Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The prisoner cart clattered over the uneven path, wheels jolting with every rock and root. Cold mountain air cut through the thin fabric of the prisoners' rags, carrying the scent of pine and the promise of snow. In the distance, the stone walls of Helgen rose against the backdrop of mountains, sunlight glinting off Imperial helmets along the ramparts.

Ralof shifted uncomfortably against his bindings. The rough hemp rope had chafed his wrists raw during the journey from Darkwater Crossing. Across from him sat Ulfric Stormcloak, the rebel leader's proud features partially obscured by a gag, his eyes burning with quiet defiance despite their dire circumstances.

And then there was... the other one.

Ralof couldn't quite place when he'd first noticed the oddities. The Nord seated—no, standing—across from him wasn't bound like the rest of them. In fact, they seemed utterly unconcerned with their impending execution. The figure balanced perfectly on the narrow wooden bench of the moving cart, arms stretched outward like a tightrope walker, face
blank and unreadable.

"Hey, you," Ralof ventured, his voice rough from disuse. "You're finally awake. You were trying to cross the border, right? Walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us, and that thief over there."

The mysterious Nord didn't respond. Instead, they sat down abruptly, then stood back up again, then sat once more in a strange, rhythmic pattern. Their eyes, an unsettling pale blue, focused on some distant point beyond the horizon.

"You... you're not even bound," Ralof observed, brow furrowing. "Why aren't you bound?"

The Nord—whose features seemed to shift subtly in the light, making it difficult to determine whether they were male or female—turned their head with mechanical precision. They stared directly into Ralof's eyes with such intensity that the Stormcloak soldier felt a chill run down his spine. Slowly, deliberately, the figure reached into thin air and somehow withdrew a perfect, warm loaf of bread from nothing.

Ralof's mouth fell open. The horse thief beside him stopped mid-complaint. Even Ulfric's eyes widened slightly.

Without breaking eye contact, the Nord stuffed the entire loaf into their mouth at once, cheeks bulging impossibly, and swallowed it whole like a snake consuming prey.

"Gods help us," Ralof muttered, looking away. He'd heard tales of strange magic—conjuration, illusion—but nothing that explained... whatever this was.

The cart rumbled through Helgen's gates, passing curious townsfolk who had gathered to witness the execution. Children peered from windows; blacksmiths paused at their anvils; guards stood at attention, armor gleaming in the morning light. Order and structure defined every cobblestone and timber frame of the Imperial-controlled town.

A precise military operation unfolded as the carts arrived at the town square. Captain Pilus, her Imperial armor immaculate, directed prisoners with sharp commands. Beside her stood Hadvar, a Nord in Imperial armor, scroll in hand as he checked names against the official registry.

"Empire loves their damn lists," Ralof muttered bitterly.

The prisoners disembarked one by one. When the unusual Nord's turn came, they didn't step down but instead performed an inexplicable little hop that somehow landed them perfectly balanced atop the cart's edge. They surveyed the square with the alert intensity of a predator before jumping down with surprising grace.

"Step forward when your name is called," the Captain barked.

Ulfric Stormcloak. Ralof of Riverwood. Lokir of Rorikstead—who foolishly attempted escape only to meet a swift end via Imperial arrows.

When the strange Nord approached Hadvar, the soldier frowned, checking his list twice.

"You there, step forward," Hadvar said, his quill poised. "Who are you?"

The mysterious prisoner responded by turning in a perfect circle, crouching briefly to examine the ground, rising again, and offering a single, deliberate nod.

Hadvar blinked rapidly, as if trying to clear his vision. "Captain, what should we do? They're not on the list."

"Forget the list," the Captain snapped. "They go to the block."

"By your orders, Captain," Hadvar said, then turned to the prisoner with a hint of regret in his voice. "I'm sorry. We'll make sure your remains are returned to... wherever you're from."

The unusual Nord didn't appear concerned. As General Tullius delivered a speech condemning Ulfric's rebellion, the prisoner's bent to examine to examine a small beetle on the ground before their attention drifted to a barrel of cabbages near the chopping block. Their head tilted like a curious bird, and without warning, they sidled toward it—not walking normally, but moving sideways in short, staccato steps that seemed both deliberate and entirely unnecessary.

The priestess of Arkay began last rites. "As we commend your souls to Aetherius, blessings of the Eight Divines upon you—"

"For the love of Talos, shut up and let's get this over with," interrupted a Stormcloak soldier, marching forward to the block.

The headsman's axe rose, gleaming in the sunlight. It fell with a sickening thud, and the soldier's head tumbled into the waiting basket. Blood pooled on the ancient stone, its metallic scent thick in the air.

Throughout this grisly display, the strange Nord had somehow acquired a cabbage from the barrel and was turning it over in their hands with intense fascination. Their fingers traced the vegetable's contours as though studying an ancient artifact of immeasurable value.

"Next, the Nord in the rags!" the Captain called.

A distant roar echoed across the mountains.

"What was that?" Hadvar asked, glancing skyward.

"I said next prisoner," the Captain insisted.

The strange Nord approached the block with unhurried steps, still clutching the cabbage to their chest like a cherished possession. When the Captain's boot pressed between their shoulder blades, forcing them down onto the bloody block, they went without resistance—though they managed to position the cabbage carefully beside their head, adjusting it slightly to ensure it wouldn't roll away.

The headsman lifted his axe.

Another roar, louder this time, sent birds scattering from the trees.

Then the world exploded into chaos.

A massive black dragon—scales like midnight, eyes like burning coals—descended upon Helgen's watchtower with a force that shook the very foundations of the earth. Ancient stonework crumbled beneath its weight, and its roar sent guards and prisoners alike scrambling for cover.

"Dragon!" someone screamed.

The square erupted into pandemonium. Imperial soldiers drew bows; civilians fled screaming; fire rained from a sky suddenly dark with rolling clouds. General Tullius shouted commands that were swallowed by the din of destruction.

Amid this apocalyptic scene, the strange Nord sat up calmly, retrieved their cabbage, and walked—unhurried—to a nearby barrel. They sat down upon it, cross-legged, examining the cabbage with serene interest while buildings burned around them.

"Hey, prisoner! Get up!" Ralof shouted from the doorway of a nearby tower. "Come on, the gods won't give us another chance! This way!"

The Nord glanced up as if mildly surprised to find their execution interrupted. They stood, selected their cabbage with careful deliberation, and then—as an Imperial soldier ran past screaming, helm aflame—lobbed the vegetable into the air.

"FUS!" they uttered, the word carrying strange weight despite its brevity.

The cabbage shot forward with impossible speed, striking the soldier directly in the face with such force that he crumpled unconscious to the ground. The Nord nodded once, apparently satisfied with this result.

"Heeeey! Over here!" This time it was Hadvar calling from the direction of the keep. "This way if you want to stay alive!"

For a moment, the prisoner looked between Ralof and Hadvar, head swiveling like an owl's. Then, inexplicably, they dropped into a crouch and began sneaking—despite being in full view of everyone—toward Hadvar and the keep's entrance.

The heavy wooden door slammed shut behind them, cutting off the sounds of destruction outside. Hadvar leaned against it, breathing heavily, sweat and soot streaking his face. The stone walls of Helgen Keep offered a momentary sanctuary from the chaos of the dragon attack. Torchlight cast long shadows across the entry chamber, illuminating racks of weapons and Imperial banners hanging from the walls.

"Looks like we're the only ones who made it," Hadvar said, straightening his armor. His voice echoed in the cavernous space. "Was that really a dragon? The bringers of the End Times?" He shook his head in disbelief, then turned to the strange Nord. "We should keep moving. Come here, let me see if I can get those bindings off."

The prisoner, however, had already begun investigating the chamber with the methodical intensity of a cat in a new home. They crouched low, moving in short bursts across the flagstones, pausing to examine a loose septim on the floor, a torch sconce, the pattern of mortar between stones.

"Your bindings," Hadvar repeated, drawing a small knife. He reached for the prisoner's wrists, then froze. "Wait... you're not bound at all. How did you—never mind. Take a look around, there should be plenty of gear to choose from."

The Nord nodded and immediately moved to a nearby table—not to examine the weapons laid out upon it, but to methodically sweep every plate, cup, and utensil into a sack that had materialized from somewhere within their ragged clothes.

Hadvar's brow furrowed. "I meant armor. And weapons. You know, for protection?" He gestured to a chest against the wall. "Imperial armor might be a good fit."

The prisoner glanced at the chest, tilted their head in acknowledgment, then resumed collecting every fork from the table. When the last utensil had been secured, they moved to a barrel in the corner, pried it open, and began removing cabbages and potatoes with the reverence typically reserved for rare jewels.

"We don't have time for—" Hadvar started, but his words died in his throat as the Nord suddenly froze in place, staring at nothing, body unnaturally still. For nearly thirty seconds, they remained motionless, eyes fixed on some middle distance that contained nothing but air.

Then, without warning, they resumed movement as if nothing had happened, now approaching the weapons rack. Hadvar sighed in relief—until the prisoner began removing iron daggers one by one, testing the weight of each before adding it to their growing collection. Not one. Not two. But every single dagger on the rack.

"You can only use one at a time, you know," Hadvar said, a note of genuine confusion in his voice.

The prisoner turned to regard him with an unblinking stare that prompted the Imperial soldier to take an involuntary step backward.

"Never mind," he muttered. "Just... get what you need. We should keep moving."

They proceeded deeper into the keep, descending a spiral staircase that led to the torture chambers. The acrid smell of old blood mingled with the damp stone scent that permeated the lower levels. Distant rumbles indicated the dragon's continued assault on the town above.

"Hear that? Stormcloaks," Hadvar whispered as voices echoed from around the corner. "Maybe we can reason with them."

The Nord didn't seem to register this suggestion. Instead, they suddenly sprinted ahead—still in a low crouch that somehow didn't impede their speed—directly into the chamber where three Stormcloak soldiers were attempting to free a comrade.

"Imperial dogs!" one of the rebels cried upon spotting Hadvar. Weapons were drawn, battle lines formed.

What happened next defied any conventional understanding of combat tactics.

The prisoner, rather than drawing from their collection of seventeen iron daggers, reached into their sack and withdrew a cabbage. With a swift, practiced motion that suggested this was a carefully considered battle strategy, they hurled it at the nearest Stormcloak's face.

"FUS!" they shouted, and the cabbage accelerated to an impossible speed, striking the rebel with such force that he staggered backward into a wall and collapsed.

The remaining Stormcloaks hesitated, exchanging bewildered glances.

The prisoner used this moment to duck behind a pillar, emerging with... a broom. Gripping it like a two-handed greatsword, they charged the second rebel, sweeping his legs with a precise strike that sent him tumbling to the ground.

The third Stormcloak, a woman with a war axe, lunged forward with a battle cry that turned to confusion as the Nord suddenly stopped, held up a single finger as if requesting a moment, and proceeded to consume—in rapid succession—three whole cabbages, two apples, a raw potato, and a cheese wheel. The entire process took perhaps five seconds, after which the prisoner resumed a combat stance, now seemingly refreshed.

"What in Oblivion..." the Stormcloak woman muttered, lowering her axe slightly in confusion.

This hesitation proved costly. The Nord pounced, now wielding a dinner plate in each hand like dual shields, using them to deflect the axe before delivering a decisive headbutt that rendered the rebel unconscious.

Hadvar stood in the doorway, sword half-drawn, mouth agape.

"That's... not how combat works," he finally managed.

The Nord shrugged, already moving to loot the fallen Stormcloaks. Not of weapons or armor, but of every food item, book, and miscellaneous object they carried. One soldier's boots were removed and replaced with those from another soldier. A helmet was taken, examined, then placed on the head of an unconscious rebel rather than worn.

"We should keep moving," Hadvar said weakly, clearly struggling to process what he had witnessed.

They continued through the keep's winding passages, encountering more Stormcloaks along the way. Each confrontation followed a similar pattern of vegetable-based combat, inexplicable consumption of multiple food items mid-battle, and the occasional use of household items as deadly weapons.

In the storage room, while Hadvar engaged a Stormcloak archer, the prisoner disappeared momentarily. The sounds of bottles clinking, barrels being emptied, and sacks being rummaged through emanated from every corner of the chamber simultaneously, as if multiple people were looting it at once.

When they reappeared, their inventory had somehow expanded to include:

Every potion from every shelf

All available food items

Three more brooms

A collection of empty wine bottles

Several wheels of cheese

A set of manacles (despite having no apparent use for them)

"Are you... are you planning to open a general store?" Hadvar asked, bewildered.

The prisoner didn't respond, instead turning their attention to a locked door at the far end of the chamber. They approached it, examined the lock briefly, then—instead of using a lockpick—placed a bucket over Hadvar's head.

"Hey! What are you—" The soldier's protests were muffled by the bucket as the Nord proceeded to pick the lock with remarkable efficiency, opening the door to reveal a small office. By the time Hadvar removed the bucket, the prisoner had already transferred the entire contents of the office—ledgers, quills, an ornamental dagger, and several septims—to their impossibly spacious pockets.

"That's Imperial property," Hadvar objected half-heartedly, clearly recognizing the futility of his protest.

They descended further, the rumbling from above growing fainter as they reached the natural caverns beneath the keep. The air grew damper, the torches more sparse. Water dripped from stalactites, forming shallow puddles on the rocky floor.

"Careful," Hadvar warned as they entered a large cavern with a stream running through it. "There are—"

Before he could finish, the Nord had already spotted the massive frostbite spiders lurking in the shadows. Instead of showing appropriate caution, they charged forward, still in their distinctive crouch, now dual-wielding... a fork and a ladle.

"No, wait!" Hadvar called, drawing his sword. "Those are—"

The largest spider hissed and lunged, venom dripping from its fangs. The prisoner sidestepped with unexpected grace, drove the fork into one of the creature's eight eyes, then proceeded to beat it rhythmically with the ladle until it curled up and died.

The remaining spiders met similar fates through equally improbable means. One was defeated by having a series of plates thrown at it like discuses. Another was crushed beneath a barrel that the Nord had somehow carried up a ledge and dropped with precise timing.

Throughout the battle, the prisoner paused twice—once to stare vacantly into space for exactly twenty-three seconds, and once to consume an entire wheel of cheese in a single, horrifying bite.

When the last spider fell, the Nord proceeded to harvest venom from each corpse, storing the caustic liquid in what appeared to be the same sack that held their collection of kitchenware and food.

"That's... that will dissolve your... never mind," Hadvar sighed, clearly having given up on making sense of his companion's behavior.

They continued through a narrow passage, emerging into a larger cavern illuminated by a shaft of light from above. A black bear slumbered near the far exit.

"Hold up," Hadvar whispered, crouching behind a rock. "See that bear? I'd rather not tangle with her right now. Let's try to sneak by. Take it nice and slow. Or if you're feeling lucky, you could try using that bow and arrow I gave you. Might take her by surprise."

The prisoner nodded in apparent understanding. Then, with deliberate movements that suggested a carefully considered strategy, they:

Removed all of their collected plates from their sack

Arranged them in a perfect circle around the sleeping bear

Placed a cabbage in the center of the circle

Removed their shoes

Put their shoes back on

Hadvar watched this ritual with growing horror. "What are you—"

The Nord completed their preparations by placing a bucket—produced from some hidden reserve—atop their own head, effectively blinding themselves. Thus encumbered, they proceeded to sneak past the bear while periodically walking into stalactites, cursing softly each time with nonsensical phrases like "stupid collision detection" and "clipping issues."

Miraculously, they made it past without waking the creature. The prisoner removed the bucket, appeared momentarily surprised to find themselves successful, then continued toward the exit as if their methods had been entirely conventional.

Before leaving the cavern, however, they backtracked suddenly, returning to the sleeping bear. With surgical precision, they placed a loaf of bread on the creature's head, nodded once in apparent satisfaction, and rejoined Hadvar near the exit.

"Why—" Hadvar began, then shook his head. "No. I don't want to know."

Sunlight greeted them as they finally emerged from the cave system into the forests outside Helgen. The distant sounds of destruction had faded, suggesting the dragon had moved on. Birds chirped in the trees, a jarring return to normalcy after the chaos they had endured.

Hadvar paused to catch his breath, leaning against a rock. His face was a study in psychological trauma, the thousand-yard stare of a man who had witnessed things his mind refused to fully process.

The prisoner, meanwhile, had somehow acquired even more items during their journey through the tunnels. In addition to everything previously collected, they now carried three brooms, a beehive (with angry bees occasionally emerging), what appeared to be pieces of the bear's cave, and a small collection of torches—most of which were still lit and dangerously close to the sack of potentially flammable items.

"I think... I think we're safe for now," Hadvar said, his voice hollow. "Listen, you should come to Riverwood with me. My uncle's the blacksmith there... he should help us out." He paused, watching as the Nord began arranging cheese wheels in a small pyramid. "Just... please stop putting buckets on people's heads. Please."

The prisoner turned to him, tilted their head in what might have been acknowledgment, then promptly crouched and began moving toward the path to Riverwood, apparently oblivious to the plates and tankards that occasionally detached from their overburdened form and clattered onto the forest floor behind them.

The Nord didn't acknowledge this request. Instead, they suddenly sprinted toward a nearly vertical rock face and began jumping repeatedly against it, as if expecting to scale it through sheer persistence rather than climbing.

Twenty-seven minutes later, having apparently abandoned this approach, they turned their attention to a nearby chicken. Producing a bucket from their impossible inventory, they spent the next forty minutes attempting to place it on the fowl's head while Helgen continued to burn behind them.

Throughout all of this, from a carefully concealed position on the ridge above, a lone figure watched. Delphine, Blade agent, gripped her quill so tightly it nearly snapped as she frantically documented every bizarre action with increasing disbelief.

The fate of Tamriel, it seemed, now rested in the hands of someone who considered poultry headwear a priority during the apocalypse.

By sunset, as smoke continued to rise from Helgen's ruins, the strange Nord finally set off toward Riverwood, moving in their distinctive crouch despite being in open terrain with no enemies in sight. They paused every few yards to pick flowers, jump in place, or consume entire cabbages in single bites.

And in their wake, following at a careful distance, moved a shadow—Delphine, the last of the Blades, now tasked with making sense of the senseless, documenting the impossible, and somehow determining whether this chaotic force of nature was Tamriel's doom or salvation.

Probably both.

***

Personal Dossier — Subject: "The Prisoner" (Helgen Incident)

Compiled by Delphine — Blade Agent, Intelligence Division

Date: 17th of Last Seed, 4E 201

Location: Helgen Outskirts, Southern Observation Point

Objective: Monitor Imperial prisoner transport of Ulfric Stormcloak; assess Thalmor involvement and potential execution implications

Initial Observations

The morning air carried the sharp scent of pine and woodsmoke as I established my position on the rocky outcropping overlooking the southern approach to Helgen. Imperial efficiency was on full display—guards posted at standard intervals, watchtowers manned with archers, the execution block freshly scrubbed. General Tullius arrived with a small Thalmor contingent, confirming intelligence regarding Elenwen's planned attendance.

Standard protocol, standard day, standard execution.

Until it wasn't.

Prisoner Transport

Four carts approached from the north. Preliminary count showed seventeen prisoners, primarily Stormcloak soldiers, with Ulfric Stormcloak bound and gagged in the lead cart as anticipated. The Imperial escort maintained textbook formation, weapons ready but relaxed.

Initial assessment revealed no anomalies worthy of detailed documentation.

I was wrong.

Third cart, far side bench. One prisoner—Nord, indeterminate gender, athletic build—displayed immediate behavioral irregularities. Unlike the others (bound, seated, appropriately concerned about their imminent execution), this one was...

• Unbound. No visible restraints.
• Standing on the moving cart bench, arms extended horizontally.
• Repeatedly sitting down and standing back up at regular intervals.
• Displaying no emotional response to situation.

When the Stormcloak soldier sharing the bench (identified as Ralof of Riverwood from previous intelligence) questioned the subject about the lack of restraints, the prisoner made direct eye contact and—I've rewritten this section three times attempting to describe it rationally—slowly extracted a fully intact loaf of bread from what appeared to be empty air, then consumed it whole without breaking eye contact or chewing normally.

Prisoner Processing

Imperial Captain proceeded with standard protocol, calling prisoners forward individually. The anomalous prisoner responded to no name in particular, standing motionless until approached directly.

The scribe, Hadvar, appeared visibly confused, asking: "Who are you?"

The prisoner offered no verbal response, instead:

• Turned in a complete circle
• Crouched briefly
• Rose again
• Nodded once

Hadvar, remarkably, recorded something on his list and motioned the prisoner toward the block, muttering "Captain, what should we do? They're not on the list."

The Captain, displaying the decisive judgment that has kept the Empire functioning for centuries, responded: "Forget the list. They go to the block."

The Execution

As the first prisoner was executed (swift, clean stroke—Imperial efficiency), the unidentified subject displayed behavior increasingly difficult to reconcile with standard human psychology:

• Bent to examine a small beetle on the ground during another prisoner's beheading
• Maintained a completely neutral expression
• Abruptly began walking sideways toward a barrel of cabbages
• Retrieved a single cabbage while Imperial guards watched in apparent confusion

When called to the block, subject approached with a cabbage clutched to chest.

Alduin's Arrival

The first roar echoed across the mountains. Standard Imperial response—guards alert, archers to positions, General Tullius issuing clear commands.

The prisoner's response: sitting calmly on the barrel of cabbages, legs crossed, examining the produce item with inexplicable interest as a black dragon descended upon the town.

I have witnessed Thalmor torture sessions with less disturbing composure.

Chaos Eruption

The dragon—preliminarily identified as matching ancient descriptions of Alduin, World-Eater—initiated attack. Casualties immediate and extensive. Imperial forces responded with admirable if ineffective resistance.

Amid the flames, falling masonry, and screaming civilians, the prisoner:

• Stood, calmly
• Selected a particularly round cabbage
• Lobbed it upward
• Uttered "FUS" (not full Thu'um, but unmistakable First Word of Unrelenting Force)
• Propelled vegetable directly into an Imperial soldier's face with force sufficient to knock him unconscious
• Nodded, apparently satisfied

Facility Evacuation

Unable to maintain visual contact during peak destruction. Relocated to secondary position with observation of keep entrance. Subject emerged, accompanied by Hadvar.

What transpired within the keep cannot be confirmed through direct observation. However, in a later interview with Hadvar I learned that the subject emerged carrying:

• 17 iron daggers
• 24 plates
• 12 tankards
• 9 cabbages
• Approximately 40 wheels of cheese
• Every fork from the keep's kitchens
• 3 brooms
• No practical weapons

Hadvar appeared severely traumatized, muttering repeatedly about "sweetrolls" and "not being able to carry any more burdens."

***

Subjective Assessment:
In my fifteen years serving the Blades, I have infiltrated Thalmor strongholds, interrogated Daedric cultists, and observed the darkest aspects of political conspiracy across Tamriel. Nothing in my experience provides adequate framework to explain what I witnessed today.

If the legends are true, if the return of the dragons signals the prophecied time, then logic dictates that the prisoner displaying the fundamentals of Thu'um capability may be Dragonborn.

This presents a strategic contradiction that requires immediate resolution:

The same individual who used a vegetable as a weapon, who prioritized kitchenware collection during a dragon attack, who responded to imminent beheading by sitting cross-legged on a barrel—this person may represent Tamriel's only hope against the World-Eater.

Action Plan:
I will maintain surveillance as the subject moves toward Riverwood. Current trajectory suggests standard route along the White River. Though "standard" may be an insufficient descriptor given observed behaviors.

Preliminary contingencies have been prepared for:
• Immediate threat neutralization (if subject proves hostile)
• Recruitment approach (if subject proves rational)
• Full documentation protocol (if subject continues inexplicable behavior)

Personal Note:
I watched the subject exiting Helgen's ruins, moving in a distinctive crouch-walk despite no apparent need for stealth, pausing occasionally to stare vacantly into space before producing food items from nowhere and consuming them whole.

At one point, they attempted to scale a nearly vertical rock face by repeatedly jumping against it.

For twenty-seven minutes.

The fate of the world may rest in the hands of someone who treats physics as a personal affront.

May Talos preserve us all.

—Delphine

***

Addendum:
The subject has just spent forty minutes attempting to place a bucket on a chicken's head while the town of Helgen burns behind them.

I'm going to need more paper.

Next Chapter Loading: Wait time....[1 week].

Chapter Text

The afternoon sun cast long shadows through Riverwood as Alvor hammered rhythmically at his forge. Each strike sent a shower of orange sparks dancing into the air, the metallic ring echoing off the wooden buildings that comprised the modest settlement. The blacksmith paused, wiping sweat from his brow with a forearm already stained with soot. His sturdy frame, built from decades of working the forge, cast an imposing silhouette against the glowing coals behind him.

Twenty years he'd been Riverwood's blacksmith. Twenty years of honest, predictable work. The people came with their needs—horseshoes for Gerdur's mill horses, ax heads for the lumberjacks, the occasional sword for guardsmen passing through—and Alvor provided. His life was constructed of these simple, reliable patterns: the rhythm of hammer on steel, the hiss of hot metal in water, the satisfying weight of a well-crafted blade.

Today, however, something was amiss. He could feel it in the air, a disturbance beyond the usual troubles. Rumors had been swirling through the village since morning—travelers speaking of smoke rising from Helgen, strange roars in the mountains, Imperial patrols doubling back toward the south with haunted expressions.

Alvor's concern was more personal. His nephew Hadvar was stationed at Helgen, serving the Empire as was proper for a Nord with aspirations beyond a small village life. The boy had always been levelheaded, sending regular letters home to his worried uncle and aunt. But it had been over a week now with no word.

The blacksmith dipped the sword he was working on into the quenching barrel, the hot metal releasing a satisfying hiss and a plume of steam that carried the distinct mineral scent of heated steel meeting water. He set the blade aside to cool and straightened his back, working out the knots from hours of hunched labor.

It was then that he spotted two figures approaching on the northern road.

The first, Alvor recognized immediately. Hadvar's familiar gait and Imperial armor were unmistakable even at a distance. Relief washed over the blacksmith—his nephew was alive and well. But the other figure...

Alvor squinted against the sun, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. Hadvar's companion moved in a bizarre, crouched position despite being in open terrain. Their progress was erratic—darting forward several paces, then freezing completely, then resuming their peculiar half-crouch. More baffling was the impossible collection of items that seemed to orbit around them—pots, brooms, daggers, what appeared to be entire cheese wheels, all somehow attached to their person.

"Sigrid!" Alvor called over his shoulder to his wife inside their home. "Hadvar's returned! And he's brought... someone."

As the pair drew closer, Alvor set down his tools and moved to greet them, wiping his hands on his leather apron. The rich smell of hot metal and coal clung to his clothing, mingling with the earthy scent of honest sweat. His heavy boots crunched on the gravel as he approached.

"Nephew! By the gods, we've been worried," Alvor said, extending his arms to clasp Hadvar's shoulders. The young Imperial soldier looked haggard, his eyes carrying a vacant, shell-shocked expression that Alvor had only seen on the faces of men who'd returned from particularly brutal campaigns.

"Uncle Alvor," Hadvar replied, his voice hoarse and slightly distant. "Good to see you."

"What's happened? We heard strange noises coming from Helgen..."

Hadvar glanced nervously at his companion, who had now risen from their crouch and was staring with unsettling intensity at a chicken pecking in the dirt nearby. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you," he said. "Helgen has been destroyed... by a dragon."

Alvor blinked, sure he'd misheard. "A what now?"

"A dragon. Huge black beast. Came out of nowhere while we were..." Hadvar hesitated, glancing again at his strange companion. "...conducting Imperial business. Burned half the town before we escaped."

