgotten mining village and turned it into… this.
They had spent most of the previous day talking with the people, learning much of the inner workings of the city.
For one thing, this Gerron Ironbreaker, the Dragonslayer, was much more of an enigma than she initially believed. Seen as a hero and a saviour, he had turned this once dying town into a sanctuary.
She had spoken to some of the builders. They had plans to turn this entire town into a fortress, one that could defend against even the mightiest of Dragons.
Massive walls layered with reinforced dwarven alloy, thicker and taller than anything the Rift had seen since the days of the First Empire. Towering bastions at each corner bristled with mounted ballistae and mangonels.
They had expanded the town to meet the nearby stream, a branch of one of the many nameless rivers that came down from the Velothi Mountains. A pier had been driven into the riverbank, with dockhands bustling like they were born to the work. Even fishermen had returned, nets glistening in the cold morning air.
However, the grandest of it all — located at the heart of the village— was the center watchtower. An eighty-foot tall, solid structure of grey stone, interlined with many brass and golden dwemer workings. On the sides were strange rotating magicka turrets, all powered by the strange lines that went around the tower itself, leading her to believe that the power source was located in the interior of the spire.
Every one was aimed outward and up, manned by the many members of the Shor's Guards. The turrets aligned every direction, which was a clear statement in and of itself. Whatever threat came next, whether Dragon or bandit, Shor's Stone was ready.
It reminded her of Cloud Ruler Temple — not in design, but in spirit. The way the Blades' fortress had stood defiant atop the Jeralls, a handful of sworn swords able to hold off an army. She could almost hear Grandmaster Jauffre's gravelly voice telling her that stone and steel were nothing without the will of those defending them.
Even the guard here wasn't purely local. Stormcloaks mingled freely with Shor's Guards, the blue and white of the bear flag standing alongside the black-and-silver armor Gerron had outfitted his people in. She had even spotted Ralof — a familiar face from Riverwood — leaning against the well, deep in conversation with Grogmar gro-Burzag, Captain of the Guard.
It was becoming clear to her that Gerron's strength wasn't just in his arm. Peerless warrior that he was, he was a builder first and foremost. A crafter and, from the sound of it, a master enchanter now recognized by the College of Winterhold itself.
Word of his creations had traveled far. The ebony warhammer that had crushed two dragons in Whiterun Hold, the strange bronze owl that was often seen circling the skies of the College, and the pure black ebony armor that he is never seen without.
He was exactly the sort of man the Blades needed.
They had already learned he was at the College. Their plan was set. Shor's Stone would become their new base of operations, and she had tasked Fultheim with scouting plots of land for a stronghold, hiring some of the many builders around to do so as well.
She and Esbern would travel north to Winterhold to seek the man himself — and through him, perhaps, finally meet the Dragonborn, Kiera Fendalyn.
And yet… one thing gnawed at her.
The letter.
The black hand, the words 'We Know'. Neither Esbern nor Fultheim recognized the symbol of the black hand, but she had dealt with enough enemies to know when she was being marked.
The Thalmor wouldn't announce themselves in such a way, and certainly not with this kind of theatricality. It calmed her paranoia slightly to know that they were in the heart of Stormcloak territory, meaning no Thalmor could be walking around without caution.
In the end, she chose to investigate this another time. It wasn't her first time receiving cryptic messages such as this in her long career as a member of the Blades. There were far more important tasks at hand.
She let the breath out again, slow and steady. That's when she felt it.
A disturbance in the air behind her. No creak of the floorboards. No sound of the latch. Yet the presence was there, close enough to feel the faint stir of breath against her neck.
Her sword cleared its scabbard in an instant. She twisted, cutting low and fast. The figure jerked back just in time, the steel missing her throat by inches.
A woman stood before her, clad in tight black and crimson, face hidden save for sharp, glinting eyes.
"My my," she purred, one hand resting lazily on her hip, the other near the hilt of a wickedly curved dagger. "Don't you have good reflexes."
Delphine's stance didn't shift, but her grip tightened.
"Truth be told, I had hoped to approach you when you were asleep, but I didn't think that you'd be awake at this hour. Sneaking into this town was a pain in and of itself. You are quite the accomplished swordswoman, Delphine. An enigma I should say."
