Chapter Text
The inn was abuzz with gossip and rumors to-night. While the rain poured down on the tiny village, many sought refuge in the tavern in the center of towne. It was cold this season, and many areas saw snow in the mountainous region of Skyrim. Rivers were cold, and so was Riverwood, as chill from the upcoming winter seeped through their autumn.
A gravelly voice could be heard across the room to the bar. A grizzled drunk weaved a tale many did not spare a thought to, due to the mouth from which it spilled from.
"It was huge, with a wingspan o' two buildings. I could feel the 'eat comin off it, I swear it could breathe fire. I thank the Gods it decided it didn't wan'ta give roast Nord a try!" He and the other drunks chortled at the outlandish tale. No one bothered cry false because no one took him seriously.
"So where was this dragon headed?" called out another inn goer.
The chuffed drunkard proclaimed, "It was 'eaded south, I swear. Saw it with me own eyes."
One man seated at the bar, as far away from the jesting drinkers who surrounded the hearth, took another swig of his draft. The barkeep was ignoring the conversation just as well as the man at the bar was. As the bearded barkeep ran a flannel over the counter, he eyed his silent customer from beneath his bushy eyebrows.
"Where did ya say you'd just traveled from?" the keep asked.
The customer didn't even raise his fair head. "Helgen."
"Ya know..." the keep began, "there be rumors goin around sayin Helgen was just attacked..." he trailed off, watching the customer knock back the rest of his drink. "And I was just wonderin if ya knew anything about that. You know, to put the rumors to bed an' all."
But the Nord didn't answer, only left a handful of gold pieces on the counter, took up his big, rusted sword and threadbare coat, and left. Day was on the verge of breaking, and the traveler stopped by the river to scrub his face and hands clean. He wore light, salvaged armor that he'd come upon by chance and had barely any money to his name.
But there was a dead king, a war to fight, a regime to collapse, and dragons of legend had appeared once more. The traveler who went by John Watson was on a schedule, and he needed to travel to Whiterun quickly. He had no time to waste.
Before he left, he took from his knapsack an artifact of gold, holding it up to the burgeoning sunlight to inspect it. Whether out of greed or suspicion, he knew not, but he decided to keep the mysterious key. The smarmy shopkeep Wilkes could do without the trinket until John decided its usefulness. If it was just a bit of treasure, John would return it. If it was a key to something more, he'd keep it until its usefulness ran out.
Tucking away his spoils and trying to look as unassuming as possible, he set upon his journey northwest to Whiterun.
Once there, after being hassled by a few gatekeepers, he spoke with a blacksmith and sold some of his unneeded loot for a few coin. He took the time to visit the markets briefly, glad to find an apothecary shop to purchase a few potions. He'd felt a little sick after fending off a wolf, and he many people he passed remarked on him not looking well. People of this towne seemed rather.... chatty.
Finally, his back aching from the weight of his knapsack, he lurched up the stone steps to Dragonsreach, where the leader of the city lived, overlooking all his land. Cursing the heavy stone in his bag, John took a quick rest at the top of the stairs, where a guard decided to scoff at him. His limp was rather obvious and he'd had yet to find himself a suitable walking stick. With all the fleeing he'd seemed to be doing, he'd had little time to do anything else. The sooner he found a scholar to take the stone, the sooner this would all be over with.
He once again argued with a guard, insisting he had important news for the Jarl of Whiterun. It was concerning Helgen, and must be heard by his own ears. He was lead in by a guard and the Jarl's housecarl, a lovely Imperial woman engrossed in a notebook. John smiled at her, attempted to make conversation, but gave up after the lady more or less completely ignored him.
The Jarl was summoned and he regarded John from his throne, looking down on the Nord with impatience. "Well then, you've traveled all this way, sir. What news have you?"
John cleared his throat. "News of Helgen, sire. It has been attacked by a dragon."
The Jarl was a tall, thin man, perhaps of Imperial descent, with a beakish nose and strangely ginger hair. He scoffed at the idea as if it were preposterous. "That's quite impossible, my good man." His air of superiority was a bit annoying, if threatening. However, John had fought much worse than a great politician, and he wouldn't be cowed so easily.
"I saw it with my own eyes," John defended evenly. He had no reason worry about not being taken seriously. If they didn't now, they would at least soon enough.
At the talk of dragons, a cloaked figure had emerged from a side room to listen in. Such curious things were going on in the realm, it was difficult to stay locked up away from it.
"Really, now? However did you escape with your life?" wondered the imperious Jarl.
The wearied traveler's patience was growing thin. "Right as the dragon appeared, which I admit I saw at a bit of an odd angle..."
"Odd angle?"
"Yeah, from an Imperial chopping block," explained the wanderer casually. "I escaped with another prisoner and we fled the to the woods. His name was William Murray, if you wanted to call him up for a chat too."
There was a scoff off to the side from the cloaked listener, drawing the attention of both the Jarl and his visitor.
The Jarl seemed impatient. "Yes, Sherlock, what is it?"
The cloaked man ignored the Jarl and instead spoke to the wanderer. His voice was low, and while quiet, it resonated against the stone walls with a booming quality. "Come to Dragonsreach to discuss the ongoing hostilities... Like the rest of the great warriors?" He spat the words as if being a 'great warrior' was a greater insult.
John glanced at the Jarl and back in confusion. Who was this? Did he dare speak to such a rude person, who had the gall to interrupt a Jarl's conversation?
But the man took his pause as permission to go on. "I see you once took an arrow to the shoulder. Could be worse. Seems as though everyone around here has taken one to the knee," he went on, seemingly going down a list. "You're also most likely the shortest Nord I've ever seen, not a conventional soldier, however your calluses and scars say otherwise. How strange that an adventurer such as yourself would have so few marks from encounters with animals, yet so many apparently from man-made weapons. You've likely been in battle, probably many of them, which leaves one question:"
John, frazzled, waited in bewilderment.
"Imperials, or Stormcloak?" asked the mysterious intruder called Sherlock.