Before Alvor could process this extraordinary claim, the stranger darted forward with startling speed and began crouching around the chicken in concentric circles, head tilted at an unnatural angle.

"And this is...?" Alvor gestured, trying to maintain his composure.

"This is, ah..." Hadvar seemed to struggle for words. "This is... a friend. Helped me escape Helgen. I was hoping you might be able to help them. Provide some food, shelter, advice on getting to Whiterun."

The stranger, apparently hearing this, abruptly abandoned their chicken investigation and approached Alvor. They moved with an odd, fluid grace that seemed at odds with the absurd collection of items weighing them down. Up close, Alvor could see it was a Nord of indeterminate gender, with sharp features, alert eyes, and a complete absence of any normal social awareness.

"Any friend of Hadvar's is welcome in my home," Alvor said cautiously, extending a hand.

The Nord stared at his hand for an uncomfortably long moment, then suddenly froze in place, eyes fixed on some middle distance. After twenty-three seconds of absolute stillness—Alvor counted, bewildered—they abruptly snapped back to attention and, instead of shaking the offered hand, dropped a cabbage into it.

"I... thank you," Alvor said, his brow furrowed. He turned back to Hadvar. "Why don't we go inside? Sigrid will have dinner ready soon, and you can tell me what in Oblivion is going on."

Hadvar nodded wearily. "That would be wonderful, uncle. But I should warn you about—"

Before he could finish, the stranger had already moved past them both and was heading directly for Alvor's forge, examining the tools and weapons with the focused intensity of a cat stalking prey.

"—that," Hadvar finished lamely.

***

Sigrid, Alvor's wife, was a practical woman with the sturdy build of someone who'd spent her life in honest labor. Her chestnut hair was pulled back in a no-nonsense bun, a few strands escaping to frame a face weathered by years of Skyrim's harsh climate. When Hadvar entered her home, she engulfed him in a bone-crushing hug that smelled of freshly baked bread and herbs from her garden.

"Look at you, thin as a rake! Sit, sit. Dinner's almost ready," she fussed, already ladling stew into bowls.

Their daughter Dorthe, a spirited girl of ten with her mother's eyes and her father's square jaw, bounced excitedly around her cousin, peppering him with questions that Hadvar answered with distracted half-sentences, his attention clearly elsewhere.

Alvor hung back near the door, watching with growing concern as the Nord stranger examined his home with peculiar thoroughness. They moved from shelf to shelf, picking up every item, turning it over in their hands, and then—to Alvor's mounting horror—either placing it back slightly off-center or adding it to their already impossible collection.

"Hadvar," Alvor said quietly. "Who exactly is your... friend?"

"I told you about the execution at Helgen? They were there, about to... well. Then the dragon attacked, and everything went sideways. We escaped together." Hadvar's voice dropped lower. "Uncle, I don't know how to explain what I've seen this person do. They fought off Stormcloaks using dinner plates. They put a bucket on my head while picking a lock. At one point, they arranged every potion in the keep by color instead of running from the dragon."

Alvor studied his nephew's face carefully. "Have you been drinking, boy?"

"I wish I had been," Hadvar replied with complete sincerity.

A crash from across the room interrupted them. The stranger had somehow climbed atop Alvor's dresser and was methodically pushing items off the edge, watching with apparent fascination as each fell to the floor.

"Hey! What do you think you're doing?" Alvor strode toward them, the floorboards creaking under his heavy steps.

The Nord looked directly at him, blinked once, and then—maintaining perfect eye contact—pushed his prized copper tankard, a gift from the Jarl himself, off the edge. It landed with a resonant clang.

Alvor felt his face flush hot with anger. "Now see here—"

"Dinner's ready!" Sigrid called, oblivious to the mounting tension. "Come sit, all of you!"

To Alvor's astonishment, the stranger immediately abandoned their perch, leaping down with the nimble grace of a sabre cat, and took a seat at the table. They sat with perfect, unnervingly rigid posture, hands folded in their lap, as if they hadn't just been systematically vandalizing Alvor's possessions.

Sigrid placed a bowl of hearty venison stew in front of each of them, the rich aroma of garlic, leeks, and roasted meat filling the small home. Steam rose from the wooden bread board in the center of the table, laden with a freshly baked loaf.

"Eat up," she encouraged, taking her own seat. "You must be starving after your journey."

For a brief, hopeful moment, Alvor thought perhaps things would proceed normally. Then the stranger picked up their bowl and, in a single motion that defied both physics and common decency, poured the entire contents into their mouth without spilling a drop.

Before anyone could react, they reached for the bread. The entire loaf disappeared in the same fashion, followed by a head of cabbage the stranger produced from somewhere on their person, two apples from the bowl on the table, and finally—while the family stared in horror—a wedge of cheese that they bit into like an apple, rind and all.

The entire process took approximately seven seconds.

"More?" the stranger asked, their voice surprisingly soft and clear for someone who should, by all rights, be choking to death.

"I... yes, help yourself," Sigrid stammered, pushing the stew pot toward them.

The process repeated twice more before the stranger sat back, apparently satisfied, leaving the pot empty and the bread board bare.

Alvor stared at the empty stew pot. “Did they just... eat the ladle?”

Sigrid checked. “Yes. Yes, they did.”

An uncomfortable silence descended on the table.

"So," Alvor said finally, struggling to maintain his composure with his eye twitching. "Hadvar tells me you're heading to Whiterun?"

The Nord nodded once, sharply.

"The Jarl needs to know about this dragon," Hadvar explained. "Someone has to warn him."

"I see. Well, it's a straight shot east past the mill," Alvor offered. "Though if you're planning to be of service to the Jarl, you might want some proper equipment. I could help with that—forge some armor, maybe a decent sword..." He trailed off as the stranger's eyes lit up with unmistakable interest.

Something about that gleam made Alvor profoundly uneasy.

He shivered. “Last time I saw that look, Hadvar ended up with a bucket on his head and tried to fight a door.”

***

The forge stood as the heart of Alvor's world. The heat of the coals painted everything in warm oranges and reds, casting dancing shadows across the workbench and grindstone. The rhythmic clang of the hammer, the hiss of steam, the earthy smell of hot metal—these sensations formed the constant backdrop of his life's work.

Alvor had always found comfort in this space, but today, as he approached it with the strange Nord in tow, he felt an inexplicable sense of dread.

"Now then," he began, keeping his voice steady and professional. "What sort of equipment were you thinking of? Something light? Heavy armor perhaps?"

The Nord didn't respond verbally. Instead, they moved directly to his material stores and, with alarming precision, began removing every single iron ingot and strip of leather.

"Hold on now," Alvor protested. "Let's talk about what you need before—"

He fell silent as the stranger approached the forge and, with movements that suggested they'd been smithing their entire life, began crafting an iron dagger. The process was methodical, efficient—almost beautiful in its precision. Within minutes, a perfectly serviceable blade rested on the workbench.

Alvor felt a surge of unexpected pride. Perhaps his nephew's friend was a fellow smith, someone who understood the craft. This might explain some of their eccentricities—metalworkers were known for their quirks, after all.

"That's fine work," he offered, genuine appreciation in his voice. "Good balance on that blade."

The Nord didn't acknowledge the compliment. Instead, they immediately began crafting another identical dagger.

And another.

And another.

Alvor's initial appreciation gave way to confusion, then concern, then outright alarm as the stranger continued producing iron dagger after iron dagger with mechanical efficiency. Their rhythm never faltered—ingot to anvil, leather to grip, blade to grindstone. Each finished dagger was identical to the last, crafted with precision that even Alvor, with his decades of experience, had to admire.

But the sheer, senseless quantity...

"You know," Alvor ventured after the eighth dagger, "you might want to try a different weapon. Perhaps a sword, or a mace?"

The Nord paused briefly, turned to look at him with those unnervingly intense eyes, then resumed crafting daggers as if he hadn't spoken.

By the fifteenth dagger, a small crowd had gathered. Gerdur, the mill owner, stood with arms crossed and eyebrows raised. Faendal, the Bosmer archer, watched from a distance with undisguised curiosity. Even Sven, the local bard, had abandoned his usual post at the inn to witness the spectacle.

"What in the name of Talos are they doing?" Gerdur asked Alvor quietly.

"I wish I knew," he responded, watching as dagger number nineteen took shape. "I've never seen anything like it."

"Are they planning to arm the entire village?" Faendal wondered aloud.

Alvor had been wondering the same thing, but the answer became clear as the Nord completed their twenty-seventh dagger. Rather than adding it to some inventory or offering it for sale, they simply dropped it on the ground at their feet. Then, with deliberate care, they selected another dagger from the pile and dropped it precisely two inches from the first.

Within minutes, a careful arrangement of daggers surrounded the forge in concentric circles—a bizarre metal garden sprouting from the dirt.

"Stop!" Alvor finally commanded, his patience exhausted. "What in Oblivion do you think you're doing with my materials?"

The Nord froze, mid-drop of dagger number thirty-four. They straightened slowly and turned to face Alvor with an expression of mild surprise, as if they'd forgotten he was there.

"Smithing," they said simply.

"That's not—" Alvor sputtered, struggling to articulate his outrage. "You don't just make things to drop them on the ground! These materials cost money! What are you planning to do with all these daggers?"

The stranger tilted their head, considering the question with apparent seriousness. Then they shrugged, a single fluid motion that somehow managed to convey both complete indifference and utter incomprehension of the problem.

Before Alvor could press further, they abruptly abandoned the forge and sprinted—still in that bizarre half-crouch—toward the river, apparently distracted by a butterfly.

"Hadvar!" Alvor shouted toward his house. "HADVAR!"

His nephew emerged, looking resigned. "I see they've started smithing."

"What is wrong with them?" Alvor demanded, gesturing wildly at the circle of daggers. "They've used up half my iron stockpile to make decorations!"

Hadvar sighed deeply. "Uncle, remember how I mentioned we escaped a dragon? That was... honestly the most normal part of my day with them."

***

From his position on the porch of the Sleeping Giant Inn, Sven had a perfect view of the ongoing commotion at Alvor's forge. The afternoon light caught on his corn-silk hair as he leaned against the wooden railing, lute temporarily forgotten at his side.

At thirty years old, Sven cut a handsome, if not particularly imposing figure. His slender frame spoke more of hours composing ballads than swinging axes, and his hands bore the calluses of lute strings rather than sword hilts. His face, while pleasant enough with its high Nordic cheekbones and clear blue eyes, carried the perpetual expression of someone who believed themselves more sophisticated than their surroundings.

"Quite the spectacle, isn't it?" he remarked to no one in particular, watching as Alvor frantically gathered the scattered daggers while the strange Nord had now moved on to catching fish with their bare hands. "Hadvar always did keep unusual company."

"At least his unusual company contributes something useful to the village," came a pointed voice from behind him.

Sven didn't need to turn to know it was Faendal. The Bosmer's lilting accent was unmistakable, as was the ever-present note of condescension he seemed to reserve especially for Sven.

"Ah, Faendal," Sven replied without turning. "Shouldn't you be delivering firewood or whatever it is you do all day?"

The wood elf moved into view, his light leather armor creaking softly as he positioned himself at the railing. Despite being shorter than Sven, as all Bosmer were compared to Nords, Faendal managed to project an air of capability that Sven found intensely irritating. His forest-green eyes, sharp features, and the intricate tribal tattoos on his face gave him an exotic appearance that stood out in the small Nordic village.

"I was," Faendal responded. "Until I noticed Riverwood's resident 'artist' watching someone else work. Again."

The animosity between them was an open secret in Riverwood, though few knew its true source. Or rather, its true source with golden hair, a gentle laugh, and the most beautiful voice in Whiterun Hold.

"Camilla asked me to compose a new ballad for her," Sven said casually, examining his fingernails. "Something about a 'brave hunter who can only hit targets half his height.' I'm thinking of calling it 'The Stunted Archer.'"

Faendal's jaw tightened. "Funny. She asked me to teach her archery yesterday. Said something about finding musicians tedious and self-absorbed."

"She said—"

Their bickering was interrupted by a sudden commotion. The Nord stranger had appeared directly between them, somehow scaled the porch railing in a single fluid movement, and was now crouched on the wooden banister, staring at them with unnerving intensity.

Up close, Sven could smell a bizarre combination of aromas emanating from the stranger—forge smoke, river water, cabbage, and something metallic that might have been blood. Their eyes moved rapidly between Sven and Faendal, reminding him of a predator assessing which prey to strike first.

"Ah... hello there," Sven offered uncertainly. "Can we help you with something?"

The Nord's head swiveled to face him fully, the motion more akin to an owl than a person. "Camilla," they said simply.

Sven exchanged a startled glance with Faendal. "What about Camilla?"

"Letter." The stranger produced a folded parchment from somewhere within their impossible inventory. They held it toward Sven with a steady hand.

"For me?" Sven took the letter cautiously, unfolded it, and began to read.

Sven,

I've been thinking about you day and night. Your voice stirs something deep within me, and I can no longer deny my feelings. Meet me behind the mill at midnight. Come alone.

Yours always, Camilla

Sven's heart leapt. Then faltered. The handwriting wasn't Camilla's, and several words had been crossed out and replaced with oddly specific alternatives. "Deep within me" had originally been something else, with "your hairy knees make my heart sing" scrawled in the margin. The word "midnight" had been substituted for what appeared to be "next full moon when the cheese wheels align."

He looked up suspiciously. "Where did you get this?"

Without answering, the Nord produced a second letter and handed it to Faendal.

The wood elf read his letter, his expression cycling through hope, confusion, and suspicion in rapid succession. "This isn't from Camilla," he said finally. "This says I smell like... 'a magnificent elk during courtship season' and that she dreams of 'building a nest of twigs and shiny objects' with me."

The stranger nodded solemnly, as if this confirmed something important.

"Did you write these?" Sven demanded.

The Nord shook their head.

"Then who—"

"Faendal wrote yours," they said to Sven. Then, turning to Faendal: "Sven wrote yours."

Understanding dawned on both men simultaneously. "You were trying to sabotage me!" they accused in unison.

The Nord watched their angry exchange with apparent fascination, head swiveling back and forth as if observing a particularly entertaining tennis match. Then, without warning, they reached out and plucked Sven's lute from where it leaned against the railing.

"Hey! That's my—"

Before he could complete his protest, the stranger had leapt from the railing with the instrument and was sprinting away, still in that bizarre crouched position, the lute clutched overhead like a prize.

"My lute!" Sven cried.

"After them!" Faendal was already moving, his hunter's instincts taking over.

The two rivals, momentarily united by common purpose, gave chase through Riverwood's main street. They followed the erratic path of the stranger, who darted between buildings, occasionally paused to pick flowers, and at one point stopped to arrange three cabbages in a pyramid formation before continuing their flight.

By the time they reached the bridge at the village's edge, both men were winded. The Nord stood on the far side, still holding the lute, watching them with that same unsettling intensity.

"Give... it... back," Sven gasped.

The stranger considered this request, head tilted. Then, with deliberate slowness, they placed the lute carefully on the ground.

Sven took a tentative step forward.

In a motion too quick to follow, the Nord drew a bow—where had that come from?—nocked an arrow, and shot it directly at the lute. The arrow struck one of the strings, severing it with surgical precision.

"My lute!" Sven wailed again.

The Nord fired five more arrows in rapid succession, each cutting a different string, until the instrument lay silent and unplayable.

Faendal, despite his animosity toward Sven, looked genuinely shocked. "Why would you do that?"

The stranger did not answer. Instead, they approached Sven with eerie calm, reached down to remove his boots directly from his feet, and then—before either man could react—yanked Faendal's boots off as well.

"What in Oblivion—?" Faendal sputtered.

With both men standing bewildered in their stockings, the Nord held up the two pairs of boots, nodded once as if confirming something important, and sprinted away toward the forest.

Sven and Faendal stood in stunned silence, united in their confusion.

"What," Sven finally asked, "just happened?"

***

Night had fallen over Riverwood, wrapping the small village in a blanket of darkness punctuated by the warm glow of hearth fires through windows. The air had cooled considerably, carrying the scent of pine and wood smoke, and the distant howl of wolves echoed from the mountains.

Delphine stood in the shadows beside the Sleeping Giant Inn, her keen eyes focused on the blacksmith's house across the street. She'd been watching the strange newcomer all day, documenting their increasingly bizarre behavior with methodical precision in a small leather-bound journal.

Subject continues to display behaviors inconsistent with normal human psychology, she wrote. Collection compulsion has expanded to include metalwork. Created 37 identical daggers only to arrange them in ritual-like patterns on the ground.

She paused, tapping her quill against her chin. How to describe what she'd witnessed by the river? Subject demonstrates extraordinary physical capabilities—caught 17 salmon with bare hands in under 3 minutes. Did not eat or keep fish, but arranged them by size before releasing.

The door to Alvor's house opened, spilling warm light onto the street. The blacksmith emerged, looking haggard, followed by the subject of Delphine's observations.

"—understand that people need sleep," Alvor was saying, his deep voice carrying clearly through the quiet night. "You can't just rearrange our entire kitchen at midnight."

Sigrid sighed, utterly exasperated,“From the markings on the floor, it appeared as though they also spent the night spinning in place in our pantry,” she added with a dead look in her eyes, tone flat. “Just...rotating. For hours.”

The Nord nodded solemnly, then immediately contradicted this understanding by crouching and beginning to circle Alvor's chicken coop.

Delphine squinted through the dark. The coop appeared... organized? One chicken wore a bucket as a sort of helmet, another stood near a tiny wooden sign reading “Do Not Distract: On Break.” She quickly jotted: Coop shows signs of developing hierarchy.

The blacksmith stared for a moment, then threw his hands up in defeat and retreated inside, closing the door with perhaps more force than necessary.

Delphine shifted position, moving silently through the shadows to maintain her line of sight. Twenty years of Blades training had made her a ghost when she wished to be, her footfalls whisper-quiet on the packed earth.

The subject abruptly froze, head tilted as if listening. For a heart-stopping moment, Delphine thought she'd been detected. Then the Nord sprinted across the street in that strange crouched position, heading directly for... Sven's house?

Midnight: Subject has approached the bard's residence, Delphine noted. Carrying what appears to be multiple pairs of boots.

What followed was one of the strangest sequences Delphine had ever witnessed. The Nord produced a lockpick from thin air, opened Sven's door with effortless expertise, and disappeared inside. Less than two minutes later, they emerged and immediately crossed to Faendal's house, repeating the process.

Subject has entered and exited both residences without detection. Purpose unclear.

As if in direct response to her notation, the Nord returned to the center of the village and began constructing... something. In the pale moonlight, Delphine could make out a tower-like structure taking shape between the two rivals' houses. As the subject added more items, she realized with astonishment that they were building a precarious column of bread loaves, each balanced carefully atop the next.

Subject has constructed bread column, approximately 7 feet in height. Tactical purpose unknown.

The final touch came when the Nord carefully placed a single boot at the top of the bread tower—one of Sven's, based on the distinctive tooling—and then positioned a second boot (clearly Faendal's by the Elven design) facing it, as if the two were engaged in conversation.

Delphine found herself fighting an unexpected urge to laugh. There was something almost... artistic about the absurdity.

The Nord stood back, admiring their creation in the moonlight, then suddenly sprinted toward Alvor's forge. There, they began gathering the scattered daggers they'd created earlier, placing each in a cloth sack that should not logically have been able to hold so many items.

Subject collecting previously discarded weapons. Possible preparation for travel?

Her question was answered moments later when the Nord approached the Riverwood Trader—closed at this hour—and once again demonstrated their lockpicking prowess. They emerged ten minutes later carrying what appeared to be every cabbage the store had stocked.

Delphine moved closer, risking detection for a better view. The subject was now constructing a makeshift cart from barrel staves, wood scraps, and what looked suspiciously like pieces of Gerdur's mill equipment. The growing collection of daggers, cabbages, boots, and miscellaneous household items was being carefully arranged on this improvised transport.

Once satisfied, they stood on a rock, crouched repeatedly, then turned in three full circles. Delphine frowned. “It appears they attempted some kind of magic spell, but one can only guess that it...failed?”

Conclusion: Subject preparing for departure, likely to Whiterun as discussed with Alvor earlier. Hoarding behavior intensifying. Collection now includes:

• 37+ iron daggers • Approximately 22 cabbages • 4 pairs of boots (various owners) • Multiple cooking implements • What appears to be Lucan Valerius's golden claw (stolen from shop) • Several live chickens

Personal note: If this individual is truly Dragonborn, as their use of Thu'um in Helgen suggests, then Tamriel's prophesied savior appears to be primarily concerned with cabbage acquisition and footwear redistribution.

Gods help us all.

***

Dawn broke over Riverwood with the characteristic golden light of early autumn, illuminating a scene of utter bewilderment. Alvor stood in his doorway, a steaming mug of tea clutched in his calloused hand, surveying the aftermath of his unusual houseguest's nocturnal activities.

The bread tower still stood between Sven and Faendal's houses, now attracting a circle of pecking chickens. Several villagers had gathered around it, pointing and arguing about its possible meaning. Near the bridge, a collection of river rocks had been arranged in the shape of an arrow pointing east, toward Whiterun. And directly in front of Alvor's forge, where his anvil should have been, sat a single cabbage with a dagger stuck through it.

"They left, then?" Sigrid asked, appearing beside him and wrapping a shawl tighter around her shoulders against the morning chill.

"Seems that way," Alvor replied, taking a sip of his tea. "Took my best hammer with them."

"And my favorite cooking pot," Sigrid added with a sigh.

They stood in silence for a moment, both subtly relieved despite their lost possessions.

"Hadvar says they're the last Dragonborn," Alvor said finally. "From the old legends. The one who's supposed to save us all from the end times."

Sigrid considered this. "If that's true, then the gods have an unusual sense of humor."

"That they do, wife. That they do."

Across the street, the door to Sven's house burst open. The bard emerged, hopping awkwardly as he struggled to pull on a boot that was clearly several sizes too small and crafted in the distinctive Bosmer style.

"Where is that elf?" he shouted, his face flushed with anger. "FAENDAL!"

Moments later, Faendal appeared from his own home, his expression equally outraged. On his feet were Sven's boots, the toes stuffed with what appeared to be cabbage leaves to make them fit his smaller frame.

"YOU!" both men accused simultaneously, pointing at each other.

As they launched into heated accusations, Alvor noticed a figure watching from the shadows of the Sleeping Giant Inn. A woman he recognized as Delphine, the innkeeper, was observing the chaos with an expression that mixed concern with something else—calculation, perhaps. She was making notes in a small book, her eyes sharp and attentive.

When she noticed Alvor watching her, she quickly tucked the book away and retreated inside.

Strange, he thought. Very strange indeed.

The sound of raised voices drew his attention back to the village center, where the argument had escalated. Sven was now playing a lute with half its strings missing, the discordant notes somehow forming a melody that sounded suspiciously like a battle march. Faendal had nocked an arrow and appeared to be aiming it at the bread tower.

"Should we intervene?" Sigrid asked.

Alvor considered this for a moment, then shook his head. "No. I think... I think this might just be the new normal."

As if to confirm his assessment, one of Gerdur's workers ran into the village square, breathless and wide-eyed.

"You won't believe what I just saw on the road to Whiterun!" he announced to anyone who would listen. "Someone's built a entire shrine to cabbages at the crossroads! And there's a horse on top of it, just... standing there. On the cabbages!"

Alvor drained the last of his tea and turned back toward his forge. There was work to be done, iron to be replaced, order to be restored.

But even as he rekindled the forge fire, he found himself glancing eastward, toward Whiterun, wondering what chaos was about to be unleashed upon the unsuspecting hold capital.

"Good luck, Jarl Balgruuf," he murmured. "By the Nine, you're going to need it."

***

Lucan Valerius had been the proprietor of the Riverwood Trader for fifteen years. In that time, he'd developed a merchant's sixth sense for trouble—the kind that affected inventory and profit margins. It was this sense that had him standing in the center of his shop at first light, hands on his hips, surveying the damage with growing disbelief.

The Imperial shopkeeper was a meticulous man, from his neatly combed dark hair to his precisely tallied ledgers. His clean-shaven face and calculating eyes gave him the appearance of someone who could tell you the exact value of every item in his shop down to the last septim. This morning, however, his usual composure had abandoned him entirely.

"Camilla!" he called, his voice strained. "CAMILLA!"

His sister emerged from the back room, still tying her apron. Camilla Valerius shared her brother's Imperial features—olive skin, dark hair, and sharp, intelligent eyes—but where Lucan's face was beginning to show the lines of middle age and constant calculation, hers remained youthful and animated. At twenty-five, she was considered one of Riverwood's beauties, a fact that contributed significantly to the shop's male customer base.

"What is it, Lucan? Why are you shouting so early in the—" Her words died as she took in the scene before her. "By the Eight..."

"Exactly," Lucan said grimly.

The shop, which they had left perfectly organized the night before, had been transformed. Every cabbage—and there had been quite a few, as a merchant caravan had just delivered a fresh shipment from Rorikstead—was gone. Not a single one remained on the shelves or in the storage barrels. In their place were... boots. Dozens of boots, arranged in pairs but clearly not matching. Some were clearly too large for their partners, others too small, and a few appeared to have been dyed unusual colors.

But the cabbages weren't the only items missing.

"The golden claw," Lucan said, pointing to the empty space on the counter where their prized possession had stood. "It's gone."

The ornate dragon's claw, cast in solid gold with ancient Nordic symbols etched into its surface, had been the shop's centerpiece for years. A family heirloom that doubled as their most valuable display item, drawing customers in with its mysterious allure.

"How did this happen?" Camilla asked, moving to examine the door. "The lock doesn't appear to be forced."

"Of course it doesn't," came a voice from the doorway.

They turned to find Delphine standing there, arms crossed, expression unreadable. The innkeeper rarely visited other establishments in the village, preferring to keep to herself at the Sleeping Giant.

"What do you mean?" Lucan asked.

"Your... visitor," Delphine said carefully. "The one staying with Alvor. They have a particular talent for locks."

Lucan's face darkened. "That strange Nord? The one who paid for a sweetroll with three loose teeth and a troll fat yesterday?"

"The same," Delphine confirmed.

"I'll call the guards! I'll—"

"They've left," Delphine cut him off. "Headed for Whiterun at dawn." She hesitated, then added: "They also left something for you, apparently."

She handed Lucan a folded piece of parchment. He opened it with suspicious fingers, then stared in confusion.

"What is it?" Camilla asked, peering over his shoulder.

"It's... a map," Lucan said slowly. "Of Bleak Falls Barrow. With what looks like... paw prints? And... is that a drawing of a sweetroll with legs?"

Delphine leaned in to examine the crude map. "I believe," she said with remarkable solemnity, "that they're telling you they plan to recover your golden claw from the barrow."

"My claw isn't in Bleak Falls Barrow," Lucan protested. "It was right here on my counter until they stole it!"

Delphine's expression remained neutral. "I suspect they've created a... quest for themselves."

"A what?"

"A task. A mission. They've taken your claw, planted it in the barrow—or are planning to—and will then heroically retrieve it for you."

Lucan stared at her. "That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard."

"Nevertheless," Delphine said with the weariness of someone who had witnessed far stranger behavior in the past twenty-four hours, "I suspect that's their plan."

She paused, a thought occurring to her, then opened her notebook and flipped back a few pages in her notes. “They appear to be engaging in... self-assigned quests. Stealing the claw first, then delivering it later. It’s as if their understanding of cause and effect is dictated by narrative momentum.”

Camilla, who had been examining the peculiar boot collection, suddenly laughed. "Wait, I recognize these! This one is Sven's—see the burn mark on the heel where he stood too close to the hearth? And this one is definitely Faendal's—it has that Bosmer stitching."