Her voice had a cat's playfulness — and a snake's intent. This woman was dangerous.
Delphine's tone was ice. "The note. Was that you?"
"Why yes." The woman's eyes crinkled with amusement. "You see, you created a problem when you chose to kill Old Grelod. That was a contract made by Aventus Aretino to the Dark Brotherhood, a kill that you stole."
'So that's what this is.' Delphine clicked her tongue. She just got involved in something troublesome.
"Grelod the Kind, by all rights, was our kill. But since that ship has sailed… you owe us. A life for a life. Shouldn't be hard for someone like you." Her eyes flicked to the sword. "I do wonder how a lowly innkeeper such as yourself came to own such fine steel. But then again, that's not my business, is it?"
"I will take no part in this insanity." Delphine said flatly. "I am not an assassin nor am I someone you could coerce to do your killings for you."
"Now that is a shame. But what you fail to realize is that you involved yourself in this 'insanity' when you took Grelod's life. You might not have known who she was when you did the killing, especially with the whole thing of Riften being taken over by the undead. But such are the consequences of life." The woman's voice cooled. "This ends only when someone dies."
Delphine scoffed. "Then sounds to me like there's an easy answer to all this."
Her blade flashed forward, straight towards the neck of the Dark Brotherhood agent. But the woman's instincts kicked in, dodging backwards and letting it sail where her head had been.
The fight that came after was as swift as it was vicious. In the cramped room, the woman's curved dagger was quick as a viper's strike, darting for every gap in Delphine's guard. She certainly moved like an assassin, always dodging Delphine's strikes at the narrowest of instances. Twice Delphine's longer reach forced her back; twice the woman slid inside her guard.
A shallow line burned across Delphine's cheek. She felt the faint, unnatural weakness seeping into her limbs. Poison — or something worse. The dagger was enchanted. Absorb Life perhaps?
Whatever it was, getting another cut like that would be devastating.
The woman pressed the advantage, feinting left before lunging for her throat—but Delphine pivoted, catching the blow on her guard and driving her back. The narrow space of the room worked in the assassin's favor, so Delphine used her longer reach to nullify that advantage as best she could.
That was when the door burst open. Esbern stood in the frame, palm already alight with frost. Fultheim barreled in behind him, blades sword drawn.
Astrid's eyes widened. She ducked under Esbern's freezing blast, rolling sideways—straight into Fultheim's swing. She twisted away from his blade, only to find Delphine waiting.
Delphine could feel her breath hitch as Delphine sunk her blade deep into her chest.
As crimson blood began pouring out the wound, Delphine twisted the blade, earning another pained grunt as the curved dagger fell from her fingers.
"Well… done," she whispered, before the light faded from her eyes.
Delphine pulled her sword free, letting the woman fall.
"What happened? Who is she?" Esbern asked.
"Dark Brotherhood," she said. "Leader, maybe. Doesn't matter now." She wiped the blade clean. "One more problem buried in the snow."
They disposed of the body before dawn.
The next morning, Delphine, Esbern, and Fultheim sat in the lounge area of the Smoked Mammoth, maps and parchment spread across their table, discussing the road to Winterhold.
The door opened, letting in the cold winds of winter.
Laila Law-Giver, Jarl of Riften, stepped inside, her furs dusted with frost, flanked by Captain Grogmar in his heavy steel and the unmistakable figure of Mjoll the Lioness.
…
AN: As we always do, kicking off the start of an act with an Interlude chapter. Some new POV's here, Jarl Laila of Riften and Delphine of the Blades.
Jarl Laila won't be a recurring POV, though I'm certainly considering it for Delphine. Who knows.
Anyways, Delphine has a run in with Astrid and eventually kills her, doing the one thing a lot of us probably didn't do in their Skyrim run ins.
Next chapter should kickstart the whole Peace Summit, which would probably last for a couple of chapters.
As always, more chapters are available on my Pat_reon. Chapter 63 should be available by the time this chapter is posted. Just look up my name and you'll find me.
Hope you guys enjoyed the chapter! Cheers!