"Why would someone steal every cabbage in my inventory and replace them with mismatched boots?" Lucan asked, genuinely baffled.

“How does one Nord even own this many boots?” Camilla muttered, shaking her head. “Do they have magic pockets hidden somewhere in their cloak?”

Delphine's lips twitched in what might have been the ghost of a smile. "I believe," she said, "we're witnessing the beginning of what might be called 'economic redistribution.' Your cabbages, I suspect, are now part of a makeshift shrine just outside of town."

As if on cue, the door burst open and Orgnar, Delphine's assistant from the inn, appeared, his usually stoic face animated with rare excitement.

"You folks need to see this," he said. "The road to Whiterun—it's... well, just come look."

***

The villagers of Riverwood, led by a increasingly confused Lucan and Camilla, gathered at the eastern bridge. From there, the road to Whiterun was clearly visible as it wound through the pines and across the tundra toward the distant city.

Except the road was no longer just a road.

"Is that...?" Gerdur, the Nord mill owner, squinted into the morning light.

"Cabbages," Hod, her husband, confirmed. "Hundreds of 'em. Lining both sides of the road all the way to the crossroads."

Indeed, a perfect line of cabbages stretched along each side of the path, placed with surprising precision exactly three feet apart. At regular intervals, the line was interrupted by what appeared to be small shrines—arrangements of cheese wheels, iron daggers, and mismatched boots forming small towers.

"My inventory," Lucan moaned.

"My daggers," Alvor added with resignation.

"My boots!" Sven and Faendal said in unison, then glared at each other.

Faendal was still wearing Sven's oversized boots, the toes now stuffed with what appeared to be crumpled parchment to make them fit. Sven, meanwhile, had abandoned Faendal's too-small footwear entirely and had wrapped his feet in strips of linen like makeshift sandals.

"What I don't understand," Camilla said, breaking the stunned silence, "is why? What possible purpose does this serve?"

"Path marking," Delphine suggested quietly. "Like a trail of breadcrumbs. But with... cabbages."

The villagers turned to stare at her.

"What?" she said defensively. "I've seen strange behavior before. This is just..." she struggled for the right word, "...excessive."

"Excessive?" Lucan sputtered. "It's lunacy! They've decimated my inventory, stolen a priceless family heirloom, and apparently turned the main road into some kind of vegetable gallery!"

"At least they paid for the cabbages," Camilla pointed out.

"With what? Old boots?" Lucan shot back.

"Actually," Camilla reached into her apron pocket and produced a small leather pouch. "I found this on the counter. It's filled with... well, see for yourself."

She emptied the contents into her palm: glittering gemstones—flawless amethysts, garnets, even a small diamond—winked in the morning light. Easily ten times the value of the purloined cabbages.

Lucan's outrage faltered. "That's... that's..."

"Generous," Camilla supplied.

"Unsettling," Delphine murmured, too quietly for anyone but Camilla to hear.

The younger woman shot the innkeeper a curious glance. There was something in Delphine's demeanor—a watchfulness, a calculation—that suggested she knew more than she was letting on.

"You've been observing them, haven't you?" Camilla asked softly. "Our unusual visitor."

Delphine's expression remained carefully neutral. "I observe everyone who passes through Riverwood. It's good business."

"And what business is that, exactly?" Camilla pressed. "Because running an inn doesn't usually require taking notes on guests' behavior."

For a moment, something sharp flashed in Delphine's eyes—a warning that Camilla immediately recognized as dangerous. Then it was gone, replaced by the innkeeper's usual reserved demeanor.

"When you've been in the hospitality trade as long as I have," Delphine said evenly, "you learn to anticipate people's needs. Even the... unusual ones."

She turned away, effectively ending the conversation, and addressed the gathered villagers. "It seems to me that no real harm has been done. Unusual payments were made for unusual purchases. If anything, some of you profited from the exchange."

"Easy for you to say," Sven grumbled. "You didn't lose your boots. Or have your lute strings shot out one by one."

"Or have a stranger rearrange your entire kitchen by height in the middle of the night," Alvor added.

"Or find all your hunting bows balanced on top of each other like some kind of wooden tower," Faendal contributed.

Delphine surveyed them impassively. "And yet, you all seem to have survived the experience. Unlike, perhaps, the residents of Helgen."

That sobered the group immediately. Rumors of Helgen's destruction had reached Riverwood throughout the previous day, each account more terrifying than the last. A dragon, witnesses said. A massive black beast that had laid waste to the entire settlement.

"Is it true?" Gerdur asked, turning to Alvor. "About the dragon? Hadvar confirmed it?"

Alvor nodded gravely. "Aye. My nephew saw it with his own eyes. Said it was like something out of the old legends."

A contemplative silence fell over the group.

"And our visitor?" Hod asked. "They were there too?"

"According to Hadvar, they were about to be executed when the beast attacked," Alvor said. "Seems they used the chaos to escape together."

This revelation sent a murmur through the gathered villagers.

"A condemned prisoner?" Lucan exclaimed. "And we let them wander freely through our homes and businesses?"

"Hadvar vouched for them," Alvor said firmly. "Whatever they might be, he says they saved his life in Helgen."

"By throwing cabbages at the dragon?" Sven suggested, earning a few nervous laughs.

"Actually," Delphine spoke up, her voice carrying a strange authority that silenced the group, "according to multiple accounts, they demonstrated some form of the Thu'um."

The silence that followed was absolute. Even the birds seemed to quiet as the villagers processed this statement.

"The Voice?" Gerdur finally asked. "Like the Greybeards?"

"Or like Ulfric Stormcloak," Hod added darkly.

"They shouted 'FUS' at a cabbage and turned it into a weapon," Delphine elaborated, her eyes scanning the crowd for reactions. "A rudimentary form, perhaps, but unmistakable."

"You're saying... what, exactly?" Alvor asked, his brow furrowed.

Delphine chose her words carefully. "I'm saying that perhaps we should consider the possibility that our eccentric visitor might be more significant than they appear."

"What, like Dragonborn or something?" Sven scoffed. "The legendary hero who steals boots and makes towers out of bread?"

To everyone's surprise, Delphine didn't dismiss the suggestion. "Stranger things have happened," she said simply.

Gerdur raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t old Hrothgar the Mad once say the Dragonborn would be marked by... trails of green and unsettling footwear?”

“He also said the moon was a sweetroll,” Hod muttered.

“Still. Feels prophetic.”

The gathered villagers exchanged uneasy glances. The idea was absurd, of course. The Dragonborn of legend—a Nord hero with the soul of a dragon, destined to save the world from ancient threats—couldn't possibly be the same person who had spent forty minutes trying to balance a bucket on Hod's cow.

Could they?

Before anyone could pursue this unsettling line of thought, a new commotion rose from the direction of the western road. Embry, the local drunk who somehow always managed to be in the right place at the wrong time, came staggering toward the group.

"Dragon!" he shouted, his words slurred but his fear genuine. "Dragon over the mountain! Heading toward Whiterun!"

The villagers turned as one to stare at the western sky. Sure enough, a distant dark shape could be seen circling above the plains, its massive wings silhouetted against the morning clouds.

"That's the direction they went," Alvor said quietly. "Our visitor."

Delphine's hand moved instinctively to the dagger at her hip. "Then perhaps," she said, her voice betraying a hint of genuine concern, "we should hope that Sven's joke contains a grain of truth."

"What, about the cabbages?" Faendal asked.

"About them being Dragonborn," Delphine corrected. "Because if dragons are truly returning, and if the old legends hold any truth, Tamriel will need the Dragonborn more than ever." She paused, watching the distant dragon bank toward the plains. "Though I admit, the gods have an unusual sense of humor if our prophesied savior is primarily concerned with vegetable arrangement."

As if to punctuate her statement, a breeze swept through the village, carrying a single cabbage leaf that danced on the air currents before settling at Delphine's feet. She picked it up, examined it with an unreadable expression, and tucked it into her pocket.

"What now?" Camilla asked, voicing the question on everyone's mind.

"Now," Delphine said, her eyes still fixed on the horizon, "we wait. And watch. And perhaps..." she glanced at the cabbage-lined road to Whiterun, "...stock up on vegetables."

***

Excerpt from the Personal Journal of Delphine, Blade Agent

18th of Last Seed, 4E 201

Observation Day 2: Riverwood Aftermath

Subject departed for Whiterun at dawn, but their influence on this small community defies conventional assessment. In less than 24 hours, they have:

• Reorganized the local economy (iron dagger market collapse, cabbage shortage) • Altered social dynamics (rivals Sven and Faendal now united in shared bewilderment) • Created what appears to be a rudimentary navigational system using vegetable markers • Established a pattern of "borrowing" and "redistributing" items that might generously be called "trade"

Most concerning is the pattern emerging in the subject's behavior. There is method to the madness—a consistency to the chaos. The ritualistic arrangement of daggers around the forge, the precise spacing of cabbages along the road to Whiterun, the deliberate exchange of personal items between rivals—these aren't random acts.

They're systematic.

Almost like someone completing a mental checklist.

If this individual is truly Dragonborn, what does it mean for the prophecy? For Alduin's return? For our plans regarding the Thalmor?

The subject's path leads to Whiterun, as does the reported dragon sighting. Jarl Balgruuf is a cautious leader, unlikely to commit to either Imperial or Stormcloak causes without significant pressure. How will he react to a potential Dragonborn who communicates primarily through cabbage arrangement and boot theft?

I should make preparations to travel to Whiterun myself. Discreetly. The dragon's appearance near the city cannot be coincidence, and if this strange Nord truly possesses the Thu'um without training...

Initial skepticism aside, I'm beginning to consider the unthinkable possibility: our bizarre visitor might actually be the prophesied Last Dragonborn. And if so, I need to determine whether they're an asset to be cultivated or a liability to be managed.

Either way, I suspect the road ahead will be lined with more than just cabbages.

—Delphine

***

Addendum: Local economy already adapting. Lucan Valerius has increased cabbage prices by 200%. Alvor discussing "tourist rates" for his forge. Orgnar reports highest mead sales in months as villagers attempt to "drink away the confusion."

If nothing else, chaos is good for business.

Chapter Text

OFFICIAL INCIDENT REPORT
**Hold:** Whiterun
**Guard Reporting:** Bjorn Iron-Eye, Western Watchtower Patrol
**Date:** 19th of Last Seed, 4E 201
**Time: Morning**

The early morning sun crested the eastern mountains, washing the plains of Whiterun Hold in gold. Bjorn Iron-Eye stood at his post beside the main gate, savoring the last few minutes of his night shift. The familiar weight of his yellow-painted iron armor pressed comfortably against his shoulders, the chainmail beneath clinking softly with each breath. At thirty-two, he had served the Whiterun Guard for nearly a decade, and morning guard change was as much a part of his routine as breathing.

He reached up to adjust his horned helmet, the metal cool against his calloused fingers. Unlike many of his fellow guards who had taken arrows to various body parts over the years, Bjorn's career had been mercifully free of major injuries. A methodical man with a square jaw and eyes the color of steel, he had earned his nickname not from battle but from his unerring ability to spot trouble before it reached the city gates.

And on this particular morning, trouble was approaching from the east.

Bjorn squinted against the rising sun, focusing on the figure making its way up the cobblestone path from the stables. Every instinct honed through years of guard duty immediately began firing warning signals in his mind.

"Gren," he muttered to his fellow guard. "You seeing this?"

Gren, a younger guard with perpetually sleepy eyes, straightened from his slouched position against the wall. "By the Eight... what is that?"

What indeed. Bjorn had expected to transfer his duties to the day shift, file his report, and enjoy a mug of ale before sleeping until his next night patrol. Instead, he found himself watching the approach of what could only be described as a mobile catastrophe.

A Nord of indeterminate gender was making their way toward the gate, moving in an inexplicable crouched position despite being in open terrain. This alone would have been unusual, but what truly defied comprehension was their mode of transport—a makeshift cart constructed from what appeared to be barrel staves, chair legs, and pieces of a waterwheel. The cart was piled impossibly high with... cabbages. Dozens of cabbages, arranged in a precarious tower that swayed with each step.

Surrounding the vegetable tower was an assortment of items that made absolutely no logical sense together: iron daggers (at least thirty), mismatched boots (none in pairs), cooking pots, brooms, and what looked suspiciously like every plate from someone's kitchen.

"Hold there!" Bjorn called as the stranger approached, his voice carrying the practiced authority of a veteran guard. "City's closed with the dragons about. Official business only."

The stranger stopped and straightened from their crouch. For a moment, they simply stared at Bjorn with disconcerting intensity, head tilted slightly like a curious bird. Their eyes, a pale, unnerving blue, seemed to look through him rather than at him.

"News from Helgen," they said finally, their voice surprisingly soft and clear for someone dragging what appeared to be half of Riverwood's household goods. "About the dragon attack."

Bjorn exchanged glances with Gren. Rumors had been swirling for days about Helgen's destruction, but official confirmation had been scarce.

"You were at Helgen?" Bjorn asked, skepticism evident in his tone. "You saw this dragon yourself?"

The stranger nodded once, sharply.

Before Bjorn could continue his questioning, the Nord abruptly abandoned their cart and sprinted—still in a crouch—not toward the gate, but toward the adjacent city wall. With astonishing agility that defied the laws of physics, they began attempting to scale the sheer stone surface by... jumping repeatedly against it.

"What in Oblivion are you doing?" Bjorn demanded, rushing over. "The gate is right here!"

The stranger paused in their jumping, turned to look at Bjorn as if noticing the gate for the first time, then promptly returned to their cart. With no explanation for their behavior, they began pushing it toward the entrance.

"I need to search that... whatever it is... before you enter," Bjorn said, professionalism struggling against bewilderment.

The Nord froze, then stared vacantly into the middle distance for precisely twenty-two seconds—Bjorn counted, increasingly unnerved—before suddenly snapping back to awareness. Without a word, they began removing items from the cart and placing them on the ground in a perfect circle: twenty-seven cabbages, thirteen iron daggers, four brooms, an impressive collection of utensils, and what appeared to be a golden ornament shaped like a dragon's claw.

"What's all this, then?" Gren asked, poking at one of the daggers with his foot.

"Helgen news," the stranger repeated, as if this explained everything.

Bjorn ran a hand over his face, suddenly feeling the fatigue of his night shift. "Look, if you have news for the Jarl, I can let you in. But this..." he gestured at the elaborate display of random items, "cannot come into the city."

The stranger considered this for a moment, head tilted, then nodded once. In a flurry of movement that Bjorn's eyes could barely track, they somehow managed to transfer the entire collection of items onto their person. Cabbages disappeared into pouches that couldn't possibly be large enough to contain them. Daggers vanished into sleeves and boots. The golden claw was tucked into a belt. Within seconds, the visible evidence of their hoard had vanished, yet their physical appearance seemed completely unchanged.

Bjorn blinked several times, wondering if the lack of sleep was causing him to hallucinate. "How did you—"

"Helgen news," the stranger said for a third time, now standing expectantly before the gate, as if the previous exchange had been entirely normal.

With a deep sigh that seemed to emanate from his very soul, Bjorn nodded to Gren to open the gate. "Fine. But I'll be keeping an eye on you. Straight to Dragonsreach, understand? The Jarl will want to hear your news."

The stranger nodded again, then immediately dropped back into a crouch as the gates swung open, revealing the streets of Whiterun beyond.

"May the gods help us all," Bjorn muttered under his breath as he followed the peculiar visitor into the city. His shift, it seemed, was not yet over.

***

The Plains District of Whiterun unfolded before them, a maze of thatched-roof buildings and cobblestone streets bathed in the warm light of the morning sun. The scent of fresh bread from the nearby market mingled with the earthy smell of horses from the nearby stables. Blacksmith hammers rang out from Warmaiden's forge, providing a rhythmic backdrop to the general bustle of citizens beginning their day.

Under normal circumstances, Bjorn loved this time of morning in Whiterun. The city coming to life, honest folk beginning honest work, the promise of order and routine that made his job worthwhile.

These were not normal circumstances.

The strange Nord moved through the streets in that bizarre crouched position, darting from shadow to shadow despite being in full view of everyone. Citizens paused in their morning routines to stare. Conversations halted mid-sentence. A child pointed, only to have his hand gently pushed down by his embarrassed mother.

"Strange one, isn't he?" commented Adrianne Avenicci as Bjorn passed her forge. The Imperial blacksmith wiped sweat from her brow, her leather apron stained with soot and her strong arms bearing the marks of her trade. "Or she? Can't quite tell from here."

"Refugee from Helgen, apparently," Bjorn replied, keeping his eyes fixed on the visitor who was now examining a chicken with alarming intensity. "Bringing news to the Jarl."

"Helgen? Then the rumors are true?" Adrianne's expression sobered. Her father Proventus served as the Jarl's steward, so news of political importance always caught her attention.

"So they claim," Bjorn said. "Though I'd take anything they say with a grain of—hey! Don't do that!"

The Nord had picked up the chicken and was now attempting to place it atop the head of a passing guard. The guard, a new recruit whose name Bjorn couldn't recall, was spinning in confused circles trying to dislodge both the bird and the stranger's surprisingly firm grip.

"Put the chicken down!" Bjorn commanded, striding over with his hand on the hilt of his sword. "Now!"

The stranger looked at him, then at the chicken, then back at him. With apparent reluctance, they released the bird, which flapped away indignantly in a cloud of feathers.

"To Dragonsreach," Bjorn reminded them firmly. "The Jarl is waiting."

The Nord nodded and resumed their journey, but their progress was immediately halted as they caught sight of the marketplace ahead. Like a hound catching a scent, their entire demeanor changed. They froze, head tilted, eyes widening with what Bjorn could only describe as predatory interest.

"No," he said, recognizing the look. "No, no, no. We're going to Dragonsreach. Not the market. Not the—"

But his words fell on deaf ears. The stranger was already sprint-crouching toward the market stalls, moving with alarming speed for someone in such an awkward position.

Bjorn cursed and broke into a jog after them, the weight of his armor suddenly feeling much heavier than it had a few minutes ago. This was definitely not how he had planned to end his shift.

By the time he reached the marketplace, chaos had already taken root. The Nord was systematically moving from stall to stall, picking up one—and only one—of every item for sale. They examined each object with intense focus before either returning it slightly off-center from its original position or adding it to their mysterious inventory.

Carlotta Valentia, the produce vendor, was watching with a mixture of confusion and commercial interest as the stranger examined an apple with the intensity usually reserved for rare gems.

"That'll be two septims," she said when they seemed satisfied with their inspection.

Without a word, the Nord reached into a pouch and produced... not coins, but a single iron dagger, which they placed carefully on Carlotta's stall.

"I don't... that's not..." Carlotta looked to Bjorn for assistance.

"You need to pay with actual money," Bjorn explained, feeling like he was speaking to a child. "Gold. Septims."

The stranger tilted their head, apparently considering this foreign concept. After another of those unnervingly still pauses, they reached into yet another pouch and produced a handful of flawless gemstones—garnets, amethysts, and even a small diamond.

Carlotta's eyes widened. "That's... far more than the apple is worth."

The Nord nodded as if this was perfectly reasonable, collected their gemstones, and then produced a single gold coin which they handed to Carlotta with solemn ceremony.

"Thank you," Carlotta said carefully, as one might speak to an unpredictable animal. "Would you like a bag for your... is that the only apple you're buying?"

But the stranger had already moved on to Fralia Gray-Mane's jewelry stall. The elderly Nord woman, with her weathered face and silver hair pulled back in a traditional braid, greeted them with the practiced warmth of a lifelong merchant.

"Lovely day for business, isn't it? Can I interest you in a necklace? A ring perhaps?"

The stranger stared at Fralia for an uncomfortable moment, then abruptly reached out and patted the top of her head three times before moving on to examine her merchandise.

"Oh my," Fralia said, smoothing her hair with a bewildered expression. "Well, that's... different."

Bjorn felt a headache building behind his eyes. "I apologize for their behavior, Fralia. They're bringing news from Helgen to the Jarl."

"Helgen? Oh, my. Is it true then? About the dragon?"

Before Bjorn could answer, a commotion erupted from across the marketplace. The stranger had moved on to Anoriath's meat stall and was now attempting to arrange every cut of venison into a precarious tower while the Bosmer butcher looked on in horror.

"Stop that!" Anoriath protested, his wood elf features contorted with indignation. "That's fresh game! You can't just—"

The Nord ignored him, continuing their meat architecture with the focus of a master sculptor. When the final piece was placed—a rabbit haunch balanced precariously atop a venison chop—they stepped back, nodded once in apparent satisfaction, and dropped a flawless ruby onto Anoriath's cutting board.

The Bosmer's protest died in his throat as he stared at the gemstone. "Is this... payment?"

"I think so," Bjorn said, approaching cautiously. "They seem to have an unusual understanding of commerce."

"They can stack my entire inventory if they pay like that," Anoriath murmured, carefully pocketing the ruby.

Bjorn turned back to the stranger, who had now moved on to Belethor's General Goods. The Breton shopkeeper had emerged from his store, drawn by the commotion, and was watching with undisguised suspicion as the Nord examined the wares displayed outside his shop.

"Everything's for sale, my friend. Everything," Belethor announced, his perpetual sales pitch seemingly automatic. "If I had a sister, I'd sell her in a second."

The stranger paused in their examination of a cast iron pot, fixing Belethor with a long, unnerving stare. Then, with deliberate slowness, they placed the pot upside-down on the merchant's head.

"Hey! What are you—" Belethor's protests were muffled by the pot as he struggled to remove it.

Bjorn moved quickly to intervene, but before he could reach them, the Nord had already entered Belethor's shop. By the time Bjorn helped remove the pot from the Breton's head and followed inside, the stranger was methodically removing every item from every shelf, examining each one, and then either replacing it or adding it to their collection.

"Stop them!" Belethor cried, his normally slick demeanor completely abandoned. "They're rearranging my entire inventory!"

Indeed, what had once been a logically organized shop now resembled the aftermath of a carefully calculated whirlwind. Items had been grouped not by type or value, but by some incomprehensible system that seemed to involve color, size, and possibly alphabetical order—though not in any alphabet Bjorn recognized.

"That's enough," Bjorn said firmly, placing a hand on the stranger's shoulder. "You said you had news for the Jarl. It's time to deliver it."

The Nord looked at him, then at the soul gem they were currently holding, then back at him. After another of those calculated pauses, they nodded, placed the soul gem atop a precariously balanced tower of inkwells, and moved toward the door.

"Wait!" Belethor called. "Are you buying anything or just... redecorating?"

The stranger turned, considered the question, then reached into their pouch and withdrew what appeared to be a human skull. They placed it on Belethor's counter with reverent care.

"I don't... that's not... I can't accept that as payment," Belethor stammered, his merchant's composure completely shattered.

The Nord tilted their head, then replaced the skull with three flawless sapphires.

"On second thought," Belethor said, his mercantile instincts resurging, "feel free to redecorate anytime." He scooped up the gems with practiced speed.

Bjorn took advantage of the momentary calm to guide the stranger back outside. "To Dragonsreach," he said firmly. "Now. The Jarl is waiting."

To his surprise, the Nord nodded agreement and began moving up the stone steps toward the Wind District, their bizarre crouching gait drawing stares from every passerby.

Bjorn followed close behind, ignoring the questioning looks from his fellow guards. He had a job to do, and despite the mounting absurdity of the situation, he was determined to see it through with professional detachment.

Though perhaps, he reflected as the stranger paused to place a cabbage on the head of Heimskr's Talos statue, "professional detachment" might be asking too much.

***

The Wind District of Whiterun lay before them, a more affluent area centered around the ancient tree known as the Gildergreen. Its pale pink blossoms drifted lazily in the morning breeze, creating a gentle rain of petals that contrasted with the stone and timber of the surrounding buildings. The scent of flowers mingled with the smell of fresh-baked goods from nearby homes, and the sound of Heimskr's preaching echoed off the stone walls.

"Talos the mighty! Talos the unerring! Talos the unassailable!" The priest's fervent voice carried across the district as he delivered his daily sermon beneath the statue of Talos. Clad in simple robes with his arms raised to the heavens, Heimskr's zeal attracted few regular listeners but could be heard by all.

"But you were once man! Aye! And as man, you said, 'Let me show you the power of Talos Stormcrown—'"

The preacher's words cut off abruptly as a cabbage struck him squarely in the chest. Bjorn turned in horror to see the Nord standing in a perfect throwing stance, arm extended in follow-through.

"FUS!" they had shouted just before release, the strange word seeming to propel the vegetable with unnatural force.

Heimskr staggered backward, more from surprise than injury. "What in the name of Talos—?!"

"I did not see that," Bjorn announced loudly, grabbing the stranger's arm and pulling them along before any of the other guards could properly react. "I did not see anything at all."

Heimskr's outraged shouts followed them as Bjorn dragged the Nord up the steps toward the Cloud District and Dragonsreach. The imposing palace loomed ahead, its ancient Nordic architecture a testament to Whiterun's history and importance.

"Listen to me," Bjorn said urgently, stopping at the top of the steps. "You cannot—I repeat, cannot—throw vegetables at anyone in the Jarl's palace. Understand? No cabbages. No weird arrangements. No putting buckets on people's heads. This is the Jarl of Whiterun we're talking about."

The stranger stared at him for a long moment, then nodded solemnly.

Bjorn wasn't convinced, but he had little choice. "Alright then. Follow me, and behave."

The great doors to Dragonsreach opened with a groan of ancient hinges, revealing the grand hall beyond. Towering wooden columns supported a vaulted ceiling, with enormous hearths casting golden light over the polished wooden floors. Banners bearing the emblem of Whiterun—a horse's head—hung from the rafters, swaying gently in the currents of warm air.

The scent of beeswax and pine smoke filled the hall, mingling with the aroma of roasting meat from the long dining table that dominated the central space. Guards in Whiterun yellow stood at attention along the walls, their eyes following the strange visitor with practiced vigilance.

At the far end of the hall, elevated on a dais beneath the mounted skull of Numinex the dragon, sat Jarl Balgruuf the Greater upon his throne. The Jarl was deep in conversation with his steward, Proventus Avenicci, seemingly unaware of the approaching visitors.

"Remember," Bjorn whispered to the Nord. "Best behavior."

The stranger nodded again, but there was something in their eyes—a gleam that Bjorn was coming to recognize as the precursor to chaos—that made his stomach tighten with dread.

Too late to turn back now. They approached the throne, Bjorn maintaining a respectful distance while the Nord moved forward with unexpected grace, no longer crouching but walking normally for the first time since they'd arrived.

"My Jarl," Bjorn began formally. "This visitor brings news from Helgen, about the dragon attack."

Jarl Balgruuf looked up, his conversation with Proventus immediately forgotten. A tall Nord with the bearing of a warrior despite his fine clothes, Balgruuf's blond hair and beard showed traces of gray, and the lines of his face spoke of both laughter and concern. His intelligent eyes assessed the stranger with careful diplomacy.

"So," he said, leaning forward slightly, "you were at Helgen? You saw this dragon with your own eyes?"

The stranger nodded, and for a moment, Bjorn dared to hope that this might proceed normally after all.

Then, without warning, the Nord reached into their seemingly bottomless inventory and began withdrawing cheese wheels. One after another, they emerged—goat cheese, eidar cheese, wheels of every variety available in Skyrim—and were carefully stacked at the foot of the Jarl's throne.

One.

Two.

Three.

By the tenth wheel, the Jarl's diplomatic expression had transformed into open bewilderment. By the twenty-fifth, Irileth, the Jarl's Dunmer housecarl, had drawn her sword halfway from its sheath, clearly unsure if this constituted a threat. By the fiftieth, a complete silence had fallen over Dragonsreach, broken only by the soft thud of each new cheese wheel being added to the growing monument.

Irileth’s eyes narrowed. “That cloak... it has no depth.”

Farengar muttered, shaking his head at the sheer absurdity of it, “At this point, I suspect their cloak may be stitched from metaphysical loopholes.”

Delphine would’ve nodded solemnly, had she been present.

When the stack reached Bjorn's height—over sixty wheels by his increasingly desperate count—the stranger finally stopped, stepped back, and regarded their creation with solemn satisfaction.

"The dragon," they said simply, gesturing to the cheese tower as if it somehow explained everything.

Bjorn closed his eyes briefly, wondering if this was all an elaborate nightmare brought on by too many night shifts. When he opened them again, the Jarl was looking directly at him, a silent demand for explanation in his gaze.

"I... they... we..." Bjorn stammered, all professional detachment abandoning him.

The Jarl held up a hand, silencing Bjorn's incoherent attempt at explanation. With remarkable composure, he returned his attention to the strange visitor.

"Tell me about Helgen," he said, as if there wasn't a monument of dairy products obscuring half his view. "What exactly happened there?”

Jarl Balgruuf the Greater had ruled Whiterun Hold for seventeen years. In that time, he had navigated grain disputes, bandit raids, civil war tensions, and the delicate politics of remaining neutral in a province increasingly divided by Imperial and Stormcloak loyalties. He prided himself on his ability to remain composed in the face of crisis, to assess situations with the measured patience of a ruler who understood that hasty decisions led to lasting consequences.

None of his experience, however, had prepared him for the spectacle currently unfolding in his throne room.

The stranger stood beside their tower of cheese wheels, apparently waiting for further prompting. Their pale blue eyes never blinked, and there was something in their steady gaze that made Balgruuf think of predatory birds—focused, alien, and utterly unpredictable.

"My Jarl," Proventus whispered urgently from his right side. "Perhaps we should have this person... evaluated by a healer before proceeding."

Irileth, ever vigilant at his left, kept her hand on her sword hilt. "This could be a distraction," the Dunmer warned, her red eyes narrowed with suspicion. "A Stormcloak trick."

Balgruuf considered both suggestions, then dismissed them with a subtle shake of his head. There was something about this visitor—beyond the obvious eccentricity—that demanded attention. A presence that even the mountain of cheese couldn't diminish.

"Tell me about Helgen," he repeated, keeping his voice steady and commanding. "Was the dragon really there, or are these just rumors?"

The Nord nodded emphatically. "Black dragon. Larger than the buildings. Fire and death." Their words were clipped but clear, delivered with surprising intensity. "Destroyed everything. Escaped with Imperial soldier. Had to use plates as weapons."

"Plates?" Proventus echoed, his perfectly groomed eyebrows rising toward his receding hairline.

The stranger reached into their apparent void of an inventory and produced a stack of dinner plates, which they placed carefully atop the cheese monument.

"Effective," they explained.

Balgruuf fought to maintain his composure. A lifetime of Nordic stoicism was being tested to its limits. "And where was this dragon headed after Helgen?"

The stranger pointed northward, directly toward Whiterun.

A chill ran down Balgruuf's spine. He had spent days dismissing rumors, assuring his people that the stories from Helgen were exaggerated. If a dragon truly was headed toward his city...

"That's... troubling," he said, master of understatement. "Irileth, we should send reinforcements to Riverwood immediately. They're defenseless if that dragon decides to attack."

"At once, my Jarl," the Dunmer replied, her tone professional despite the absurdity surrounding them.

As Irileth moved to carry out his orders, the strange Nord suddenly leapt onto the long dining table that stretched down the center of the great hall. With surprising agility, they began jumping up and down, landing with precise, deliberate thumps.

"What are they doing now?" Proventus hissed, scandalized.

Balgruuf watched, equal parts fascinated and appalled, as the stranger hopped from one end of the massive table to the other, sending goblets toppling and platters clattering. Every few jumps, they would pause, tilt their head as if listening for something, then resume their bouncing with renewed vigor.

"Testing," the Nord explained mid-jump, apparently noticing Balgruuf's stare. "Solid construction. Good table."

"I... thank you?" Balgruuf responded, diplomacy failing him for perhaps the first time in his ruling career.

The guard who had escorted them—Bjorn, if Balgruuf recalled correctly—looked as if he wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole. "I apologize, my Jarl," he began. "They've been... unusual... since they arrived."

"I can see that," Balgruuf replied dryly.

The stranger, apparently satisfied with their table assessment, hopped down and immediately moved to the wall where the Jarl's ceremonial weapons were displayed. Before anyone could intervene, they began rearranging the ancient war axes and swords with surprising efficiency, grouping them by size and color rather than their historical significance.

"Stop that at once!" Proventus cried, rushing forward. "Those are priceless heirlooms!"

The Nord ignored him, continuing their reorganization with methodical precision. When Proventus attempted to physically intervene, they simply sidestepped him with practiced ease, never pausing in their work.

Balgruuf watched this unfold, a strange realization dawning on him. The visitor's movements weren't random or chaotic—they were purposeful, following some internal logic that made perfect sense to them, if to no one else. It reminded him of something he'd witnessed long ago, during a diplomatic visit to High Hrothgar...

"Let them be, Proventus," he said suddenly, raising a hand to halt his steward's protests. "They're not damaging anything, merely... rearranging."

"But my Jarl—"

"I said let them be."

Proventus subsided, though his expression suggested he was mentally cataloging every misplaced weapon for later correction.

After a few more minutes of intensive reorganization, the stranger stepped back, nodded with apparent satisfaction, and returned their attention to Balgruuf. The weapons now formed a pattern that, from the Jarl's angle, resembled... was that a dragon? The hilts and blades had been positioned to create the silhouette of a winged beast, breathing fire toward the eastern wall.

"Clever," Balgruuf acknowledged, genuinely impressed despite himself. "You've made your point about the dragon threatening Whiterun. Is there anything else you can tell us about it?"

"Alduin," the stranger said, the name falling like a stone in a still pond. "World-Eater."

A murmur ran through the great hall. Even Proventus paled at the name, drawn from Nordic legend and prophecy. Alduin, the destroyer foretold to devour the world at the end of time.

"That's... a serious claim," Balgruuf said carefully. "You believe this dragon is Alduin himself? From the ancient legends?"

The stranger nodded once, emphatically.

Balgruuf ran a hand through his beard, a habit from his younger days that emerged only in moments of deep thought. If this was true—if Alduin had truly returned—then the implications went far beyond the security of Whiterun. This was a threat to all of Skyrim, perhaps all of Tamriel.

"Farengar," he called to his court wizard, who had been watching the proceedings with scholarly interest from the doorway of his study. "A word, please."

Farengar Secret-Fire approached, his blue robes swishing against the polished floor. A hood obscured much of his face, but his intense curiosity was evident in the set of his shoulders and the tilt of his head. The wizard's chambers always smelled of parchment and unusual alchemical experiments, a scent that followed him as he moved to stand before the Jarl.

"Yes, my Jarl?" he inquired, his eyes never leaving the stranger.

"Tell me, what do you make of our... unusual visitor's claims? Alduin, returned?"

Farengar's lips pursed beneath his hood. "The return of Alduin is foretold in multiple prophecies, my Jarl. The World-Eater, first-born of Akatosh, destined to devour the world. But the same prophecies also speak of the Last Dragonborn, destined to face him."

At the word "Dragonborn," the stranger's head snapped toward Farengar with alarming speed. They stared at the wizard with renewed intensity, as if he'd suddenly started speaking in a language only they understood.

"Interesting," Farengar murmured, noting the reaction. "Very interesting."

Balgruuf considered this development with careful political calculation. If dragons were truly returning—if Alduin himself had been sighted—then having someone knowledgeable about these matters could prove invaluable. And something about this strange visitor, despite their peculiar behavior, suggested they might be more connected to these events than simple chance.

"You've done Whiterun a service by bringing this news," Balgruuf said formally, addressing the stranger. "We are in your debt."

The Nord nodded, then abruptly crouched down and began examining the pattern in the wooden floor with intense focus.

Balgruuf continued, determined to maintain the dignity of court procedure despite the circumstances. "There is perhaps another way you could help us. Farengar has been researching dragons, and he may have a task suited to your... unique abilities."

Farengar stepped forward eagerly. "Indeed! You seem like someone who gets things done. I need someone to fetch something for me, from Bleak Falls Barrow—a dragon stone, said to contain a map of ancient dragon burial sites."

At the mention of Bleak Falls Barrow, the stranger suddenly straightened and produced from their inventory what appeared to be a crudely drawn map with paw prints marked along a winding path. They held it out to Farengar with solemn purpose.

The wizard took it, examining the markings with confusion. "This is... a map of Bleak Falls Barrow? With... are these supposed to be cat tracks?"

The stranger nodded enthusiastically.

"Well, yes, the barrow is what I'm interested in," Farengar continued, "but specifically, I need the Dragonstone. It's likely interred in the main chamber—a large stone tablet engraved with a map. Ancient Nords were known to bury these tablets as keys to where dragons were interred."

The stranger tilted their head, considering this information. Then, without warning, they darted toward Farengar's study, moving with such speed that neither the wizard nor the guards could intercept them.

"Stop!" Farengar called, rushing after them. "Those are delicate experiments!"

Balgruuf rose from his throne, his diplomatic patience finally beginning to fray. "Guard," he addressed Bjorn, who looked like he was developing a tension headache, "please ensure our visitor doesn't destroy anything irreplaceable."

"Yes, my Jarl," Bjorn replied with the resigned tone of a man who had already accepted that his day was destined for disaster.

By the time they reached Farengar's study, the stranger was already balanced precariously atop the highest bookshelf, examining the wizard's soul gem collection with fascination. Papers lay scattered across the floor, and several books had been rearranged by color rather than subject.

"Get down from there!" Farengar demanded, his scholarly composure abandoned completely in the face of the chaos spreading in his office.

The Nord stared down at Farengar from their bookshelf perch, head tilted in apparent confusion at his distress. With the deliberate slowness of a cat choosing whether to obey a command, they finally descended—not by climbing down, but by performing an implausibly athletic leap that landed them silently on the wizard's desk, somehow managing not to disturb a single inkwell.

"My research!" Farengar lamented, rushing to collect scattered papers. "Do you have any idea how long it took to organize these notes?"

The stranger watched his frantic gathering with obvious interest, then promptly began to help—though their idea of "helping" involved categorizing the papers by size and shape rather than content, creating neat piles that made absolutely no academic sense.

"No, no, NO," Farengar groaned, rescuing a crucial translation from being paired with a grocery list. "Please, just... don't touch anything else."

Björn stood in the doorway, his expression that of a man who had long since passed the boundaries of normal guard duty and now found himself in uncharted territory. "Perhaps," he suggested wearily, "we could return to the matter of the Dragonstone?"

"Yes," Farengar agreed, clutching his rescued papers protectively to his chest. "The Dragonstone. As I was saying, I need someone to retrieve it from Bleak Falls Barrow. The tablet is ancient, probably interred within the burial chamber. If you could—"

His words cut off abruptly as the stranger reached into their seemingly bottomless inventory and produced a gleaming golden claw.

Farengar's eyes widened beneath his hood. "That's... a dragon claw? An actual Nordic puzzle key?" His academic enthusiasm momentarily overrode his distress. "Where did you get this? These are extraordinarily rare!"

"Riverwood," the Nord replied simply.

"Riverwood? But the only—wait. This resembles the claw that merchant mentioned. The one that was stolen from his shop recently." Farengar's voice took on a suspicious edge. "How exactly did you come to possess it?"

The stranger stared at him blankly, then carefully placed the claw on the desk between them.

"Quest," they explained, as if this one word clarified everything.

"I... see." Farengar glanced at Björn, who shrugged helplessly. "Well, regardless of how you acquired it, this claw will be essential for navigating the barrow. The inner chambers of such places are typically sealed with puzzle doors that require these claws as keys."

The Nord nodded knowingly.

"You seem... oddly prepared for this task," Farengar observed. "As if you were already planning to explore the barrow."

Again, the stranger nodded, this time producing the crude map they had shown earlier, now with additional markings that might have been intended to represent the interior of the ruins.

Farengar studied it with the practiced eye of a scholar accustomed to interpreting unusual documents. "This is... surprisingly accurate, if somewhat unconventionally rendered. You've even marked the location where the Dragonstone is likely to be found."

"Dragonborn," the stranger said suddenly, pointing to a drawing that might have been meant to represent either a dragon or a particularly lumpy cabbage.

"Dragonborn?" Farengar repeated, his academic interest visibly intensifying. "Are you suggesting the Dragonstone has something to do with the Dragonborn of legend?"

The Nord didn't respond verbally, but their intense stare seemed confirmation enough.

"Fascinating," Farengar murmured, stroking his chin through his hood. "Simply fascinating. The timing is certainly suggestive—dragons returning, ancient prophecies stirring, and now this connection to the Dragonborn legend."

Throughout this exchange, Björn noticed that Jarl Balgruuf had been observing from the doorway, his expression thoughtful. The Jarl caught the guard's eye and motioned him over with a subtle gesture.

"What do you make of our visitor?" Balgruuf asked quietly as Björn approached, keeping his voice low enough that Farengar and the stranger wouldn't overhear.

Björn hesitated, uncertain how to respond. Guard training hadn't covered situations like this. "They're... unusual, my Jarl. But not hostile, I think. Just... operating by different rules than the rest of us."

"Indeed," Balgruuf agreed, his eyes never leaving the Nord who was now attempting to balance a soul gem on top of Farengar's inkwell. "There's something about them... something beyond mere eccentricity."

"My Jarl?"

Balgruuf stroked his beard thoughtfully. "In my grandfather's time, there was a monk from High Hrothgar who visited Whiterun. A master of the Voice who communed with the sky and spoke rarely to men. He behaved strangely too—arranging items by patterns only he could see, collecting seemingly worthless objects, moving in ways that defied explanation."

"Like our visitor," Björn observed.

"Yes. The old stories say those touched by the dragons sometimes walk different paths, see the world through different eyes." Balgruuf's gaze was distant now, remembering tales told around childhood fires. "I wonder..."

Their conversation was interrupted by a sudden crash from within the study. The stranger had apparently decided that Farengar's alchemical apparatus would look better arranged in a perfect circle on the floor and was in the process of completing this vision.

"My experiments!" Farengar cried, diving to save a particularly volatile mixture. "Do you have any idea how dangerous these are?"

The Nord paused, head tilted, then carefully placed the beaker they were holding back on the desk—upside down, allowing its contents to pool across Farengar's notes.

Björn moved quickly, grasping the stranger's arm with more firmness than he'd dared use previously. "I think it's time we discussed your journey to Bleak Falls Barrow," he said, steering them firmly away from anything else breakable. "The sooner you retrieve the Dragonstone, the better for everyone."

To his surprise, the Nord nodded agreeably and allowed themselves to be led back to the main hall.

"You'll undertake this task for Whiterun, then?" Balgruuf asked, resuming his seat on the throne. "Find this Dragonstone in Bleak Falls Barrow?"

The stranger nodded, then made a series of gestures that seemed to indicate they were already familiar with the location and planned to depart immediately.

"Excellent," Balgruuf said, visibly relieved to have found a productive direction for the visitor's energy. "Farengar will provide you with any information you need. And of course, you'll be rewarded for your service to my city."

At the mention of rewards, the Nord's head snapped up with sudden interest.

"Yes," Balgruuf continued, noting their reaction, "complete this task successfully, and Whiterun will be in your debt. Perhaps we might even find you a place here, should you wish it."

The stranger considered this for a moment, then nodded solemnly, as if accepting a sacred charge rather than an errand to collect an old rock.

"Wonderful. Then it's settled." Balgruuf gestured to Proventus, who had been hovering anxiously near the cheese monument. "My steward will ensure you have supplies for your journey."

"My Jarl," Proventus began, eyeing the Nord with undisguised apprehension, "perhaps it would be best if I simply provided a list of available merchants in the city? Our visitor seems to have... unique shopping preferences."

"A fair point," Balgruuf conceded. "Guard, please ensure our guest finds what they need in the marketplace."

Björn suppressed a groan. Just when he thought his unusual duty was nearing its end, he was being sent back to the scene of earlier chaos. "Yes, my Jarl," he replied, maintaining a professional tone despite his internal despair.

As they prepared to depart, the Nord approached the cheese tower once more. For a moment, Björn feared they might start adding to it again, but instead, they simply placed a single perfect cabbage at its peak, like a bizarre architectural finial.

"For dragon," they explained to no one in particular, then turned and headed for the door, apparently ready to depart.

Balgruuf and Proventus exchanged glances that contained entire conversations about what to do with sixty wheels of cheese and a ceremonial cabbage. Farengar, meanwhile, hurried after the stranger with a stack of notes and additional instructions about the Dragonstone.

"Remember, it's likely in the central chamber!" the wizard called. "And the claw—the symbols on its palm are the key to the door! And if you find any other artifacts, don't disturb them without proper—"

But the Nord was already sprint-crouching down the length of the great hall, somehow moving faster in that bizarre position than most people could at a full run.

Björn hurried after them, acutely aware that the next few hours would likely involve watching someone purchase items through methods that defied conventional commerce, rearrange merchant inventories according to incomprehensible systems, and possibly throw more vegetables at religious figures.

Just another day in the Whiterun Guard.

***

The Plains District marketplace was approaching its midday bustle when Björn and the strange Nord returned. Villagers and travelers crowded around the stalls, the air filled with the mingled scents of fresh produce, tanned leather, and the metallic tang from Adrianne's forge. The cacophony of commerce—haggling voices, clinking coins, Carlotta shouting at Mikael to leave her alone—created a familiar symphony that normally brought Björn comfort.

Today, it filled him with dread.

"Listen," he said to the Nord as they approached the market, "I need you to promise me you'll actually purchase what you need for your journey. With coins. No more... unusual forms of payment. No rearranging people's entire inventory. And absolutely no throwing cabbages at anyone. Understood?"

The stranger considered this request with that unnervingly intense stare, then nodded once.

Björn wasn't convinced, but it was the best he could hope for. "Good. Now, what supplies do you need for your journey to Bleak Falls Barrow?"

The Nord pointed to Belethor's shop, then to Arcadia's Cauldron, the alchemy store.

"Alright, that seems reasonable," Björn said cautiously. "But remember what I said about—"

Too late. The stranger was already sprint-crouching toward Belethor's General Goods, moving with alarming speed for someone in such an awkward position.

Björn sighed and followed, hoping that the Breton shopkeeper had recovered from their earlier encounter. As he approached the store, however, he was surprised to see Belethor standing outside, practically bouncing with merchant's enthusiasm.

"Welcome back, honored customer!" the Breton called, gesturing the Nord inside with exaggerated courtesy. "Everything's still for sale!"

Björn raised an eyebrow. "You're... happy to see them again? After the rearranging?"

Belethor flashed a calculating smile. "Let's just say their unconventional payment methods more than made up for the... reorganization. Those gems they left behind were worth ten times the value of what they rearranged, and I've had more curious customers today than in the past month. Everyone wants to see the 'artistic' new layout."

Inside the shop, the Nord was once again examining items with meticulous attention, though this time they seemed more focused on practical supplies: healing potions, food, lockpicks, and a few soul gems that caught their eye.

To Björn's astonishment, when it came time to pay, the stranger produced an actual coin purse and counted out the exact amount in septims. Belethor looked almost disappointed.

"Are you sure you wouldn't prefer to trade some of those lovely gems instead?" the merchant suggested hopefully. "I could offer a much better value than mere coin."

The Nord considered this, then shook their head, apparently determined to follow Björn's instructions—at least regarding the method of payment.

From Belethor's, they moved on to Arcadia's Cauldron. The Imperial alchemist greeted them with professional courtesy, though her eyes widened slightly as she recognized the visitor who had been causing a stir throughout Whiterun.

"Looking for something specific?" she asked, adjusting her simple shopkeeper's clothes. Arcadia's store smelled of herbs and exotic ingredients, with dried plants hanging from the ceiling and bubbling concoctions simmering in the background.

The Nord proceeded to select a variety of ingredients—blue mountain flowers, wheat, butterfly wings—all of which made perfect sense for brewing healing potions. Then, inexplicably, they added a giant's toe, a troll fat, and a cluster of glowing mushrooms to their basket.

"Interesting combination," Arcadia commented with professional neutrality. "Planning some advanced alchemy?"

The stranger nodded enthusiastically.

"Well, be careful with the giant's toe. When combined with wheat, it can produce effects that—"

But the Nord was already placing coins on the counter, once again paying the exact amount without haggling. Arcadia counted the septims, then wrapped the ingredients carefully in separate paper parcels.

"That was... surprisingly normal," Björn observed as they exited the shop.

The stranger turned to him, and for the briefest moment, Björn could have sworn he saw a gleam of mischief in those otherworldly eyes. Then it was gone, replaced by the usual intense focus.

"Done shopping," they declared. "Bleak Falls Barrow now."

Björn nodded, relief washing over him. "Yes, excellent. I'll escort you to the gates."

As they made their way back through the market, Björn noticed something odd. Despite all the chaos the stranger had caused earlier, many of the vendors were watching them pass with expressions that contained more curiosity than apprehension. Even Carlotta offered a cautious wave, which the Nord acknowledged with a solemn nod.

People, it seemed, were already adjusting to the peculiar visitor. It was a testament to the resilience of Whiterun's citizens—or perhaps to the magnetic quality the stranger possessed, making even their strangest behaviors seem somehow acceptable after the initial shock wore off.

At the gates, Björn found himself unexpectedly reluctant to see the Nord leave. For all the trouble they'd caused, there was something compelling about their presence, something that made the world seem more... interesting.

"The path to Bleak Falls Barrow leads west from Riverwood," he explained, pointing in the appropriate direction. "Be careful up there. The ruins are likely filled with bandits, if not worse."

The Nord nodded, then fixed Björn with that unnervingly direct stare. "Thank you," they said, the words clear and surprisingly sincere.

Before Björn could respond, they reached into their mysterious inventory and produced a single iron dagger—clearly one of the many they had forged at Alvor's—and presented it to him with the formal gravity one might use when bestowing a kingdom's greatest honor.

"For you," they said solemnly. "Good guard."

Björn accepted the dagger, strangely touched by the gesture despite its oddity. "Thank you. I... wish you safe travels."

The Nord nodded once more, dropped into their characteristic crouch, and sprint-scuttled through the gates, heading west toward Riverwood and Bleak Falls Barrow beyond.

Björn watched until they disappeared from sight, the iron dagger still clutched in his hand. Then, with a shake of his head and a bemused smile, he turned back toward Whiterun to file what would certainly be the strangest guard report of his career.

***

OFFICIAL INCIDENT REPORT

Hold: Whiterun
Guard Reporting: Björn Iron-Eye, Western Watchtower Patrol
Date: 19th of Last Seed, 4E 201
Time: 1600 hours
Incident Classification: Visitor-Related Disturbance (Unclassified)
Incident Summary:

At approximately 0745 hours, an unidentified Nord (gender indeterminate) approached the Whiterun gates with news from Helgen. Subject displayed highly unusual behavior throughout their visit, including but not limited to:

Crouching while moving through open areas

Collecting and rearranging items according to incomprehensible patterns

Creating a tower of cheese wheels in the Jarl's throne room

Jumping on tables to "test" them

Paying for goods with gemstones rather than standard currency

Throwing vegetables at a priest of Talos

Climbing on bookshelves in the court wizard's quarters

Despite these disturbances, subject brought credible information regarding the dragon attack on Helgen and has undertaken a mission for the court wizard to retrieve an artifact from Bleak Falls Barrow.

Damages:
Property: Minimal. One alchemical experiment ruined, multiple inventories rearranged.
Personnel: No physical injuries. Significant psychological distress reported by Proventus Avenicci.
Public Order: Disruption to marketplace, religious services, and court proceedings.

Witness Statements:
Jarl Balgruuf: "An unusual visitor, certainly, but perhaps exactly what Whiterun needs in these troubled times."
Farengar Secret-Fire: "Touched by destiny, or simply touched in the head? Perhaps both."
Belethor: "Tell them they're welcome back anytime! ANYTIME!"
Heimskr: "The false gods send their agents to silence the truth about Talos!"

Attempted Interventions: Verbal redirection mostly unsuccessful. Subject responded best to clear, simple instructions, though adherence was inconsistent at best.

Recommendations: Should subject return to Whiterun, suggest the following protocols:
Remove all cabbage from their vicinity
Assign dedicated guard to prevent climbing of structures
Warn shopkeepers in advance
Prepare Jarl's hall by securing loose objects
Accept that some chaos is inevitable

Personal Addendum: In my ten years of service to the Whiterun Guard, I have never encountered anyone quite like this visitor. Their methods are bizarre, their behavior unfathomable, yet they accomplish their goals with surprising efficiency. If they do indeed return from Bleak Falls Barrow with the Dragonstone, I suspect Whiterun has not seen the last of their peculiar presence.

And I find myself strangely glad of it.

Whether this visitor is the salvation of Whiterun or its strangest problem remains to be seen. But I will say this: the world seems more interesting with them in it.

May Talos guide them safely—and may He protect the citizens of Whiterun should they return.

Björn Iron-Eye

***

That evening, long after the strange visitor had departed for Bleak Falls Barrow, Jarl Balgruuf the Greater stood alone on the Great Porch of Dragonsreach. The massive balcony extended out from the rear of the palace, offering a breathtaking view of the plains and mountains beyond. Originally designed to trap a dragon—as evidenced by the massive wooden harness that still dominated the structure—it now served as a place of quiet contemplation for Whiterun's ruler.

The crisp evening air carried the scent of pine from the distant mountains, mingling with the more immediate aromas of cooking fires and meaderies from the city below. Stars were beginning to appear in the darkening sky, casting a silver light across the wooden planking of the porch. In the distance, clouds gathered around the Throat of the World, the tallest mountain in Skyrim and home to the mysterious Greybeards.

Balgruuf's breath formed small clouds in the cool air as he gazed out over his hold. His hand rested on the smooth wooden railing, worn by generations of rulers who had stood in this same spot, contemplating the weight of their decisions. The wooden beams creaked softly in the evening breeze, a sound as familiar to him as his own heartbeat.

"Thought I might find you here," came a voice from behind him. Irileth, ever vigilant, moved to stand beside him at the railing. The Dunmer's red eyes gleamed in the twilight, her dark elven features set in their usual expression of alert readiness. "You always come to the porch when you have matters to consider."

Balgruuf smiled faintly. "Am I so predictable, old friend?"

"Only to those who know you well." Irileth's voice softened slightly, the professional edge giving way to the familiarity of decades of service. "The visitor, I presume?"

"Among other things." Balgruuf stroked his beard thoughtfully. "Dragons returning. Helgen destroyed. And now this... peculiar individual in our midst."

"They were certainly unlike any visitor we've had before," Irileth acknowledged, her tone carefully neutral. "Though whether that's good or ill remains to be seen."

Balgruuf turned to study his housecarl's expression. "You're suspicious of them."

"I'm suspicious of everyone, my Jarl. It's my job." A hint of a smile touched her lips. "But this one... I'm not sure the usual categories apply."

"How so?"

Irileth considered her words carefully. "Most threats I can categorize: assassins move a certain way, spies ask certain questions, thieves eye certain valuables. But this visitor... their chaos followed patterns I couldn't discern. Like reading a language where you recognize the letters but can't understand the words."

Balgruuf nodded, returning his gaze to the darkening landscape. "Yes. Exactly." He fell silent for a long moment before continuing. "Do you remember the stories my father used to tell? About the Tongues of old?"

"The warriors who could use the Voice?" Irileth's brow furrowed slightly. "What of them?"

"Not just the warriors. The true masters—those who devoted their lives to the Way of the Voice. They were said to see the world differently. Their minds became attuned to dragon speech in ways that changed how they perceived everything."

Understanding dawned in Irileth's eyes. "You think our visitor might be...?"

"Connected to the dragons somehow? Perhaps." Balgruuf sighed, his breath forming another small cloud. "Though whether as friend or foe, I cannot say. But there was something in their eyes—a clarity, a focus—that reminded me of the old tales."

"They did use a form of the Voice in the marketplace," Irileth noted. "Several witnesses reported hearing a shout before a cabbage nearly knocked Heimskr from his pulpit."

Despite the seriousness of the situation, a chuckle escaped Balgruuf's lips. "Yes, well... perhaps not all their actions were without merit."

Irileth allowed herself a smirk before her expression turned serious again. "If they are indeed connected to these dragon attacks—if there's even a chance they might be what the old stories call 'Dragonborn'—then their arrival in Whiterun can't be coincidence."

"Indeed." Balgruuf's hand tightened slightly on the railing. "Which is why I sent them to retrieve the Dragonstone. If Farengar is right about its importance, and if our visitor has some connection to these events..."

"Then we've either handed a powerful artifact to our greatest ally, or to a dangerous unknown," Irileth finished.

"Precisely." Balgruuf turned to face his housecarl fully. "Double the guards on the western watchtower. If a dragon truly is headed this way, I want as much warning as possible. And send scouts toward Bleak Falls Barrow—discreetly. I want to know the moment our visitor returns... or if they don't."

"At once, my Jarl." Irileth inclined her head, then hesitated. "And the... monument... in the great hall?"

Balgruuf's weathered face broke into a genuine smile. "Ah yes, the cheese tower. I've instructed the kitchen staff to make use of it. The orphanage and the temple will be well-supplied for weeks."

"And the cabbage on top?"

"That," Balgruuf said with surprising solemnity, "I've ordered preserved. Something tells me it might be wise to... humor our visitor's peculiarities, should they return."

Irileth raised an eyebrow but didn't question the decision. In her decades of service, she'd learned to trust the Jarl's instincts. "Very well. I'll see to the increased patrols immediately."

As the Dunmer departed, Balgruuf returned his gaze to the mountains, where Bleak Falls Barrow loomed as a dark silhouette against the night sky. Somewhere up there, the strangest visitor Whiterun had ever received was making their way through ancient Nordic ruins, potentially carrying answers to the mysteries that now threatened his hold.

"Gods guide you, strange one," he murmured to the distant darkness. "Whatever you are, whatever you seek... may your cabbage-throwing aim stay true."

***

In the guard barracks of Whiterun, Björn Iron-Eye finally completed his incident report, the ink still drying on the parchment as he sat back with a weary sigh. The other guards had listened to his tale with expressions ranging from disbelief to outright hilarity, and more than one wager had been placed on whether the strange visitor would actually return with the Dragonstone.

Björn found himself curiously certain they would. There was something indomitable about the Nord's chaos—a method to the madness that somehow produced results despite, or perhaps because of, their unconventional approaches.

He tucked the iron dagger they had given him into his belt, a peculiar memento of the strangest day of his guard career. Against all logic, he found himself looking forward to their return. Whiterun had never seemed so... interesting as it had today.

"To the Dragonborn," he murmured quietly, raising his mead in a private toast. "You walk like a monk... think like a goat, maybe. But there’s something there.” He mused, an amused grin on his face, “May the gods help us all when you return."

Little did he know just how prophetic those words would prove to be.

From down the barracks hallway, a guard whispered, “Next time they come back, I’m locking up all the cheese.”

Chapter Text

The icy mountain wind howled through the crumbling stone archways of Bleak Falls Barrow, carrying with it the promise of an early winter. Jagged peaks loomed against the darkening sky, their snow-capped silhouettes cutting into the fading sunlight like the teeth of some great beast. The ancient Nordic tomb's massive entrance—a series of crumbling stone arches wider than most city gates—yawned into the mountainside, an open maw ready to swallow the unwary.

Hafnar Iron-Fist's breath formed small clouds in the frigid air as he paced the worn stone path leading to the barrow's entrance. The Nord bandit adjusted his fur armor, grateful for its warmth against the biting cold that seemed to seep into his very bones. His weathered face, crisscrossed with scars from a lifetime of poor decisions, was set in an expression of irritable boredom. Three days of guard duty outside this cursed tomb, and the only visitors had been snowfall and the occasional wolf.

"Another thrilling day in paradise," he muttered, stamping his feet to keep the blood flowing. The iron mace at his hip clanked against his leg armor, a comforting weight that had seen him through countless skirmishes.

"Quit your complaining," Bjorn called from his position by the fire. The smaller bandit had his back against one of the stone pillars, idly flipping a dagger between his fingers. The blade caught the firelight as it spun, reflecting tiny points of orange against the darkening stone. "At least we're not inside that miserable hole with Arvel."

"True enough," Hafnar conceded, glancing at the towering stone doors that led deeper into the barrow. "Been what, two days since he went in? Probably got himself killed by now."

"Or worse," Bjorn chuckled darkly. "Soling said something about giant spiders in the lower chambers."

The handful of bandits who had claimed Bleak Falls Barrow as their hideout had set up a modest camp just inside the entrance—close enough to shelter from the elements, but not so deep that they risked whatever ancient Nordic horrors lurked within the tomb's depths. The scent of their cooking fire mingled with the damp, musty smell of ancient stone and the sharper tang of unwashed bodies.

Hafnar resumed his pacing, the leather of his boots scraping against the worn stone steps. The cold bit at his exposed cheeks, and he pulled his fur hood closer around his face. He'd joined this crew for easy coin and relatively safe shelter, not to freeze his arse off guarding a door that nobody ever approached.

"Hey," Bjorn said suddenly, straightening up and squinting down the mountain path. "You see that?"

Hafnar turned, following his companion's gaze. In the fading daylight, a figure was making its way up the winding path toward the barrow. No, not walking—crouching, moving in an awkward, half-bent position that made no sense in the open terrain.

"What in Oblivion...?" Hafnar muttered, his hand instinctively moving to his mace.

As the figure drew closer, details became more apparent. A Nord of indeterminate gender, moving in that bizarre crouch despite the obviously difficult terrain. More baffling was what appeared to be—Hafnar squinted, certain his eyes were deceiving him—a collection of cooking pots, brooms, and what looked like several cabbages, all somehow attached to the stranger's person.

"You think they're touched in the head?" Bjorn asked quietly, rising to his feet, dagger now held at the ready rather than being flipped for amusement.

"Must be," Hafnar replied. "No sane person travels these mountains alone, let alone like... that."

The stranger continued their approach, occasionally pausing to pick mountain flowers or seemingly stare at nothing before resuming their peculiar journey. When they reached the base of the steps leading to the barrow's entrance, they finally straightened from their crouch and looked up at the bandits with unnerving intensity.

"That's far enough," Hafnar called, trying to sound more intimidating than confused. "This here's private property. Turn around if you know what's good for you."

The stranger tilted their head like a curious bird, observing Hafnar with unblinking eyes. The intensity of the gaze made the bandit's skin crawl.

"I said turn around," Hafnar repeated, drawing his mace. "Last warning."

Instead of fleeing—or even responding—the strange Nord reached into their bizarre collection of items and withdrew... a sweetroll? They held it out toward Hafnar like an offering, or perhaps a bribe.

Bjorn snickered beside him. "I think they're simple in the head. Maybe we should just—"

His words cut off as the stranger suddenly flung the sweetroll with unexpected force. Hafnar ducked instinctively, but the pastry wasn't aimed at him. It sailed over his head and struck the barrow door with a wet splat, sticking there like some bizarre decoration.

"Right," Hafnar growled, patience exhausted. "Let's teach this fool a lesson."

He advanced down the steps, mace raised, Bjorn close behind him. The stranger watched their approach with that same unnerving calm, head still tilted in that bird-like manner. As Hafnar closed the distance and prepared to swing, the Nord finally moved.

What happened next occurred so quickly that Hafnar's brain struggled to process it. The stranger dropped back into that bizarre crouch, darted forward with impossible speed, and somehow—though Hafnar would never be able to explain exactly how—managed to slip between the two bandits. By the time Hafnar turned around, the strange Nord was behind them, now wielding... a cabbage?

"FUS!" the stranger shouted, the word carrying strange weight despite its brevity.

The cabbage shot forward like it had been fired from a catapult, striking Bjorn directly in the face with such force that he crumpled to the ground, unconscious or worse.

"What in the name of—" Hafnar didn't complete the thought. The stranger was already moving again, this time producing an iron frying pan from their seemingly bottomless collection of random items.

Hafnar swung his mace, a blow that should have crushed bone. The stranger simply sidestepped it with fluid grace, then brought the frying pan up in a perfect arc that connected solidly with Hafnar's temple.

The world exploded into stars, then darkness.

Hafnar's last conscious thought was that no one would ever believe how he'd been defeated—by cookware, wielded by the strangest person he'd ever encountered.

Then there was only blackness.

***

Arvel the Swift prided himself on his intelligence. While other thieves might rely on brute strength or dumb luck, Arvel trusted in his quick mind and quicker fingers. His slender build and angular features gave him a perpetually sharp appearance, like a dagger left out in the sun—lean, dangerous, and with a certain gleam about him. Dark hair tied back in a practical tail kept it from his eyes during delicate work, and his leather armor, dyed a deep burgundy, had been specially modified to minimize noise. Every aspect of his appearance spoke of precision and calculation.

And calculated he had. For weeks he'd been planning this heist—bribing, threatening, and occasionally slitting throats to gather information about the Golden Claw and its connection to Bleak Falls Barrow. The bumbling merchant in Riverwood had no idea what treasure he possessed, no concept of the riches that lay beyond the puzzle door the claw would open.

So what if Arvel hadn't actually managed to steal the claw from the Riverwood Trader? Plans changed. Adaptability was the mark of a true professional. He'd simply find another way to acquire it within the barrow itself. Perhaps Lucan had sent someone to retrieve it, or maybe another thief had beaten him to the shop but would meet their end in the depths of the tomb. One way or another, Arvel would emerge victorious.

The weight of the journal in his pocket reassured him. Within its pages, he'd carefully documented everything he'd learned about the barrow and the claw—the puzzle door, the hall of stories, the supposed treasure beyond. Not that he needed the notes; his mind was sharp as a razor. But it never hurt to be prepared.

Arvel crept through the dim corridors of Bleak Falls Barrow, the cold, stale air filling his lungs with each careful breath. The distant sound of dripping water echoed through the ancient stone passages, while the musty scent of decay and the sharper tang of ancient Nordic embalming spices created an atmosphere of age and dormant power. His footsteps were almost silent against the stone floor, decades of practice allowing him to move like a shadow.

"Fools," he muttered to himself, thinking of the bandits he'd manipulated into clearing the outer chambers. They believed they were part of a simple treasure-hunting operation, unaware that Arvel planned to slip away with the real prize once the claw was found. "They'll never even know what they missed."

The golden light of his torch illuminated walls covered in intricate carvings—ancient Nordic scenes depicting dragons, warriors, and the rituals of the dragon cult. Under other circumstances, Arvel might have paused to admire the craftsmanship or consider what such artifacts might fetch from certain collectors. But not today. Today, he had bigger plans.

The corridor widened, opening into a larger chamber ahead. Arvel slowed his pace, extinguishing his torch to avoid detection. His dark eyes, particularly sharp in low light, picked out the silhouettes of ancient stone columns and what appeared to be some kind of altar at the center of the room.

Perfect. According to his research, he was getting close to the Hall of Stories, where the puzzle door awaited. Soon, the treasures of Bleak Falls Barrow would be his.

A faint skittering sound from above drew his attention. Arvel froze, his hand moving instinctively to the dagger at his hip. The noise came again—something moving across the ceiling. Something large.

He raised his gaze slowly, dreading what he might see.

Eight gleaming eyes stared back at him from the darkness above.

"By the Eight," he whispered, his usual confidence faltering as the frostbite spider—larger than a horse—began to descend on a glistening thread of silk.

Arvel's mind raced. He could run, but the corridor behind him was long and straight—perfect for the spider to chase him down. He could fight, but his dagger seemed woefully inadequate against the monster's size. Or he could try to slip past while the beast was still descending.

Always trust your speed. It had been his motto since childhood.

With a deep breath, Arvel bolted forward, aiming to dash beneath the descending arachnid before it reached the floor. His leather boots barely made a sound as he sprinted across the ancient stone.

Too slow. A strand of webbing shot out, catching his ankle. Arvel tumbled forward, his momentum carrying him into a roll that would have been impressive under other circumstances. Before he could regain his feet, another stream of sticky silk struck his back, then another his arm.

"No!" he gasped, struggling against the rapidly hardening bonds. "No, no, no!"

The spider descended fully now, its massive mandibles clicking with what Arvel's terrified mind interpreted as anticipation. He writhed desperately, but each movement only seemed to entangle him further in the sticky, constricting webs.

Within minutes, Arvel the Swift—master thief, manipulator, and self-proclaimed intellectual superior to all his peers—found himself completely cocooned in spider silk, dangling upside down from the ceiling, able to move nothing but his eyes and mouth.

"Help!" he called out, abandoning pride in favor of survival. "Someone help! Anyone!"

His voice echoed through the empty chamber, swallowed by ancient stones that had witnessed countless deaths over the centuries. The spider retreated slightly, apparently content to let its prey marinate in fear before the final feast.

Hours passed—or perhaps it was only minutes, time losing all meaning in the face of certain death. Arvel's throat grew raw from shouting, his body ached from the awkward position, and the cold of the barrow began to seep into his bones through the silk wrappings.

And then, just as despair threatened to overwhelm him completely, Arvel heard footsteps.

Not the skittering of the spider returning.

Not the heavy tread of his bandit companions.

But a strange, inconsistent pattern—quick steps followed by pauses, like someone alternating between sprinting and stopping completely.

"Hello?" he called out, hope surging despite the oddity. "Hello! In here! Help!"

The footsteps approached the chamber entrance, then stopped. Through the webbing partially covering his eyes, Arvel could make out a figure standing in the doorway.

"Thank the gods," he breathed. "Quick, cut me down before that thing comes back!"

The figure tilted their head, observing Arvel's predicament with what appeared to be curiosity rather than concern. Then, with movements so fluid they seemed almost rehearsed, the stranger dropped into a crouch and began moving toward him in that position, despite there being nothing to hide behind in the open chamber.

As they drew closer, Arvel could make out more details. A Nord, though he couldn't determine whether male or female. Their face bore an expression of intense focus that seemed at odds with their bizarre movement pattern. Most confusing of all was the collection of objects apparently attached to their person—pots, brooms, what looked like several cabbages, and a glint of something golden.

Something golden and claw-shaped.

"The Golden Claw!" Arvel gasped, momentarily forgetting his predicament. "You have it! Where did you—never mind. Cut me down, quickly!"

The stranger paused directly beneath him, looking up with unnerving intensity. For a long moment, they simply stared, saying nothing.

"Please," Arvel tried again, instinctively slipping into the persuasive tone that had served him well in past manipulations. "Cut me down, and I'll share the treasure with you. That claw you have—I know how to use it. I know where it leads."

The stranger reached up as if to begin cutting the webbing, then froze completely. For nearly thirty seconds—Arvel counted in mounting confusion—they remained absolutely motionless, staring at nothing, like a statue carved in the middle of an action.

Just as Arvel was about to speak again, the stranger snapped back to attention and began examining the webbing with methodical precision, as if it were a fascinating puzzle rather than a man's prison.

A skittering sound from above heralded the spider's return.

"Behind you!" Arvel screamed.

The massive arachnid descended rapidly, venom dripping from its fangs, eight eyes fixed on what it clearly perceived as a new meal.

The stranger turned with surprising calm, observed the approaching monster, and reached into their bizarre inventory. Arvel expected a sword, perhaps a bow—any conventional weapon.

Instead, the Nord produced a steel ladle.

"What are you doing?" Arvel shrieked as the spider lunged. "That's not a weapon!"

As if to prove him wrong, the stranger sidestepped the spider's attack with fluid grace and brought the ladle down on one of its eyes with precision that spoke of either incredible skill or impossible luck. The creature recoiled, legs flailing.

The battle that followed defied Arvel's comprehension. The stranger produced item after item from their seemingly bottomless collection—a wooden plate that severed one of the spider's legs when thrown like a disc, a iron pot that was used to redirect a stream of venom back at the creature, and finally, most improbably, a cabbage that was hurled with such force that it smashed through the spider's head carapace.

"FUS!" the stranger had shouted, the word somehow imbuing the vegetable with devastating energy.

Throughout the fight, the Nord maintained an expression of intense concentration, occasionally pausing to consume various food items in rapid succession—a behavior that made no tactical sense to Arvel's analytical mind. At one point, they even stopped mid-dodge to arrange three mushrooms in a perfect line on a nearby stone.

When the spider finally collapsed, legs curling inward in death, the stranger didn't immediately return to freeing Arvel. Instead, they began methodically collecting every spider egg sac, venom gland, and bit of webbing from the chamber, storing each with the care usually reserved for precious gems.

"Hello?" Arvel called, bewilderment temporarily overwhelming his relief at being saved. "I'm still hanging here!"

The stranger looked up as if suddenly remembering his existence, then nodded once and approached. With a small knife that appeared from somewhere within their clothing, they began cutting through the webbing.

"Careful, careful," Arvel cautioned as he felt the cocoon loosening. "Don't drop—"

The warning came too late. The final strand severed, and Arvel plummeted to the stone floor with a painful thud. He groaned, struggling to his knees as circulation returned painfully to his limbs.

"A simple 'brace yourself' would have been—" he began, then stopped as he realized the stranger was now crouched beside him, hands moving with the deftness of an experienced pickpocket.

Before Arvel could react, the Nord had somehow extracted both his journal and his boots.

"Hey!" he protested, scrambling backward. "Those are mine!"

The stranger examined the journal with intense interest, flipping through the pages before tucking it away. The boots they studied briefly, then discarded on the floor—apparently not to their liking.

"Return my journal at once," Arvel demanded, trying to summon the authoritative tone that had served him well when ordering the bandits about. "It contains... personal matters."

The Nord stared at him blankly, then reached into their collection and produced the Golden Claw, holding it out as if for his inspection.

Arvel's irritation immediately gave way to avarice. "Yes," he breathed, reaching for it. "The claw. Give it to me, and I'll show you how to use it."

The stranger pulled it back before he could touch it, tilting their head in that bird-like manner. Then, with deliberate slowness, they pointed down the corridor that led deeper into the barrow, raised an eyebrow in question, and pointed at Arvel.

It took him a moment to interpret the gestured inquiry. "You want me to show you the way? To the Hall of Stories?"

The Nord nodded once.

Arvel's mind raced. The stranger clearly possessed both the claw and surprising combat abilities, however unorthodox. They'd saved his life, but also stolen his journal and seemed unlikely to simply hand over the treasures he'd been plotting to acquire. Still, accompanying them deeper might provide an opportunity to steal the claw and reach the treasure first.

"Very well," he agreed, forcing a smile. "I'll lead the way. Just... give me a moment to recover."

As he massaged his numb limbs, trying to restore circulation, Arvel watched the stranger from the corner of his eye. They had moved to the far side of the chamber and were now attempting, for reasons he couldn't begin to fathom, to balance various objects atop the head of the dead spider—a plate, a goblet, and what appeared to be a wheel of cheese.

"What are you doing?" he asked despite himself.

The stranger looked up, apparently surprised by the question, as if their behavior was perfectly normal. Then they gestured to their creation and said, simply: "Art."

Arvel closed his eyes briefly, questioning his decision to ally with this clearly deranged individual. But the lure of treasure was too strong to resist, and perhaps the stranger's unpredictable nature would prove useful against whatever dangers lay ahead.

"The Hall of Stories is this way," he said, rising to his feet and gesturing down the corridor. "Stay close. There are traps."

The stranger nodded, then promptly dropped back into a crouch and began following him in that bizarre, hunched position that made no logical sense.

Arvel sighed and set off into the depths, trying to ignore the sound of cooking pots and brooms clanking behind him with each of his new companion's movements. He'd survived the spider; surely he could survive whatever peculiar behaviors this strange Nord exhibited.

The claw—and the treasure it would unlock—would be worth it.

It had to be.

***

Hjalmar stood his endless vigil, as he had for a thousand years.

Once, he had been Hjalmar Ice-Veins, champion of the Dragon Cult, devoted servant of the Priest Nahkriin and, through him, the great dragon Alduin. He had worn fine armor adorned with dragon motifs, feasted in grand halls, and led warriors into battle against those who opposed the rightful rule of the dragons.

Now, he was simply Draugr—the walking dead, neither alive nor truly at peace, bound by ancient magic to protect the secrets of Bleak Falls Barrow until the end of time. His skin had mummified to a gray parchment stretched over bone, his eyes had long since withered to pale blue pinpoints of magical light, and his once-proud armor had decayed to rusted fragments that clung to his desiccated form.

Yet still he stood, still he waited, still he remembered.

The passage of time meant little in the depths of the barrow. Days, years, centuries—all blended together in the cold darkness. Occasionally, intruders would disturb the silence. Treasure hunters, scholars, desperate bandits—all fell before the guardians of the tomb, their bodies adding to the barrow's grim collection.

Thus it had been, thus it would always be.

Until today.

The first indication that something was different came as a disturbance in the ancient magic that bound the draugr to their endless task. Hjalmar felt it as a ripple through his withered being—like the surface of a still pond disturbed by a cast stone. Something powerful had entered the barrow. Something connected to the old magic.

Then came sounds—strange, inconsistent footsteps accompanied by the clattering of metal objects. The voices of the living, speaking the debased modern tongue that had evolved from true Nordic speech over the centuries. Hjalmar could understand it, though he had no use for such communication.

He remained motionless, a sentinel in the shadows, as the intruders approached his chamber. One was a typical treasure-seeker—a dark-haired thief with fear in his eyes and greed in his heart. Nothing special. Nothing worthy of note.

But the other...

Hjalmar had protected Bleak Falls Barrow for a millennium, had witnessed countless intruders meet their doom at his blade. In all that time, he had never seen anything like this.

The creature moved in a bizarre, crouched position despite there being no tactical advantage to such a posture in the open hall. It carried a bewildering array of objects—mundane items like cooking pots and cabbages—treated with the reverence usually reserved for sacred relics. Most disturbing of all was the aura it emanated—a power Hjalmar had not sensed since the days when dragons ruled and the Voice was commonly wielded by the worthy.

"This way," the thief was saying, his voice echoing against the ancient stones. "And be careful. The dead are restless in these halls."

Indeed we are, Hjalmar thought, though his decayed vocal cords could produce nothing but a rasping groan. More restless now than ever before.

The strange one paused, head tilting as if sensing Hjalmar's presence despite his perfect stillness in the shadowed alcove. For a moment, those unnervingly alert eyes seemed to stare directly at him, seeing through the magical dormancy that rendered him invisible to most living beings.

Then, to Hjalmar's eternal confusion, the creature smiled—a quick, knowing quirk of the lips—before resuming their hunched advance behind the oblivious thief.

They know I am here, Hjalmar realized with mounting unease. They see me.

For the first time in a thousand years, uncertainty crept into his endless vigil. The ancient magic stirred, preparing his withered body for combat. Yet something deeper, some instinct preserved from his living days, whispered a warning: This one is different. This one is dangerous.

This one might be... Dragon-Souled.

***

Arvel crept forward cautiously, his every sense alert for danger. The corridor had widened into a burial hall lined with alcoves containing the remains of ancient Nords. The air here was colder, carrying the distinct tang of ancient Nordic embalming spices and the musty scent of undisturbed death. Braziers that had miraculously remained lit for centuries cast flickering shadows across walls adorned with the stylized animal symbols of the old Nordic clans—bear, wolf, fox, and dragon.

"We need to be quiet here," he whispered, glancing back at his strange companion. "These crypts are often protected by—"

He stopped mid-sentence, momentarily stunned into silence. The Nord was no longer following behind him. Instead, they were engaged in what appeared to be an attempt to balance a dinner plate on the head of one of the seated draugr corpses in a wall alcove.

"What are you doing?" Arvel hissed, creeping back toward them. "Get away from that! You'll wake the dead!"

The stranger ignored him, carefully adjusting the plate's position until it sat perfectly centered on the desiccated corpse's head. They then produced a wooden cup and placed it on the corpse's withered hand, followed by a loaf of bread in its lap.

"Stop that!" Arvel insisted, his heart racing with a combination of fear and bewilderment. "This isn't a dining table; it's a burial site filled with undead guardians!"

The Nord looked at him with a mixture of confusion and mild disappointment, as if Arvel was the one behaving strangely. They gestured to their creation and said, simply: "Tea party."

"Tea party?" Arvel repeated, his voice rising despite his best efforts to remain quiet. "With a thousand-year-old corpse? Have you lost your—"

A rasping groan from the alcove cut off his words. The draugr's eyes flickered to life—pinpoints of cold blue light in sunken sockets. The plate slid from its head as it began to rise, ancient armor creaking with the movement.

"Now you've done it!" Arvel cried, backing away quickly. "Run!"

The stranger didn't run. Instead, they watched the awakening draugr with what appeared to be fascination, head tilted in that now-familiar bird-like manner. As the undead guardian raised its ancient blade, the Nord reached calmly into their bizarre inventory and produced... a sweetroll.

"This is no time for snacks!" Arvel shouted, already turning to flee.

But the sweetroll wasn't for eating. With a precise flick of the wrist, the stranger sent the pastry flying directly into the draugr's face, where it stuck with surprising tenacity, covering the creature's glowing eyes. The undead guardian paused, momentarily confused by this unprecedented attack, its free hand pawing at the sugary obstruction.

Taking advantage of the distraction, the Nord darted forward and...

Arvel blinked, certain his eyes were deceiving him. Rather than striking a killing blow, the stranger was... dressing the draugr? In a matter of seconds, they had somehow removed the undead warrior's ancient helmet and replaced it with what appeared to be a jester's cap, complete with bells that jingled with each of the creature's increasingly agitated movements.

"What in the name of—" Arvel's question died on his lips as the draugr, now partially blinded by sweetroll and adorned with festive headwear, stumbled forward, swinging its blade wildly.

The stranger sidestepped the attack with fluid grace, then produced a wooden ladle which they used to deliver a surprisingly solid blow to the back of the draugr's knee. The undead guardian stumbled, off-balance, and the Nord completed their bizarre assault by placing a wooden bucket over the creature's head, effectively blinding it completely.

The draugr staggered in confused circles, its muffled groans echoing metallically from within the bucket, sword slashing at empty air. Eventually, it blundered into a wall and collapsed in a heap of ancient armor and confused undeath.

Arvel stared, his analytical mind struggling to process what he'd just witnessed. The elegant simplicity of the plan. The complete absurdity of the execution. The utter effectiveness of the result.

"How did you..." he began, then shook his head, deciding some questions were better left unasked. "Never mind. Let's keep moving before more of them wake up."

The stranger nodded, then immediately returned to the fallen draugr and began collecting items from its person—ancient Nordic coins, bits of armor, even what appeared to be a desiccated toe.

"What are you doing now?" Arvel asked, exasperation temporarily overcoming his fear.

The Nord held up the toe with an expression of intense satisfaction. "Alchemy," they explained, as if this clarified everything.

Arvel closed his eyes briefly, summoning patience from reserves he hadn't known he possessed. "The Hall of Stories isn't far now," he said, gesturing down the corridor. "We should continue before more draugr awaken."

The stranger nodded, tucked the toe away somewhere in their impossible inventory, and resumed following Arvel—once again in that bizarre crouch that seemed to be their preferred method of movement.

As they progressed deeper into the barrow, Arvel's unease grew. The strange Nord's unpredictable behavior, while unexpectedly effective against the spider and the lone draugr, seemed likely to trigger every trap and guardian in the ancient tomb. Yet somehow, they continued to advance unscathed, occasionally stopping to collect items that Arvel would have dismissed as worthless—ancient plates, cups, linen wraps, even the dust from burial urns, carefully gathered and stored.

When they reached a particularly narrow section of corridor, Arvel paused, remembering his research. "Careful here," he warned. "These old Nordic ruins are often rigged with—"

Too late. The stranger had already sprinted ahead, seemingly oblivious to the pressure plates visible in the floor. Arvel winced, anticipating the swing of bladed pendulums or a hail of poisoned darts.

Nothing happened.

Confused, Arvel crept forward and examined the nearest pressure plate. It had indeed been triggered—he could see where the ancient mechanism had deployed—but somehow, no trap had activated. It was as if the barrow itself was uncertain how to respond to this bizarre intruder.

"How did you..." he began, then stopped as he realized the Nord wasn't listening. They had become fixated on a pedestal in an alcove, atop which sat a small soul gem glowing with a faint purple light.

"Don't touch that!" Arvel warned. "It's likely trapped!"

The stranger looked at him, then at the soul gem, then back at him. With deliberate slowness, they reached out and picked up the gem.

Arvel flinched, expecting poison darts, flame jets, or worse.

Instead, the stranger simply placed the gem in their collection and continued down the corridor as if nothing unusual had occurred.

"That's... not possible," Arvel murmured, hurrying to catch up. "Every account I've read, every tomb I've explored—those pedestals are always trapped."

The Nord shrugged, a simple gesture that somehow conveyed both "apparently not" and "does it matter?" simultaneously.

They continued deeper into the barrow, through winding corridors and burial chambers. Each time they encountered draugr, the stranger dispatched them using increasingly improbable methods—a cheese wheel rolled at precisely the right moment to trip one into a conveniently placed burial urn, a ladle used to redirect a draugr archer's arrow back at itself, a cabbage hurled with that strange word of power to devastating effect.

Arvel muttered, “How... where are they storing all this?”

From the shadows, a long-dead draugr seemed to sigh.

Farengar would’ve called it a ‘metaphysical loophole cloak.’ Arvel called it terrifying.

Out of nowhere, one burial urn clattered aside, revealing a previously unseen inscription. Arvel squinted at it.

“Sixty wheels… sixty seconds to midnight… no. That can’t mean anything.” He shivered. “Can it?”

Throughout it all, the Nord maintained an expression of intense focus mixed with what Arvel could only describe as childlike enjoyment, as if the whole experience were some elaborate game designed for their amusement.

Arvel muttered to himself as they traveled,“That’s the second time I’ve seen a cabbage used as a lethal weapon. What is this person's relationship with vegetables?”

And then, finally, they reached it—the Hall of Stories.

The corridor widened dramatically, its walls covered in intricate carvings depicting ancient Nordic tales. Dragons soaring over mountains, warriors battling great beasts, priests conducting arcane rituals—all rendered in remarkably preserved detail. At the far end loomed the puzzle door, a massive circular stone carved with the concentric rings of animal symbols that were the hallmark of the oldest Nordic tombs.

"There," Arvel breathed, momentarily forgetting his wariness in the face of imminent treasure. "The door to the inner sanctum. The claw is the key."

The stranger examined the door with obvious interest, running their fingers over the carvings with unexpected reverence. Then, to Arvel's confusion, they walked back several paces, crouched down, and began... organizing items on the floor?

"What are you doing now?" he demanded, patience wearing thin. "The treasure chamber is right there! Use the claw!"

The Nord didn't respond, continuing to arrange various objects—plates, cups, a loaf of bread, several cabbages—in what appeared to be specific positions on the stone floor. When they finished, they looked up at Arvel and gestured for him to observe their creation.

Despite himself, Arvel looked. The items had been arranged to form a crude but recognizable map of the barrow, with a cabbage marking their current position and a piece of cheese apparently representing the chamber beyond the puzzle door.

"Yes, yes," he said impatiently. "We're here, the treasure is there. That's why we need to use the claw!"

The Nord nodded, produced the Golden Claw from their collection, and approached the door. But rather than inserting it into the central keyhole as any rational person would, they began attempting to... balance it on their head?

"What are you doing?" Arvel cried, his composure finally shattering. "That's not how you use it! The symbols on the palm match the sequence on the door! You have to rotate the rings to match, then insert the claw into the keyhole!"

The stranger paused, the claw wobbling atop their head, and looked at Arvel with an expression that might have been curiosity. Slowly, they removed the claw and examined its palm, where three animal symbols were indeed carved in sequence—bear, moth, owl. They studied these intently, head tilted, then looked at the concentric rings on the door with their corresponding animal carvings.

"Yes, exactly," Arvel said, momentarily encouraged by this flash of comprehension. "Now just turn the rings to match the sequence and—"

Before he could finish, the stranger had returned to balancing the claw on their head, apparently losing interest in its proper function. They spun in a slow circle, arms outstretched for balance, the priceless artifact teetering dangerously with each movement.

"Stop that!" Arvel lunged forward, intending to snatch the claw before it could fall and potentially break. "You're going to damage it!"

His sudden movement startled the stranger. They sidestepped his grasp with surprising agility, but the motion dislodged the claw from its precarious perch. The golden artifact tumbled through the air in what seemed to Arvel like agonizing slow motion.

In a desperate dive that would have impressed even the most accomplished acrobat, the stranger caught the claw mere inches from the stone floor. The momentum of their dive carried them forward, sending them sliding across the smooth stone directly into the puzzle door.

The impact of their collision somehow caused the outer ring of the door to rotate, the stone grinding as ancient mechanisms shifted for the first time in centuries. As the stranger scrambled to their feet, they bumped against the door again, and the middle ring turned as well.

Arvel watched in disbelief as, through a series of entirely accidental collisions, stumbles, and what appeared to be an impromptu victory dance when they realized the rings were moving, the stranger managed to align the symbols in the correct sequence—bear, moth, owl.

"That's... impossible," Arvel murmured, his extensive knowledge of Nordic puzzle mechanisms telling him that the odds of accidentally achieving the correct alignment were astronomical.

With the rings aligned, the stranger examined the claw once more, then—finally—inserted it into the central keyhole and turned it.

Ancient gears ground together deep within the stone, and with a thunderous rumble that sent dust cascading from the ceiling, the massive puzzle door began to sink into the floor, revealing the chamber beyond.

"The inner sanctum," Arvel breathed, momentarily forgetting his frustration in the face of imminent treasure. "After all this time..."

The stranger removed the claw from the lock and tucked it away, then immediately dropped back into their bizarre crouch before entering the newly opened chamber.

Arvel followed close behind, his heart racing with anticipation. The sanctum was a vast cavern, far larger than any of the chambers they had passed through previously. A natural underground stream cut through the center, its clear water reflecting the ethereal blue light that emanated from patches of glowing fungi clinging to the stone walls. Carved stone bridges crossed the water, leading to a raised platform at the far end where an imposing curved wall stood, covered in strange markings that Arvel couldn't identify.

"The treasure must be somewhere in here," he said, eyes darting around the chamber. "Spread out and look for chests, urns, anything that might contain—"

He turned to find the stranger already sprinting toward the curved wall, apparently drawn to it like a moth to flame.

"Wait!" Arvel called. "We need to be careful! There might be traps, or more draugr, or—"

Too late again. The stranger had reached the wall and was now—Arvel squinted, certain his eyes were deceiving him—licking it?

Yes, the strange Nord was literally running their tongue along the ancient carved symbols, their expression one of intense concentration, as if tasting a fine wine.

For some inexplicable reason, somewhere, Björn Iron-Eye sneezed into his mead and the words that came from his mouth felt foreign and prophetic at the same time, “I told you they were like a monk. A deeply unhinged monk.”

"What in Oblivion are you doing?" Arvel cried, hurrying across one of the stone bridges. "Stop that! Those markings could be cursed!"

The stranger ignored him, continuing their peculiar examination of the wall. As Arvel drew closer, he noticed something odd—one of the carved symbols seemed to be glowing with an ethereal blue light that grew more intense the longer the Nord interacted with it. The air around the wall began to vibrate with a strange energy that raised the hair on Arvel's arms and sent a chill down his spine.

Suddenly, tendrils of light erupted from the glowing symbol, swirling around the stranger in a vortex of ancient magic. The Nord stood perfectly still at the center of this mystical storm, their eyes closed, their expression one of rapturous concentration.

Arvel stumbled backward, nearly falling into the stream. "By the Eight," he gasped, all thoughts of treasure momentarily forgotten. "What is happening?"

The light faded as quickly as it had appeared, and the strange Nord turned away from the wall, their eyes now containing a subtle glow that hadn't been there before. They looked at Arvel and spoke a single word:

"Fus."

The power in that simple syllable was undeniable, sending ripples through the air between them. Arvel felt it as a pressure against his chest, though the word hadn't been directed at him.

"You're..." he struggled to find the words, ancient legends suddenly taking on new significance. "That was the Voice. The power of the Thu'um. Are you...Dragonborn?"

The Nord tilted their head, considering the question with apparent seriousness. Then they shrugged, apparently neither confirming nor denying Arvel's hypothesis, and promptly became distracted by a burial urn near the wall.

As the stranger rummaged through the ancient container, Arvel's attention was drawn to a stone sarcophagus on the raised platform beside the word wall. Unlike the simpler burial niches they had passed earlier, this one was elaborately carved with dragon motifs and inlaid with what appeared to be precious metals.

"That must be where the real treasure is," he murmured, edging toward it while keeping an eye on the preoccupied Nord. If he could reach the sarcophagus first, perhaps he could still salvage his original plan. Take the most valuable items, slip away while the strange one was distracted by whatever bizarre activity next caught their attention...

He had taken only three steps when a grinding sound from the sarcophagus froze him in place. The stone lid was shifting, pushed from within by some force that sent ancient dust cascading to the floor.

"No," Arvel whispered, backing away. "No, no, no..."

With a final scrape of stone against stone, the lid crashed to the floor, shattering into fragments. From within the sarcophagus rose a draugr unlike any they had encountered thus far. Taller, more heavily armored, crowned with an ancient horned helmet that marked it as a warrior of high rank. Most terrifying of all were its eyes—not the usual pinpricks of blue light, but blazing orbs that filled their sockets with cold fire.

A Draugr Overlord. The guardian of the inner sanctum.

It fixed those terrible eyes on Arvel and drew a massive ancient Nordic greatsword that gleamed with enchanted frost. A rasping sound emerged from its desiccated throat—not the mindless groan of lesser draugr, but something that might have once been speech in the ancient Nordic tongue.

"Help!" Arvel cried, scrambling backward. "Do something!"

The stranger looked up from the urn they had been examining, observed the draugr overlord with remarkable calm, and nodded once—as if acknowledging the arrival of an expected guest. They rose from their crouched position and approached the platform with unhurried steps.

"What are you doing?" Arvel hissed, pressing himself against the far wall of the chamber. "That's a Draugr Overlord! You can't fight it with pots and cabbages!"

The Nord ignored him, reaching into their bizarre inventory and producing... a wooden plate? They held it up, studying its flat surface with intense consideration, then returned their attention to the approaching undead warrior.

The draugr overlord raised its sword, ancient muscles tensing for a devastating blow. The stranger remained motionless, plate held before them like a grossly inadequate shield. The massive blade began its downward arc—

And stopped, caught mid-swing as the draugr's attention was diverted by something behind it. Arvel followed its gaze and saw that while he had been focused on the stranger with the plate, a perfect ring of pottery had somehow appeared around the platform—cups, bowls, plates, all balanced precariously atop one another in towers that shouldn't have been structurally possible.

The draugr hesitated, ancient instincts confused by this unprecedented scenario. In that moment of uncertainty, the stranger acted. With precise movements, they positioned the wooden plate on the floor, directly in the path between the draugr and the edge of the platform.

"What are you—" Arvel began, but his question died as understanding dawned. The stranger was creating an improvised trap.

Sure enough, as the draugr took a step forward, its withered foot landed on the plate. The smooth wood slid against the equally smooth stone floor, and the ancient warrior lost its balance, arms pinwheeling as it struggled to remain upright.

It might have recovered, had it not been for the stranger's next move. With timing that bordered on precognitive, they shouted a single word:

"FUS!"

The force of the Thu'um struck the already unbalanced draugr squarely in the chest, sending it toppling backward into the precarious arrangement of pottery. The resulting cascade effect was as beautiful as it was bizarre—each falling cup or plate triggering another, creating a domino effect that culminated in the draugr overlord tumbling off the platform and into the stream below with a splash that echoed throughout the chamber.

The weighted ancient armor, designed for battle rather than swimming, immediately dragged the undead warrior beneath the surface. Bubbles rose for several seconds, then stopped.

Silence fell over the sanctum.

Arvel stared, mouth agape, as the stranger calmly approached the stream and peered into the water where the draugr had disappeared. After a moment of consideration, they reached in and, incredibly, pulled out the draugr overlord's horned helmet, which they promptly placed on their own head at a jaunty angle.

"You..." Arvel struggled to find words adequate to the situation. "You killed an ancient Nordic warrior lord... with tableware."

The stranger nodded, seemingly pleased with this assessment, and proceeded to examine the stone chest that had been positioned beside the sarcophagus—the true repository of treasure that Arvel had been seeking all along.

Forcing himself to focus on the original objective, Arvel hurried to the chest before the Nord could completely empty it. "Let me see! After all we've been through, I deserve a share!"

To his surprise, the stranger stepped aside, allowing him full access to the chest's contents. Arvel's hands trembled with anticipation as he lifted the lid, visions of gold and jewels dancing before his eyes.

The chest contained a modest pile of ancient Nordic coins, a few soul gems, an enchanted sword that still gleamed with magical energy despite its age, several flawless gemstones, and, prominently displayed atop this small hoard, a large stone tablet covered in intricate carvings—a map, from what Arvel could discern, showing locations scattered across Skyrim.

"The Dragonstone," he breathed, recognizing it from his research. "So it does exist."

He reached for it, already calculating its value to certain collectors, when the stranger cleared their throat politely but firmly. Arvel glanced up to find those unnerving eyes fixed on him with sudden intensity.

"Mine," the Nord said simply, pointing to the stone tablet.

"But—" Arvel began.

"Mine," the stranger repeated, their tone leaving no room for negotiation. They pointed to the rest of the treasure. "Yours."

Arvel hesitated. The Dragonstone was undoubtedly valuable, but so were the gems and the enchanted sword. And considering how easily the stranger had dispatched the draugr overlord, arguing seemed unwise.

"Fine," he conceded, gathering the coins, gems, and sword. "The Dragonstone is yours."

The Nord nodded, apparently satisfied with this arrangement, and carefully lifted the heavy stone tablet from the chest. They examined it briefly, then—to Arvel's renewed bewilderment—balanced it atop their head like some bizarre ceremonial headpiece.

When it inevitably slid off, they caught it with surprising deftness and tried again, apparently determined to master this pointless skill. After several failed attempts, they finally gave up and simply tucked the tablet into their mysterious inventory alongside the cabbages, plates, and other random items they had collected.

"Is there a way out of here?" Arvel asked, scanning the chamber for exits. "Preferably one that doesn't require us to backtrack through the entire barrow?"

The stranger nodded and pointed to a narrow passage on the far side of the chamber that Arvel hadn't noticed previously. Light—natural light—seemed to be filtering through from somewhere beyond.

"Perfect," Arvel said, already moving toward it. His mind raced with plans now that he had actual treasure in his possession. Return to Riverwood? No, too risky with the claw still missing from the trader's shop. Perhaps Windhelm, where he had contacts who wouldn't ask too many questions about ancient Nordic artifacts...

He was so preoccupied with these thoughts that he didn't notice the stranger had stopped following until he was halfway down the passage. Turning back, he found the Nord engaged in yet another incomprehensible activity—they were meticulously arranging pieces of linen wrap, bones, and various small items into what appeared to be a miniature diorama of the battle with the draugr overlord, complete with a cabbage representing the undead warrior and a small cup positioned to indicate the stream.

"What are you doing now?" Arvel demanded, exasperation temporarily overwhelming his desire to escape.

"Memorial," the stranger explained, putting the finishing touches on their bizarre creation. "For draugr."

"A memorial? For the undead monster that tried to kill us?" Arvel shook his head, abandoning any attempt to understand. "Never mind. Are you coming or not? I'm leaving while we still have daylight."

The stranger nodded, gave their "memorial" one final adjustment, then followed Arvel down the passage, once again adopting their trademark crouch despite the complete lack of hiding places in the narrow corridor.

The passage sloped upward, eventually emerging onto a ledge overlooking a breathtaking vista of Skyrim's snowy mountains. Fresh air, sharp with the scent of pine and snow, filled Arvel's lungs, cleansing away the musty tomb atmosphere that had surrounded them for hours.

"Freedom," he sighed, breathing deeply. "Now we just need to find our way down to—"

He stopped as he realized the stranger was no longer beside him. Turning, he found them crouched by a small mountain flower that grew from a crack in the stone, examining it with the same intense focus they had applied to the ancient word wall.

"Are you seriously stopping to pick flowers?" Arvel asked incredulously. "After everything we just went through?"

The Nord looked up at him, blinked once, then returned to carefully harvesting the flower, adding it to their seemingly limitless collection of random items.

Arvel sighed and glanced at the position of the sun. Still enough daylight to reach Riverwood, if they hurried. "I'm going ahead," he announced. "Try to keep up, if you can focus long enough."

With that, he began picking his way down the rocky path that led from the ledge to the forest below. He had gone perhaps thirty paces when a flicker of movement in his peripheral vision made him turn.

A butterfly—a beautiful blue specimen with wings that seemed almost to glow in the afternoon light—fluttered past his face. Before he could even register its presence fully, a blur of motion erupted from behind him. The stranger launched themselves into the air like a hunting sabre cat, hands outstretched toward the delicate insect.

"What are you—" Arvel began, then yelped in alarm as the Nord's trajectory carried them directly into him. The collision sent both of them tumbling over the edge of the path.

They fell perhaps ten feet before landing in a snow drift—Arvel face-first, the stranger somehow managing to land on their feet despite the chaotic tumble. As Arvel sputtered and wiped snow from his eyes, he saw the Nord triumphantly examining the butterfly they had somehow captured during the fall, holding it with surprising gentleness before storing it away in what appeared to be a small jar.

"You nearly killed us," Arvel growled, struggling to his feet, "for a butterfly?"

The stranger nodded enthusiastically. "Alchemy," they explained again, as if this justified any level of insanity.

Arvel closed his eyes, counted slowly to ten in his head, and made a decision. "I'm leaving," he said flatly. "I'm going to Windhelm. Alone. You're clearly heading somewhere else, doing... whatever it is you do. Our paths separate here."

The stranger smiled—the first genuine expression of simple happiness Arvel had seen on their face—and nodded. They reached out and patted Arvel's shoulder in what seemed to be a gesture of appreciation or perhaps farewell.

Then, without another word, they dropped back into their bizarre crouch and sprint-scuttled away through the snow, heading in what Arvel was fairly certain was the exact opposite direction from Whiterun.

"Don't you need to go that way?" he called, pointing toward the distant silhouette of the city visible on the horizon.

The Nord paused, looked where he was pointing, then at the direction they had been heading, and shrugged. They immediately changed course, still crouching, and disappeared into the treeline, occasionally visible as they paused to examine flowers, chase butterflies, or collect more inexplicable items.

Arvel shook his head, brushed the remaining snow from his armor, and set off toward Windhelm. The events of the day had tested not only his physical endurance but his very understanding of reality. Part of him wondered if perhaps he had died in the spider's web, and everything since had been some elaborate hallucination produced by his dying brain.

But the weight of the coins and gems in his pouch, and the cold solidity of the Golden Claw in his hand, told him otherwise. It had all been real—the bizarre combat techniques, the obsessive collecting, the impossible luck or skill or whatever it was that had carried them through challenges that should have been fatal.

"If that truly was the Dragonborn of legend," he murmured to himself, "then Skyrim is in for interesting times indeed."

With that final thought, Arvel the Swift continued down the mountain, already constructing the heavily edited version of events he would share with his contacts in Windhelm—a version that featured considerably fewer cabbages and far more conventional heroics on his part.

Some truths, after all, were simply too strange to be believed.

***

Hjalmar Ice-Veins, Draugr Overlord and guardian of the inner sanctum of Bleak Falls Barrow, had existed in undeath for over a thousand years. In that time, he had faced many would-be plunderers—warriors with gleaming blades, mages with destructive spells, thieves with silent steps. All had fallen before his ancient Nordic greatsword, their souls sent to whatever afterlife awaited them while their bodies became part of the barrow's grim collection.

None had defeated him with a wooden plate and a collection of pottery.

As the frigid waters of the underground stream closed over his armored form, Hjalmar experienced something he had not felt since his living days—confusion. Not anger, not the battle-rage that had sustained him through centuries of undeath, but pure, simple bewilderment.

The strange intruder had not fought like a warrior, a mage, or a thief. They had fought like... well, Hjalmar had no comparison in his thousand years of existence. They had fought like no being he had ever encountered—living, dead, or somewhere in between.

Yet there had been power there, undeniable power. Ancient power. The power of the Voice—the Thu'um that Hjalmar remembered from when dragons ruled and mortals trembled. The sacred gift that only the most devoted followers of the Dragon Cult had been permitted to study.

As his ancient armor dragged him deeper into the stream, as the magic that had preserved him for a millennium began to fade, Hjalmar found himself feeling something unexpected—a sense of rightness. Of completion. His long vigil was ending, not through glorious battle as he might once have expected, but through absurdity so profound it transcended conventional defeat.

Perhaps, he thought as consciousness began to slip away, this is what the ancient prophecies truly meant. Not a warrior-hero returning to save the world through conventional might, but a force of chaos that defied understanding—that rewrote the very rules that had governed Hjalmar's existence for an age.

With that final, strangely comforting thought, Hjalmar Ice-Veins, once champion of the Dragon Cult, surrendered to true death at last. His last sensory impression in this world was not the clash of steel or the roar of battle, but the fading vision of a strange Nord wearing his horned helmet at a jaunty angle, attempting to balance an ancient tablet atop their head for no comprehensible reason whatsoever.

The world, Hjalmar decided as oblivion finally claimed him, had become a much stranger place than the one he had known in life.

And perhaps that was as it should be.

***

The sun was setting over Riverwood, painting the small village in hues of gold and amber. Shadows lengthened across the main street as villagers completed their daily tasks and prepared for evening. The rhythmic clang of Alvor's hammer had ceased for the day, replaced by the gentler sounds of conversation from the Sleeping Giant Inn and the burbling of the river that gave the settlement its name.

Camilla Valerius was just closing up the Riverwood Trader, having spent another day explaining to customers that yes, the Golden Claw was still missing, and no, they didn't know when they would get a replacement for their centerpiece display. Her slender fingers worked the lock with practiced efficiency, the familiar routine offering little distraction from her troubled thoughts.

"Still no word about the claw?" came a voice from behind her.

Camilla turned to find Faendal approaching, the Bosmer's forest-green eyes warm with concern. Despite the lingering chill of the autumn evening, he wore only light leather armor, seemingly unbothered by temperatures that had the Nord villagers adding extra layers. The wood elf's angular features were softened by the golden light of sunset, giving him an almost ethereal appearance.

"Nothing," she sighed, brushing a strand of dark hair from her face. "Lucan is beside himself. That claw was—"

A commotion at the far end of the village interrupted her. Villagers were gathering, pointing and exclaiming at something—or someone—approaching on the main road.

"What now?" Camilla murmured, curiosity momentarily overriding her frustration.

She and Faendal joined the growing crowd, pushing through to see what had captured everyone's attention. When they reached the front, Camilla stopped so abruptly that Faendal bumped into her back.

"By the Eight," she breathed.

The bizarre visitor who had caused such a stir days earlier was returning—still in that peculiar crouched position, still encumbered by an impossible collection of random items. But what drew gasps from the assembled villagers was the mountain of ancient Nordic pottery, linens, and assorted artifacts that followed them like a bizarre parade float.

Upon closer inspection, Camilla realized that the pile of artifacts was actually stacked upon what appeared to be a makeshift sledge—constructed from Nordic burial coffin lids, bound together with ancient linen wraps, somehow sliding over the ground as the stranger pulled it with a rope made of braided burial shrouds.

The entire improbable contraption came to a halt in the center of town. The stranger straightened from their crouch, surveyed the gathered crowd with that unnervingly intense gaze, then nodded once—as if confirming that everyone required for some important ceremony was present.

With deliberate movements, they untied the rope and gestured to the pile of ancient artifacts with a flourish that would have suited a court magician revealing their greatest trick.

"For Riverwood," they announced, their voice carrying clearly in the stunned silence.

Lucan pushed through the crowd, his merchant's interest piqued despite his confusion. "You're... giving these to the village?" he asked, examining the nearest items—ancient Nordic dishes, some still bearing traces of burial oils and embalming spices.

The stranger nodded enthusiastically.

"But why?" Gerdur asked, the Nordic mill owner's practical nature asserting itself. "What are we supposed to do with old plates and cups from a burial barrow?"

The stranger tilted their head, considering the question with apparent seriousness. After a moment of thought, they selected a plate from the pile and balanced it perfectly atop Gerdur's head.

"Decoration," they explained, as if this clarified everything.

Before anyone could respond to this peculiar suggestion, the Nord reached into their seemingly bottomless inventory and produced something that immediately captured everyone's attention—a gleaming Golden Claw.

"The Golden Claw!" Lucan exclaimed, stepping forward with hands outstretched. "That's ours! Where did you—how did you—"

The stranger nodded and handed it over with surprising ceremony. Lucan cradled the artifact reverently, turning it in his hands to confirm it was indeed their prized possession which had mysteriously vanished from their shop days earlier.

"I don't understand," Lucan said, bafflement clear in his voice. "It disappeared from our shop counter, and now you're bringing it back from the barrow?"

"Quest," the stranger explained, pointing toward the distant mountain where Bleak Falls Barrow loomed against the darkening sky. "Found treasure. Returned claw."

Camilla's eyes narrowed with sudden suspicion. "Wait... did you take it from our shop in the first place?"

The stranger tilted their head, considering the question with apparent seriousness, then shrugged noncommittally. The gesture somehow implied both "perhaps" and "does it matter now?" simultaneously.

Lucan, too relieved to have the claw back to press the point, clutched it protectively to his chest. "Well, regardless of how it happened, we're grateful to have it returned."

"You went all the way up there and back in just a few days?" Camilla asked, impressed despite her lingering wariness of the strange Nord. "And brought back... all of this?" She gestured to the improbable collection of ancient artifacts.

The stranger nodded again, then immediately dropped back into their crouch and began sorting through the pile, apparently selecting specific items for specific villagers. A particularly ornate burial urn was presented to Alvor, who accepted it with bewildered thanks. A set of ancient Nordic drinking horns was ceremoniously arranged around Orgnar's feet. Hod received what appeared to be a desiccated draugr hand, which he held at arm's length with an expression of profound discomfort.

Throughout this bizarre gift-giving, Delphine observed from the shadows beside the Sleeping Giant Inn, her keen eyes missing nothing as she made notes in her small leather-bound journal.

Subject has apparently looted an entire Nordic burial site, she wrote, her quill scratching softly against the parchment. Distributed artifacts to villagers according to some inscrutable system of their own devising. Returned stolen item without apparent expectation of reward.

She paused, tapping the quill against her chin, then added: Motivation remains unclear. Gift-giving might be attempt to establish social connections or demonstrate goodwill. Alternatively, might simply be clearing inventory space for more cabbages.

As if reading her thoughts, the stranger completed their distribution and immediately sprinted away from the village—still crouching—in the direction of Whiterun. They paused only once, to harvest a mountain flower that grew beside the road, before disappearing into the gathering darkness.

The villagers stood in stunned silence, surrounded by ancient Nordic artifacts that none of them had asked for or knew what to do with.

"Well," Lucan said finally, clutching the Golden Claw to his chest. "At least we got this back."

"And enough dinnerware to serve the entire Imperial Legion," Alvor added dryly, examining the burial urn he'd been given. "Though I'm not sure I want to eat off plates that have been sitting in a tomb for thousands of years."

"Did anyone else notice," Faendal asked slowly, "that they were wearing what looked like a draugr's helmet? At a rather... jaunty angle?"

"And carrying what appeared to be a stone tablet like a dinner tray?" Camilla added.

"And had at least three cabbages visible in their pack?" Gerdur contributed.

They looked at each other, then at the pile of ancient artifacts in the center of their village, then back at the road where the stranger had disappeared.

"I need a drink," Hod announced, still holding the desiccated draugr hand away from his body. "Several, in fact."

General murmurs of agreement accompanied the villagers as they made their way to the Sleeping Giant, many still carrying their unexpected gifts from Bleak Falls Barrow. Only Delphine remained, watching the road to Whiterun with thoughtful eyes.

"Dragonborn or madman?" she murmured to herself. "Or perhaps somehow both?"

With a final note in her journal—Subject continues toward Whiterun, presumably to deliver the Dragonstone to court wizard—she followed the others into the inn, where Sven was already attempting to compose a ballad about the strange visitor who brought dead hands and ancient plates instead of conventional treasures.

Some stories, after all, were simply too bizarre not to be immortalized in song.

Twilight settled over the plains of Whiterun Hold, painting the vast expanse of tundra in deepening shades of blue and purple. The first stars winked into existence above the distant mountains, bright pinpricks against the darkening canvas of the night sky. A cool breeze carried the scent of frost and wild mountain flowers, whispering through the tall grass that swayed like an inland sea.

In the midst of this pastoral tranquility, a solitary figure moved across the landscape in a manner that defied conventional logic or efficiency—crouched low despite the complete absence of cover, pausing frequently to examine flowers, rocks, and passing insects with intense focus.

The Dragonborn (for so they were, though they showed little concern for titles or prophecies) had diverted from the direct path to Whiterun at least seven times already—once to collect an unusual rock formation, twice to chase butterflies, and four times to engage in impromptu cabbage-rolling contests with themselves down gentle slopes in the terrain.

Now, with Whiterun's imposing silhouette finally visible on the horizon, its walls and towers illuminated by torchlight against the darkening sky, the Dragonborn paused to consider their journey. The Dragonstone weighed heavily in their impossible inventory, nestled between seventeen pieces of ancient Nordic dinnerware, twenty-three mountain flowers of various species, four intact butterfly specimens, and a collection of cabbages that had somehow not only survived the adventure but had possibly multiplied.

A distant roar echoed across the plains, carrying on the night air from the mountains to the west. The Dragonborn tilted their head, listening with sudden alertness. Something stirred in their blood, a connection to that sound that transcended conscious understanding. Their eyes, reflecting the starlight, fixed on a dark shape circling against the night sky—massive wings silhouetted against the moons.

Dragon.

The word resonated within them, ancient knowledge awakening in response to the distant creature's call. The Dragonstone seemed to grow heavier in their pack, its carved surface pulsing with significance that extended beyond its physical properties.

For a brief moment, the Dragonborn stood perfectly straight, their usually animated features settling into an expression of solemn purpose. The collection of random items, the bizarre behaviors, the seemingly nonsensical priorities—all receded temporarily in the face of this primal recognition.

Then, as quickly as it had appeared, the moment passed. A Luna moth fluttered by, its glowing wings immediately capturing the Dragonborn's attention. With the reflexes of a hunting cat, they sprang after it, once again crouching as they sprint-scuttled in pursuit.

The moth led them on a merry chase across the tundra, eventually bringing them to a small pond reflecting the stars and moons in its still surface. The Dragonborn paused at the water's edge, momentarily distracted from their pursuit by their own reflection. They studied it with apparent curiosity, tilting their head this way and that, the draugr overlord's horned helmet shifting precariously with each movement.

After a moment of contemplation, they reached into their pack and withdrew the Dragonstone. In the moonlight, its carved surface seemed to glow with an inner light, the map of ancient dragon burial sites clearly visible despite the darkness.

The Dragonborn traced the carvings with a gentle finger, surprisingly reverent compared to their earlier attempts to balance the artifact on their head. Something about the stone resonated with them, connected to the word they had absorbed from the wall in Bleak Falls Barrow.

Fus. Force. The first syllable of power.

For a fleeting moment, purpose and chaos existed in perfect balance within them. They were simultaneously the hero of Nordic prophecy, destined to save the world from ancient threats, and a being who considered the proper arrangement of cabbages to be a matter of grave importance.

The contradiction didn't trouble them in the slightest.

A rabbit hopped into view at the pond's edge, its white fur silvered by moonlight. The Dragonborn immediately abandoned both introspection and the moth hunt, dropping back into their characteristic crouch to stalk this new quarry. The Dragonstone was carefully returned to their pack, nestled once more between dinner plates and butterfly specimens.

Whiterun could wait a little longer. The court wizard would still be there tomorrow, and the Dragonstone wasn't going anywhere. But this rabbit—this specific rabbit illuminated by the moons—demanded immediate attention.

Such was the way of the Dragonborn. Savior of the world, collector of cabbages, stalker of midnight rabbits. The fate of Tamriel rested in hands that were equally likely to wield great power or to arrange cheese wheels into decorative towers.

And somehow, despite all logic to the contrary, it seemed to be working out just fine.

The prophecy had never specified that the Last Dragonborn would be conventional, after all—only that they would come, when the time was right, to face the World-Eater.

The fact that they might do so while crouching inexplicably and carrying every dinner plate from Bleak Falls Barrow was simply an unexpected bonus.

Unbeknownst to anyone, somewhere in the mountains, the World-Eater stirred from his nap.

He did not know it yet, but his end would come—not from sword or spell, but from a crouching Nord obsessively carrying many wheels of cheese.

***

From the Personal Journal of Delphine, Blade Agent
20th of Last Seed, 4E 201

Subject has returned to Riverwood briefly, only to deposit what appears to be the entire collection of burial artifacts from Bleak Falls Barrow in the center of town. This included everything from ancient Nordic dining ware to actual desiccated draugr remains. Distributed items to villagers according to some internal logic I cannot begin to fathom.

Most significantly, returned the Golden Claw stolen from the Riverwood Trader. When questioned about its retrieval, Subject provided minimal explanation—just "Barrow," as if this single word sufficed.

More intriguing is what I glimpsed among their possessions—what appears to be the Dragonstone that has been the subject of the Whiterun court wizard's research for months. If Subject obtained this from Bleak Falls Barrow, it suggests they've not only navigated the tomb but also overcome its guardians.

Which raises the question: How does someone who attempts to balance burial urns on their head and presents draugr hands as gifts also manage to survive one of the most dangerous Nordic ruins in Skyrim?

Perhaps most telling was their departure. Upon completing their impromptu artifact distribution, Subject immediately resumed journey toward Whiterun, presumably to deliver the Dragonstone. This suggests a quest-oriented mindset beneath the chaos—a method to the madness that follows some internal compass invisible to observers.

Personal assessment: As bizarre as their behavior appears, Subject consistently accomplishes objectives that would challenge experienced adventurers. Whether this represents extraordinary luck, hidden competence, or some effect of their potential Dragonborn nature remains to be determined.

Next steps: Contingency preparations for Kynesgrove must be accelerated. If dragons are truly returning, and if this unpredictable individual is indeed Dragonborn, their paths will inevitably converge with our plans.

Gods help us all when that happens. Especially if they bring cabbages.

Chapter Text

Proventus Avenicci, steward to Jarl Balgruuf the Greater, prided himself on many things: his impeccable grooming, his meticulous record-keeping, and above all, his unflappable composure in the face of political challenges. His neatly trimmed Imperial beard was as precisely maintained as the ledgers in which he recorded Whiterun's finances. His fine clothes—always spotless despite the dusty stones of Dragonsreach—reflected a man who believed that appearance and competence went hand in hand. Even approaching his sixth decade, he stood straight-backed and dignified, the very model of Imperial efficiency in a province of increasingly chaotic Nord politics.

For thirty years, he had served the Jarl and his predecessors with distinction. He had weathered sieges, diplomatic crises, trade disputes, and the occasional court intrigue with the pragmatic efficiency that had made him indispensable to Whiterun's governance.

Nothing in those thirty years had prepared him for the Nord who now stood before the Jarl's throne, having just returned from the Western Watchtower.

"Let me be certain I understand correctly," Proventus said, his quill hovering above the official record he was attempting to document. The soft scratching had ceased as he tried to formulate how best to transcribe the report. The scent of fine ink mingled with the aroma of mead and roasting meat that perpetually filled Dragonsreach's great hall. "You defeated the dragon by... throwing a ladle at it?"

The strange Nord—the one who had previously constructed a tower of cheese wheels in this very hall—nodded enthusiastically. They had returned from the watchtower covered in soot and dragon blood, yet somehow had acquired even more random objects since their departure. A collection of butterfly wings was tucked behind one ear, and what appeared to be the bone of the slain dragon now served as an impromptu walking stick. Most disconcertingly, they had arranged several wooden plates in a circle around themselves on the floor of the great hall, as if establishing some sort of ritual boundary.

Irileth, the Jarl's Dunmer housecarl, stood nearby, her crimson eyes narrowed with a mixture of suspicion and bewilderment. Her dark leather armor still bore scorch marks from the battle, and her sword hand hadn't strayed far from her weapon since their return.

"Wasn't just the ladle," she corrected, her ash-gray skin emphasized by the firelight of the great hall. "There were... other implements involved."

"Such as?" Proventus prompted, already dreading the answer.

"A cheese wheel," Irileth replied flatly. "Three wooden spoons. What I believe was a cabbage, though it was moving too quickly to be certain. And at one point, I witnessed them removing a cast iron pot from their pack and placing it on the dragon's head like a helmet."

Jarl Balgruuf shifted in his throne, the wood creaking beneath his substantial Nordic frame. His blond beard, showing the first traces of gray, couldn't hide the bemused expression on his face. Unlike his steward, the Jarl seemed more intrigued than disturbed by these reports.

"The dragon is certainly dead," the Jarl confirmed, his deep voice carrying the weight of authority that had earned him the respect of his hold. "And more importantly, the Dragonstone has been delivered to Farengar. That's what matters."

Proventus nodded stiffly, returning his quill to the parchment. "Very well. For the official record, 'the dragon threat was eliminated through... unconventional combat techniques.'"

"There's more," Irileth interrupted, her voice uncharacteristically hesitant. The housecarl—normally as implacable as the stone walls of Dragonsreach itself—seemed genuinely unsettled. "After the dragon fell, something... happened."

The strange Nord nodded vigorously at this, then proceeded to demonstrate by dropping to the floor and assuming a handstand position. While upside down, they somehow managed to produce a wooden bowl which they balanced precariously on their foot.

"Not exactly," Irileth said, rubbing her temples. "When the dragon died, its flesh burned away. Then some kind of energy—light, magic, something—flowed from the skeleton into... them." She gestured to the Nord, who was now attempting to spin while maintaining the handstand. "While they were doing... that."

Proventus's quill snapped between his fingers. "Are you suggesting—"

"Dragonborn," Jarl Balgruuf breathed, leaning forward on his throne with sudden intensity. "The legends speak of mortals with the soul and blood of dragons. In the old tales, the Dragonborn could kill dragons and absorb their power." His eyes fixed on the strange Nord with new interest. "Can you Shout? Use the power of the Voice?"

The Nord abandoned their handstand, sending the wooden bowl clattering across the stone floor. They stood, dusted themselves off, and fixed the Jarl with that peculiar intense stare that seemed to be their default expression.

"FUS!" they Shouted, the single word carrying physical force that rippled the air.

Unfortunately, the Shout wasn't directed at empty space, but rather at Hrongar, the Jarl's brother, who had been standing near the great firepit. The burly Nord was sent stumbling backwards, his mead splashing across his tunic as he barely kept his footing.

"By the gods," Balgruuf said, seemingly untroubled by the assault on his brother. "It is true."

Proventus cleared his throat, attempting to restore some semblance of protocol to proceedings that were rapidly spiraling beyond his control. "My Jarl, while this is certainly... impressive, perhaps we should consult with the court wizard before rushing to conclusions about ancient legends."

"Farengar confirms the Dragonstone is exactly what he needed," the Jarl replied, waving away his steward's concerns. "And you heard the reports from Helgen. Dragons have returned to Skyrim, and now, it seems, so has a Dragonborn." He returned his attention to the strange Nord. "You've done Whiterun a great service. I name you Thane of Whiterun, the highest honor within my power to grant."

Proventus bit back a protest. The title of Thane was not bestowed lightly—it traditionally required weeks of service to the hold, the purchase of property, recognition from the citizens. Not... whatever this had been.

The newly-appointed Thane seemed delighted by this honor, though they expressed it by immediately dropping back into a crouch and beginning to arrange the plates around them in a new pattern.

"Additionally," the Jarl continued, seemingly unfazed by this response, "I assign Lydia as your personal housecarl, and present you with this weapon from my armory."

A female warrior stepped forward from the shadows near the wall where she had been standing guard. Lydia was the very image of a proud Nord warrior—tall and strong, with steel armor polished to a mirror shine. Her dark hair was braided tightly against her head, and her sharp features were set in an expression of solemn duty. However, as her eyes fell upon her new Thane arranging tableware on the floor of Dragonsreach, a flicker of uncertainty crossed her face.

"I am sworn to carry your burdens," she said, the traditional pledge of a housecarl seeming somewhat strained.

The Jarl's steward Proventus presented an ornate axe with visible reluctance. "The Axe of Whiterun," he announced. "A symbolic—"

Before he could finish, the Dragonborn had taken the weapon, examined it for approximately three seconds, and then promptly dropped it on the floor among the plates. Proventus's mouth snapped shut, his jaw working silently.

"I also understand you've expressed interest in purchasing property in our city," the Jarl continued, apparently determined to ignore all unusual behavior. "Proventus will arrange the sale of Breezehome."

"My Jarl," Proventus began, trying one last time to introduce reason to the proceedings, "typically there are procedures—"

"See to it, Proventus," Balgruuf interrupted firmly. "The Dragonborn has earned both title and property through service to Whiterun."

The steward sighed in defeat, adjusting his fine clothes as if physical order could somehow compensate for the procedural chaos unfolding around him. "As you wish, my Jarl. I'll prepare the necessary documents."

The Dragonborn, apparently satisfied with their new arrangement of plates, rose from their crouch and nodded enthusiastically. Then, without warning, they froze completely, staring into middle distance with such stillness that it seemed they had turned to stone.

Twenty-seven seconds of awkward silence followed—Proventus counted each one with mounting discomfort. The Jarl glanced questioningly at Irileth, who merely shrugged, apparently having witnessed this behavior before.

Then, as abruptly as they had frozen, the Dragonborn returned to animation. They turned toward Lydia with an expectant look, then sprint-crouched toward the door, clearly intending for their new housecarl to follow.

Lydia shot a desperate glance at the Jarl, who merely nodded in confirmation. With the resigned expression of a woman walking to her own execution, she followed her new Thane.

"Well," Proventus said when they had left, smoothing down his beard as if to reassure himself that the world still contained some order, "that was certainly—"

He was interrupted by a messenger bursting through the doors, chest heaving from apparent exertion. "My Jarl! The Greybeards—they're calling the Dragonborn to High Hrothgar! Their summons shook the very stones of the city!"

Proventus closed his eyes briefly, mentally cataloging the amount of parchment he would need to document the day's events. "Of course they are," he murmured. "Why wouldn't they be?"

***

The interior of Breezehome smelled of fresh timber and new thatch, with hints of lingering sawdust from the recent renovations. Sunlight streamed through small windows, illuminating dancing dust motes in golden shafts. The crackling of the central hearth cast a warm glow across the humble furnishings—a simple table, a few chairs, storage chests, and weapon racks. It was a modest home by Whiterun standards, but cozy and well-constructed.

Or at least, it had been.

Lydia stood in the doorway, her armor creaking faintly as she shifted her weight, trying to process what she was witnessing. Her new Thane had spent the past three hours transforming the recently purchased house into something that defied description.

Every available surface—table, shelves, floor, even the bed—was now completely covered with cabbages. Not dozens. Hundreds. Stacked, arranged, positioned with what appeared to be deliberate care but according to no organizational system Lydia could discern. Some formed pyramid structures, others were arranged in concentric circles, and still others were balanced precariously atop pieces of furniture.

"My Thane," she ventured carefully, "is there... a purpose to this?"

The Dragonborn looked up from where they were meticulously positioning a cabbage in the cooking pot over the hearth fire. They tilted their head in that now-familiar bird-like manner, as if the question itself was curious.

"Decoration," they explained, then immediately returned to their work.

Lydia had been a housecarl for nearly a decade, serving various nobles and dignitaries of Whiterun. She had been prepared to carry equipment, fight bandits, defend her Thane's honor, even die in battle if necessary. Nothing in her training had covered... this.

"Perhaps," she suggested, trying to maintain both her duty and her sanity, "we should prepare for your journey to High Hrothgar? The Greybeards' summons is a great honor."

The Dragonborn nodded enthusiastically, then immediately abandoned the cabbage arrangement. They moved to a chest in the corner, opened it, and began removing an impossible quantity of items—plates, cups, utensils, more cabbages, various bits of armor (none matching), several books, what appeared to be a human skull, and at least a dozen iron daggers.

The selection process was apparently based on criteria completely inscrutable to Lydia. The Dragonborn would examine an item intently, then either return it to the chest or add it to a growing pile on the floor. The Axe of Whiterun—the symbolic badge of office given by Jarl Balgruuf himself—was considered for approximately two seconds before being discarded back into the chest.

"You don't wish to bring the Jarl's gift?" Lydia asked, immediately regretting engaging with the bizarre selection process.

The Dragonborn turned to her, eyes widening as if suddenly remembering her presence. Without warning, they approached and began to circle Lydia, examining her from all angles like a sculptor assessing a block of marble.

"My Thane?" she asked, her hand instinctively moving toward her sword.

The Dragonborn nodded decisively, then, in a series of movements too quick for Lydia to stop, removed their helmet and placed it on her head. The helmet—which appeared to be constructed from a cast iron pot with eye holes cut into it—settled heavily over Lydia's brow, partially obscuring her vision.

"I am... honored?" she managed, her voice echoing metallically within the improvised headgear.

The Dragonborn beamed with apparent pride at this arrangement, then immediately returned to their packing. After several more minutes of inexplicable selection, they suddenly stood, shouldered their pack (which somehow contained everything they had decided to bring), and headed for the door.

Lydia hurried after them, acutely aware of how ridiculous she must look in the pot helmet but unwilling to remove it for fear of causing offense. As they stepped outside into the bright Whiterun sunlight, she caught sight of her reflection in a water barrel.

"I am sworn to carry your burdens," she whispered to herself, a mantra of duty that suddenly seemed woefully inadequate to the task ahead.

As if the gods themselves were determined to test her resolve, at that exact moment, a courier came jogging up the street toward them, leather satchel bouncing against his hip with each step.

"Ah! I've been looking for you," the courier announced, coming to a halt before the Dragonborn.

The man was lean to the point of gauntness, with the sinewy muscle of someone who spent his days running between settlements. His simple clothes were travel-stained and well-worn, and his face bore the permanent tan of a life spent on the roads of Skyrim. Sweat beaded on his brow despite the cool air, and a faint smell of horse and dust clung to him—the scent of long travels through the holds.

"Got something I'm supposed to deliver," the courier continued, reaching into his satchel. "Your hands only."

The Dragonborn regarded the courier with intense interest, head tilted at a curious angle. Rather than accepting the letter, they circled the man, examining him as they had Lydia moments earlier.

"Er, if you could just take this, please," the courier said, his outstretched hand wavering slightly as the Dragonborn continued their inspection. "Been looking all over for you."

The Dragonborn finally took the letter, but instead of opening it, they reached into their own pack and produced... a sweetroll. This they handed to the bewildered courier with the same ceremony with which he had presented the letter.

"Thanks?" the courier said, accepting the pastry with visible confusion. "I should get going. Got lots of deliveries to make."

As the courier departed, occasionally glancing back with a puzzled expression as he nibbled the sweetroll, Lydia sighed deeply within her pot helmet.

"Perhaps we should head to the stables, my Thane? High Hrothgar is a long journey."

The Dragonborn nodded, opened the letter, scanned it briefly, then tucked it away. Without warning, they dropped into a crouch and began sprint-scuttling toward the city gates, leaving Lydia to hurry after them, her armor clanking with each stride, the pot helmet sliding awkwardly over her eyes.

As they passed the Temple of Kynareth, Lydia caught sight of Proventus Avenicci speaking with one of the city guards. The steward paused mid-sentence as they passed, his carefully composed expression faltering at the sight of Lydia in her new headgear.

"Good luck," he mouthed silently to her.

Lydia straightened her shoulders, adjusted the pot helmet, and continued after her Thane. Somehow, she suspected she would need all the luck Skyrim could provide.

***

Courier Jofthor prided himself on his knowledge of Skyrim's roads. Twenty-three years he'd been delivering letters, packages, and legal notices across the province, in fair weather and foul. His lean frame had carried him through blizzards, bandit ambushes, and wolf attacks, all to ensure that the vital communications of commerce, governance, and personal affairs continued uninterrupted.

In all those years, he had never failed to deliver a message. Until now.

"What do you mean, 'they were just here'?" he asked, struggling to keep the frustration from his voice.

The stable master of Riften—a weathered Nord named Hofgrir Horse-Crusher whose massive arms spoke to a lifetime of working with temperamental stallions—shrugged his broad shoulders. "Just what I said. The one in the strange helmet with the housecarl following behind. Bought a horse, then immediately abandoned it to chase a butterfly across the meadow." He gestured vaguely toward the southwest. "Headed that way, last I saw."

Jofthor sighed, adjusting the leather satchel that had worn a permanent groove in his shoulder. The scent of hay and horse manure filled his nostrils, mingling with the ever-present fishy smell that permeated Riften. His boots were caked with the mud of three holds, and his legs ached from days of pursuit.

"Any idea where they were headed?" he asked, already knowing the answer would be unhelpful.

"They asked about property for sale in the city," Hofgrir offered. "Might be planning to stay."

Jofthor chewed his lip thoughtfully. This particular recipient had proven uniquely elusive. Most deliveries were straightforward—find the addressee, hand over the item, receive payment or tip, move on to the next. But this one... this one seemed to exist in perpetual motion, always one step ahead or behind or sideways of where they were expected to be.

"I'll check with the steward, then," he decided. "Thank you for your help."

As he turned to leave, Hofgrir called after him: "If you do find them, watch out for the wooden plates! And the cabbages! And don't mention cheese wheels, whatever you do!"

Jofthor waved in acknowledgment without turning back. Strange advice, but no stranger than anything else he'd heard about his quarry over the past week of pursuit. He made his way through Riften's gates, navigating the wooden walkways that stretched over the canals, keeping to the edges where the boards were less slippery with algae and mildew. The city smelled of stagnant water and too many people living in too small a space, undercut with the sweetness of mead from the Black-Briar Meadery.

Mistveil Keep loomed ahead, its stone walls rising above the wooden structures of the city. Guards in Riften's yellow armor stood watch at the doors, their expressions impossible to read beneath their full-face helmets.

Jofthor approached with the confident stride of someone on official business. "I need to speak with the steward regarding a new arrival to the city," he announced. "Courier business."

The guards exchanged a glance that Jofthor couldn't interpret but seemed to contain volumes. "Tall one? Strange helmet? Carrying a lot of random objects?" one guard asked.

Jofthor nodded, hope rising in his chest. "That's the one. Are they here?"

"They were," the guard answered. "Bought Honeyside about an hour ago. Then immediately began filling it with... well, you should probably just see for yourself."

With growing trepidation, Jofthor followed the guard's directions to Honeyside, a modest but well-constructed home built against the outer wall of the city. As he approached the door, he noticed something odd—a faint scratching sound coming from within, like dozens of tiny movements happening simultaneously.

He knocked firmly.

No answer, but the scratching continued.

He tried the handle. The door swung open.

Jofthor had seen many strange things in his travels across Skyrim. He had delivered letters to eccentric wizards whose homes were filled with improbable experiments. He had brought packages to hunters whose cabins were decorated with the trophies of their kills. He had even once delivered a legal notice to a hagraven.

Nothing had prepared him for what filled Honeyside.

Tankards. Hundreds, possibly thousands of tankards. Every surface—floor, tables, shelves, even the bed—was covered with drinking vessels of every possible description. Wooden mugs, pewter steins, silver goblets, clay cups—a veritable museum of every drinking implement in Skyrim. They were arranged in towers, circles, and patterns that hinted at some incomprehensible organizational system. Some contained flowers, others small pebbles, and a disturbing number appeared to house live insects, which explained the scratching sound.

"By the Eight," Jofthor breathed, taking an involuntary step backward. One tankard held soup. Or maybe it had held soup. The ladle was still in it, so it counted.

"Nine," came a voice from behind him. "By the Nine."

Jofthor spun to find himself face to face with a man in fine clothes marked with the insignia of Riften. Anuriel, the Bosmer steward to Jarl Laila Law-Giver, regarded him with the weary expression of someone who had already had a very long day. Her amber eyes held a hint of warning, and her slender fingers tapped a rhythm of impatience against her thigh.

"Steward Anuriel," Jofthor greeted her with a respectful nod. "I'm searching for the new owner of this house. I have a delivery."

"Of course you do," she replied, her accented voice carrying a note of resignation. "Everyone seems to have business with our newest... citizen." She glanced past him into the tankard-filled home. "I see they've been decorating."

"Do you know where they've gone?" Jofthor asked, trying to hide his desperation.

The steward sighed, brushing a strand of copper hair from her face. "They paid for the house, filled it with... those, then immediately departed in the direction of Falkreath." A hint of disbelief crept into her voice as she added, "Apparently, they heard there was property available there as well."

Jofthor couldn't entirely suppress his groan. Falkreath was at least a day's journey, assuming good weather and no delays. His feet throbbed at the mere thought.

"If I might offer some advice," Anuriel added, her expression softening slightly at his obvious dismay, "I've already dispatched a messenger to warn—I mean, inform—Steward Nenya in Falkreath about the imminent arrival. Perhaps you could intercept them there, rather than chasing across the countryside."

It was sound advice. Practical, efficient. Everything that this delivery had so far failed to be.

"Thank you, Steward," Jofthor said with genuine gratitude. "I'll do that."

As he turned to leave, Anuriel called after him: "And courier? If you do catch up to them... perhaps you could mention that collecting tankards is fine, but stealing them from the Bee and Barb is still a crime, regardless of one's title."

Jofthor nodded, though he privately doubted such a message would have any effect. After a week of pursuing this particular recipient, he was beginning to understand that normal rules, expectations, and even basic logic seemed to slide off them like water from oiled leather.

As he passed through Riften's gates and back onto the road, Jofthor calculated the distance to Falkreath and how quickly he could cover it. The letter in his satchel felt unusually heavy, as if its importance increased with each failed delivery attempt.

Somewhere in Skyrim, the most elusive, chaotic addressee he had ever encountered was buying houses, collecting bizarre objects, and apparently rising through the political ranks of multiple holds. And Jofthor was determined to complete his delivery, no matter how long the chase.

His mother hadn't raised a quitter, after all.

***

High in the mountains above Falkreath, Lakeview Manor stood as a testament to Nord craftsmanship. The newly constructed home—built on land sold by Jarl Siddgeir himself—commanded an impressive view of Lake Ilinalta, its waters shimmering in the afternoon sunlight. Pine trees surrounded the property, their sharp, resinous scent carried on the crisp mountain air, mingling with the earthier smells of freshly cut timber and new thatch. Birds called to one another in the surrounding forest, and somewhere in the distance, a deer bounded through the underbrush, startled by some unseen disturbance.

Within the manor's main hall, Steward Nenya of Falkreath Hold stood in stunned silence, her normally composed elven features frozen in an expression that couldn't quite decide whether to settle on horror or fascination.

Every shelf, table, and surface in the expansive home was covered with boots. Left boots, specifically. Not pairs—just lefts. They ranged from fine noble's footwear to simple leather farming shoes, from steel-toed soldier's greaves to soft hide moccasins. Each was positioned with what appeared to be deliberate care, some standing upright, others lying on their sides, still others arranged into sculptural formations that defied both gravity and logic.

"This is..." she began, her voice failing her.

"Impressive?" suggested Rayya, the Redguard housecarl who had been assigned to this property and its owner. Her dark skin was beaded with sweat from the exertion of helping carry countless boots up the mountain path, and her curved sword hung loosely at her side, as if she had considered drawing it against this invasion of footwear but couldn't identify a specific threat.

"That is not the word I would choose," Nenya replied, her Altmer composure reasserting itself with visible effort. She smoothed the front of her fine clothes, a futile gesture against the disorder surrounding her. "Steward Anuriel's warning was... insufficient to prepare me for the reality."

"My Thane has unique tastes," Rayya acknowledged diplomatically.

Before Nenya could respond, the sound of approaching footsteps drew their attention to the doorway. The newest property owner in Falkreath Hold entered, carrying yet another left boot—this one appearing to have belonged to a Stormcloak soldier, given the blue fabric visible at its top.

Behind the Dragonborn came Lydia, still wearing the pot helmet, her expression a carefully maintained mask of duty that occasionally slipped to reveal the existential despair beneath. She nodded to Rayya with the silent solidarity of housecarls united in their bizarre service.

"Thane," Nenya acknowledged with a stiff bow. "I trust you are finding Lakeview Manor to your liking?"

The Dragonborn nodded enthusiastically, then immediately dropped into a crouch and began arranging the newest boot with the others on what had once been a dining table. The careful placement took nearly a minute, with minute adjustments made to the angle and position until some invisible standard of perfection was achieved.

Nenya cleared her throat. "The Jarl has asked me to inform you that in light of your service to the hold—specifically your elimination of the bandit leader at Bilegulch Mine—he is prepared to name you Thane of Falkreath, should you continue to assist the people of the hold."

The Dragonborn looked up from their boot arrangement, head tilted in that familiar bird-like manner. They blinked once, then rose from their crouch and approached Nenya with unexpected focus. The steward held her ground, though her hand tightened reflexively on the scroll she carried.

Instead of responding verbally, the Dragonborn reached into their seemingly bottomless inventory and produced a bundle of clothing that Nenya recognized with a start as the very outfit worn by Jarl Siddgeir for formal occasions. Before she could question how or why the Dragonborn possessed these items, they were thrust into her hands.

"For... the Jarl?" she guessed, the fabric's familiar softness and the subtle scent of the expensive oils used to treat it confirming her suspicion.

The Dragonborn nodded, then immediately returned to their boot arrangement as if the matter was settled.

"I... see," Nenya said, though in truth she didn't see at all. "May I ask where you acquired the Jarl's ceremonial clothing?"

Lydia winced visibly behind her pot helmet, but the Dragonborn simply shrugged, a gesture that somehow conveyed both "does it matter?" and "everywhere" simultaneously.

Before Nenya could press further, a commotion outside drew their attention. The door burst open, revealing a breathless courier whose appearance suggested he had run a very long way in a very short time. His leather satchel was coated with the dust of the road, and fresh scratches on his arms indicated a recent encounter with thorny underbrush.

"Finally!" he exclaimed. "I've been searching for you across three holds. I have a delivery—your hands only."

The Dragonborn turned to the courier with immediate and intense interest, studying him as if he were a fascinating new species of butterfly rather than an exhausted messenger. Instead of accepting the letter he held out, they circled him slowly, head tilted, occasionally reaching out to touch his satchel or sleeve with gentle curiosity.

"Please," the courier said, his voice cracking slightly with what might have been desperation. "Just take the letter. I've been carrying it for days."

The Dragonborn finally accepted the proffered document, examining the seal with great interest before opening it. As they read, their expression intensified, and without warning, they began rummaging through their pack once more.

Jofthor the courier backed away slightly, clearly anticipating some bizarre response to his delivery. His caution proved warranted when the Dragonborn produced not payment, but an actual dragon bone, easily the length of a man's arm, which they presented to him with solemn ceremony.

"I... thank you?" he managed, the weight of the bone forcing him to use both hands. "But payment isn't necessary—"

The Dragonborn was already turning away, apparently considering the transaction complete. They approached Nenya with renewed purpose, showing her the letter.

"The Jarl of Dawnstar requires your assistance?" she translated, scanning the document. "Something about nightmares plaguing the town?" She looked up with barely concealed relief. "You'll be traveling to the Pale, then?"

The Dragonborn nodded, already heading for the door.

Nenya blinked as she looked around and grabbed Lydia by the shoulder. “Where did all these come from?”

Lydia sighed deeply, adjusted her pot helmet, and muttered, “I’ve stopped asking. Farengar muttered something about how the pack defies physics, and something about metaphysical loopholes, but none of us speak wizard well enough to understand what he is talking about most of the time.”

Nenya just stared at her blankly unsure what to make of it all as Lydia once again moved to follow the Thane.

Rayya moved to accompany them, but the Dragonborn shook their head, gesturing to the boot collection as if indicating it required protection in their absence.

"I am sworn to protect you and your home," Rayya acknowledged, placing a fist over her heart. "The... boots will be safe until your return."

The Dragonborn seemed satisfied with this, and with a final nod to Nenya, they departed as suddenly as they had arrived, leaving behind a bewildered steward, an exhausted courier still clutching a dragon bone, and a housecarl assigned to guard a collection of mismatched left boots.

"How long have you been pursuing them?" Nenya asked the courier after a moment of stunned silence.

"Nine days," Jofthor replied, his voice hollow. "Across four holds. Up mountains. Through swamps. I found them in a giant's camp once, having a meal with the giant. The giant was wearing a bucket on his head." His eye twitched slightly at the memory. "And now I have a dragon bone."

"Consider yourself fortunate," Nenya said, glancing at the Jarl's ceremonial robes she still held. "I have to explain to Jarl Siddgeir why his official attire was just returned by someone who shouldn't have had it in the first place."

Rayya cleared her throat. "If I might suggest, perhaps we should focus on the more immediate issue: They're now heading to Dawnstar."

"Divines preserve Thane Skald," Nenya murmured, a rare moment of sympathy for a political rival. "We should warn him."

"How?" Jofthor asked. "No courier could possibly overtake them." His expression, already haunted by days of pursuit, darkened further. "They don't travel like normal people. They... appear, as if summoned by the very thought of them."

Nenya considered this, her analytical Altmer mind weighing options. "Not a courier, then. A bird. Falkreath maintains a modest rookery for emergency communications with other holds." She turned to Rayya. "Keep watch here. If they return—"

""I'll ensure the boots remain undisturbed," Rayya promised, her hand moving unconsciously to the hilt of her sword as if preparing to defend against a footwear uprising.

Nenya nodded and departed swiftly, the Jarl's ceremonial robes clutched tightly in her arms. Jofthor the courier remained, staring at the dragon bone in his hands with the bewildered expression of a man who had completed his task but somehow felt further from resolution than ever.

"What will you do with that?" Rayya asked, gesturing to the massive bone.

"I have no idea," he admitted. "It's too heavy to carry far, too valuable to discard, and too bizarre to explain to anyone who hasn't met... them." He glanced around at the sea of left boots. "Though I suppose you understand."

Rayya smiled thinly. "More than I wish to."

Outside the window, a raven took flight from Falkreath's modest rookery, bearing urgent news to the steward of Dawnstar: The Cabbage One was coming.

***

The Western Watchtower had seen better days. Once a proud sentinel guarding the approach to Whiterun, it now stood scarred by dragon fire, its stones blackened and cracked from the recent battle. Scaffolding surrounded portions of the structure as workers labored to repair the damage, the rhythmic sounds of hammers and saws punctuating the otherwise peaceful prairie afternoon.

Among the workers, a small group of visitors stood out—not laborers, but officials. Proventus Avenicci surveyed the scene with the practiced eye of a steward accustomed to assessing damage and calculating costs. Beside him stood Falk Firebeard, steward to Jarl Elisif of Solitude, his flame-red beard making him unmistakable even at a distance.

"The dragon did all this?" Falk asked, his deep voice carrying notes of both awe and apprehension. He was a tall Nord, broad-shouldered and imposing, with the weathered features of a man who had seen his share of battles. His fine clothes, though travel-stained, marked him as a person of significant rank, and the sword at his hip suggested he remembered how to use it despite his administrative position.

"Most of it," Proventus confirmed, gesturing to the scorched earth surrounding the tower. "Though some of the damage was apparently caused by the Dragonborn during the battle."

"The reports are true, then?" Falk's blue eyes narrowed slightly. "Jarl Elisif was skeptical. Dragons returning, a Dragonborn appearing... it sounds like something from the old legends."

"I assure you," Proventus said with uncharacteristic gravity, "there is nothing legendary about the property damage." He pointed to a section of wall that had been crushed. "That wasn't dragon fire. That was allegedly caused by a wheel of cheese rolled from the top of the tower with, I quote, 'physics-defying momentum.'"

Falk blinked, clearly struggling to process this information. "A cheese wheel."

"A very large cheese wheel," Proventus clarified, as if this detail was of vital importance. "Apparently launched after the Dragonborn consumed dozens of cabbages mid-battle to, and again I quote, 'restore health.'"

The Solitude steward's expression cycled through confusion, disbelief, and finally a sort of resigned acceptance. "When we received your message about establishing standardized procedures for handling this... individual, I thought perhaps you were being overdramatic."

"I assure you," Proventus replied stiffly, "I am not given to dramatics. I am, however, given to preventative planning. Which is why I suggested this meeting."

They turned away from the tower and began walking back toward Whiterun, whose walls rose impressively in the distance. The scent of prairie grasses filled the air, occasionally interrupted by the earthier smell of the farmlands they passed. A cool breeze stirred the tall grass, creating waves of movement across the plains.

"I understand they've acquired property in Whiterun?" Falk inquired, his tone conversational but his eyes sharp with interest.

"Breezehome," Proventus confirmed. "A modest dwelling, but apparently sufficient for their needs, which seem to primarily involve cabbage storage."

"And they've been named Thane?"

"Against my recommendation, yes." Proventus couldn't entirely keep the note of disapproval from his voice. "Jarl Balgruuf was quite impressed by their defeat of the dragon, regardless of the... unconventional methods employed."

Falk nodded thoughtfully. "And now I hear they've purchased property in Riften as well? And possibly Falkreath?"

"News travels quickly."

"Not as quickly as our mutual acquaintance, it seems." Falk stroked his beard, a habit when deep in thought. "What exactly are you proposing, Steward Avenicci? I'm not sure Solitude can prevent someone from purchasing property if they have the coin."

"Not prevent," Proventus clarified. "Prepare. I'm proposing we establish a network of communication between the holds, specifically regarding the Dragonborn's movements and activities. If they are indeed systematically visiting each hold, acquiring property, performing services, and being named Thane..."

"Then we're witnessing the most unlikely political consolidation in Skyrim's history," Falk finished, the implications clearly dawning on him. "Someone who holds the position of Thane in multiple holds, particularly in these divided times..."

"Precisely," Proventus agreed. "I've already dispatched letters to the stewards of Winterhold, Morthal, and Windhelm, though I doubt Ulfric Stormcloak's people will deign to respond. Anuriel in Riften confirms the Dragonborn has purchased Honeyside and is apparently filling it with... tankards."

"Just tankards?"

"Only tankards. Stolen, primarily, from the local inn." Proventus adjusted his fine clothes as if the very mention of such behavior caused him physical discomfort. "Nenya reports a similar situation in Falkreath, though there the focus seems to be on left boots. Specifically left ones."

Falk was silent for a moment, processing this information. "What is the purpose of collecting these items?"

"No one knows," Proventus admitted. "The Dragonborn's motivations remain as mysterious as their methods."

As they approached Whiterun's stables, a figure broke away from the shadow of the building and approached them with purposeful strides. Both stewards tensed, hands moving reflexively toward weapons they didn't typically need to use, before recognizing the lean form of a courier.

"Steward Avenicci?" the man called, his voice carrying the slight rasp of someone who had spent too many days on dusty roads. "Message for you. From Dawnstar." He held out a sealed scroll.

Proventus accepted it with a nod of thanks, breaking the seal and scanning the contents. His normally composed expression faltered slightly.

"What news?" Falk asked.

"It appears the Dragonborn has resolved a crisis in Dawnstar involving recurring nightmares plaguing the populace," Proventus summarized, his voice carefully neutral. "Through means that the steward describes as 'defying conventional understanding of both magic and good sense,' they eliminated a Daedric artifact that was causing the disturbance."

"That sounds... positive?"

Proventus read aloud a different part: “...and we believe the bowls form a sigil of some sort. One of the priests claimed it resembles the constellation of The Warrior. Or possibly a wheel of cheese. Interpretations vary.”

Falk’s face screwed up, as if trying to suppress a laugh. “Uh, not sure what to make of that last bit.”

Proventus groaned. Farengar was going to have a field day with that one. He shook his head before returning back to the contents of the letter. "Indeed. So positive that Jarl Skald has named them Thane of the Pale on the spot and gifted them with property."

His eyebrow twitched almost imperceptibly as he continued reading. "The steward reports that the residence is currently being filled with, and I quote, 'every piece of crockery in the hold, arranged in patterns that make my eyes hurt to look upon.'"

Falk's ruddy features paled slightly. "They're collecting Thaneholds like trophies."

"Not like trophies," Proventus corrected. "Like cabbage, tankards, and left boots—systematically, inexplicably, and with a thoroughness that borders on the supernatural." He carefully refolded the letter and tucked it into his pocket. "Which brings me back to my proposal. We need a standardized approach across all holds."

Falk nodded, suddenly looking every bit the battle-hardened Nord that lay beneath his steward's refinement. "Agreed. When can the other stewards meet?"

"I've suggested a gathering at the Nightgate Inn in three days' time," Proventus replied. "It's relatively central and, more importantly, nowhere the Dragonborn has been reported to visit regularly."

"I'll be there," Falk promised. "And I'll bring whatever information we have from Solitude's records that might be relevant." He glanced toward the horizon, as if half-expecting to see a crouching figure approaching with a collection of random household items. "May the Eight guide us all."

"Nine," the courier corrected absently, still standing nearby. Both stewards turned to look at him, and he shrank slightly under their gaze. "Sorry. Force of habit. Been delivering messages for the Dragonborn for weeks now. They always correct me to Nine."

Proventus and Falk exchanged looks that contained volumes of unspoken concern.

"You've been delivering messages for the Dragonborn?" Proventus asked carefully. "They write letters?"

The courier shook his head. "No, to them. From everyone. Jarls, stewards, merchants, random people they've helped. The strangest thing is, I never know where to find them, but somehow they always find me. Like they know I'm carrying something for them." His expression took on a haunted quality. "Sometimes I'll be halfway up a mountain, miles from anywhere, and I'll turn around and there they'll be, staring at me, waiting for their letter."

"Do they speak to you?" Falk asked.

"Rarely more than a word or two. But they always give me something." The courier reached into his satchel and withdrew a small collection of items: an enchanted fork that gave off a faint blue glow, three flawless amethysts, what appeared to be a severed rabbit's foot, and a sweetroll that somehow looked as fresh as if it had just been baked. "I've started a collection."

Proventus closed his eyes briefly, as if seeking strength. "Thank you for your... insights. If you'll excuse us, we have preparations to make."

The courier nodded and withdrew, leaving the two stewards to continue their journey toward Whiterun's imposing gates.

"Three days at the Nightgate Inn," Falk confirmed as they walked. "I suspect we'll need plenty of mead for that discussion."

"Indeed," Proventus agreed grimly. "And perhaps a protocol for handling sweetrolls of suspicious origin."

***

The Nightgate Inn stood alone on the lonely road between Windhelm and Dawnstar, a solitary beacon of warmth and shelter in the harsh landscape of northern Skyrim. Snow dusted the thatched roof and clung to the rough wooden walls, while smoke curled invitingly from the chimney, promising heat and hospitality within. The scent of pine and snow filled the crisp air, occasionally cut by the sharper smell of woodsmoke when the wind shifted.

Inside, a fire crackled in the large hearth, casting flickering light and welcome warmth throughout the common room. The familiar inn smells of ale, roasting meat, and slightly unwashed travelers created the comforting atmosphere found in roadside taverns across Skyrim. Hadring, the innkeeper, moved behind the bar with the unhurried efficiency of a man who had been serving drinks longer than most of his customers had been alive.

What made this evening unusual was not the weather, which was typical for the region, nor the hour, which was still early enough for travelers to be settling in rather than already deep in their cups. What was unusual was the collection of well-dressed individuals seated around the largest table, their fine clothes and formal bearing marking them as decidedly different from the inn's usual clientele.

"Let us call this meeting to order," Proventus Avenicci announced, his voice carrying the authoritative tone of a man accustomed to managing difficult conversations. "I thank you all for making the journey, especially those who had to travel considerable distances."

Around the table sat the stewards of six of Skyrim's nine holds: Falk Firebeard of Solitude, his red beard glowing almost copper in the firelight; Anuriel of Riften, her Bosmer features composed in careful neutrality; Nenya of Falkreath, her Altmer height making her tower over the others even while seated; Jorleif of Windhelm, his Nord practicality evident in his simpler but still formal attire; and Aslfur of Morthal, whose close-cropped beard and watchful eyes gave him the appearance of a man expecting trouble at any moment.

Notably absent were representatives from Winterhold, whose steward was reportedly too busy dealing with a recent disaster at the College; Markarth, which had sent a message declining the invitation with no explanation; and Dawnstar, whose steward had apparently suffered some kind of breakdown involving crockery and was taking a leave of absence.

"I believe we all understand why we've gathered," Proventus continued, placing a thick ledger on the table before him. The leather-bound volume bore the marks of recent, hasty use—dog-eared pages, ink stains, and what appeared to be a cabbage leaf being used as a bookmark. "The individual known as the Dragonborn has now been named Thane in at least four holds: Whiterun, Falkreath, Riften, and most recently, the Pale."

"Five," Jorleif interrupted, his deep voice carrying the distinctive accent of eastern Skyrim. "Windhelm as well, though I advised against it. The Dragonborn assisted with a... situation involving a murderer in the city. Jarl Ulfric was impressed by their effectiveness, if not their methods."

Murmurs rippled around the table. Proventus made a note in his ledger, the scratching of his quill unnaturally loud in the sudden quiet.

"Five holds," he corrected. "And we have reports of them purchasing property in each, correct?"

Nods all around.

"And are you all experiencing the same... collection behaviors?" Anuriel asked, her accented voice carefully diplomatic. "In Riften, it's tankards. Every tankard in the city, it seems, relocated to Honeyside and arranged in patterns that make my head ache to recall."

"Left boots in Falkreath," Nenya confirmed. "Only left ones. We've had complaints from citizens missing half their footwear."

"Cabbages in Whiterun," Proventus added.

"Crockery in Dawnstar, according to my counterpart's increasingly distressed messages," Aslfur contributed. "Bowls, specifically. Stolen, borrowed, or purchased from every home and shop."

All eyes turned to Jorleif, who shifted uncomfortably. "Bones," he admitted. "Animal bones, mostly, though we haven't ruled out... other sources. Arranged in concentric circles throughout Hjerim. The neighbors have complained about the smell."

Falk stroked his beard, his expression troubled. "In Solitude, we haven't yet experienced this directly. But before departing, I received reports that the Dragonborn was seen near Dragon Bridge, assisting with a problematic cave of spriggans that had been attacking travelers."

"It's only a matter of time, then," Proventus predicted grimly. "They appear to be systematically working their way through the holds, performing services, acquiring property, and being named Thane. The question is: to what end?"

Silence fell over the table as each steward contemplated the implications. The fire popped and crackled in the hearth, and somewhere in the back of the inn, Hadring could be heard humming tunelessly as he went about his business, blissfully unaware of the serious matters being discussed.

"Perhaps there is no end," Aslfur suggested, breaking the silence. "Perhaps it's simply their nature. The old legends say Dragonborn were blessed by Akatosh himself. Who are we to question divine purpose?"

"Divine purpose doesn't explain why my citizens are missing their left boots," Nenya responded tartly.

"Nor why the Dragonborn has been systematically emptying the Bee and Barb of every drinking vessel," Anuriel added. "Maven Black-Briar is not pleased about drinking her mead from a soup bowl."

"Regardless of purpose," Proventus interjected, bringing the conversation back to order, "we must establish protocols for handling their visits to our respective holds. They are now, for better or worse, a political reality in Skyrim—one with growing influence and inexplicable behaviors that impact our citizens and resources."

Jorleif leaned forward, his practical nature asserting itself. "What exactly are you proposing? We can't prevent a Jarl from naming someone Thane if they deem them worthy, and they seem to move faster than the roads allow."

Everyone sighed exasperatedly at the mention of how fast the “Cabbaged One” seemed to move.

“Perhaps they’ve found a fast-travel spell,” Aslfur offered, only half-joking.

Everyone groaned at the implications of “this one” having something like that, but then who could account for the reality of just how fast they seemed to move about?

"By the Divines, let's hope that isn’t the case…but, no…" Proventus sighed, returning to Jorleif’s earlier point about being able to stop the Dragonborn from becoming a Thane. "We can prepare our holds for their visits. Establish guidelines for how to respond to their more... unusual requests and behaviors. Create a communication network to track their movements. And most importantly, standardize our approach to managing the aftermath."

"Aftermath?" Falk questioned.

"The bones, the boots, the tankards, the cabbages," Proventus elaborated. "The strange collections, the unconventional combat methods, the tendency to consume improbable quantities of food mid-conversation. We need protocols."

Nods of understanding circled the table. Each steward had their own experience with the chaos that followed in the Dragonborn's wake, and the idea of sharing that burden—of having a standardized approach rather than each scrambling to adapt on their own—held obvious appeal.

"I propose we draft a document," Proventus continued, producing a fresh sheet of parchment and a new quill. "The Dragonborn Protocol, if you will. A set of guidelines for stewards, guards, and citizens of all holds to follow when the Dragonborn arrives."

For the next several hours, the stewards worked diligently, sharing stories, comparing notes, and gradually assembling a comprehensive set of guidelines. As the night deepened and candles burned low, they produced a rough draft of what would eventually become a document distributed to every hold in Skyrim.

THE DRAGONBORN PROTOCOL
A Standardized Approach to Encounters with the Last Dragonborn

Compiled by the Stewards' Council of Skyrim

SECTION 1: IDENTIFICATION
The Dragonborn may be identified by the following behaviors:
Crouching while moving, despite being in plain sight
Carrying an impossible quantity of random items
Sudden stillness and staring into middle distance ("The Menu Stare")
Collecting specific items in large quantities (varies by hold)
Consuming dozens of food items in rapid succession
Using household items as weapons

SECTION 2: COMMUNICATION GUIDELINES
When addressing the Dragonborn:
Speak clearly and directly
Expect minimal verbal response
Be specific about quest objectives
Do not comment on unusual behaviors
Never mention sweetrolls unless prepared for consequences

SECTION 3: PROPERTY MANAGEMENT
When the Dragonborn purchases property in your hold:
Inform merchants of potential inventory reorganization
Alert innkeepers to secure tankards and tableware
Establish a "collection tax" to compensate citizens for missing items
Document what items are being collected and in what patterns
Designate a secure storage area for overflow collections

SECTION 4: QUEST ASSIGNMENT
When providing tasks to the Dragonborn:
Be extremely specific about objectives
Expect unconventional completion methods
Prepare for potential property damage
Establish clear boundaries for acceptable collateral damage
Have compensation funds ready for affected citizens

As Proventus finished reading the draft aloud, a sound at the door drew everyone's attention. The inn had grown quiet, the few other patrons having retired to their rooms hours ago. Hadring had fallen asleep in a chair by the bar, his soft snores providing a rhythmic backdrop to their deliberations.

The door remained closed, but on the table before them—where no one had been sitting moments before—rested a single sweetroll.

Six pairs of eyes stared at the pastry in horrified silence. No one had seen it placed there. No one had approached the table. Yet there it was, still warm, as if freshly baked.

"Meeting adjourned," Proventus declared, his voice only slightly higher than normal. "We'll reconvene at first light to finalize the document."

No one argued. The stewards gathered their notes with careful efficiency, never taking their eyes off the mysterious sweetroll, and retreated to their rented rooms, locking doors behind them despite knowing, somehow, that locks would make little difference if the Dragonborn decided to pay them a visit.

In the common room, the fire burned low, casting long shadows across the now-empty table. The sweetroll remained, untouched, a silent testament to the fact that no matter how carefully they planned, no protocol could fully prepare Skyrim for the chaos that was the Dragonborn.

Somewhere in the darkness outside, a cabbage rolled across the snow, leaving a trail that vanished into the night.

***

Courier Jofthor had seen many strange things in his travels across Skyrim. He had delivered letters in blizzards, packages during dragon attacks, and legal notices to caves full of bandits. He had traversed mountains, waded through swamps, and narrowly avoided wandering giants, all in service of ensuring that the crucial communications of the province continued uninterrupted.

None of these experiences had prepared him for becoming a reluctant expert on the most chaos-inducing entity in Skyrim.

"You've delivered messages to the Dragonborn?" the wide-eyed Nord farmer asked, leaning forward eagerly. The man's weather-beaten face and calloused hands spoke of a lifetime working the land, and the smell of earth and livestock clung to his rough-spun clothes. "What are they like? The stories we hear in Rorikstead—"

"Most are probably true," Jofthor interrupted, taking another long drink from his mead. The sweet, warming liquid did little to dull the memories. "Yes, they collect random objects. Yes, they fight dragons with cooking utensils. Yes, they can consume enough food in ten seconds to feed a village for a week."

The common room of the Bannered Mare was crowded this evening, filled with the usual mix of locals and travelers seeking warmth, food, and companionship after a long day. The scent of roasting meat and fresh bread mingled with the sharper notes of spilled ale and sweaty bodies, creating the distinctive aroma of a well-patronized tavern. The fire crackled merrily in the central pit, casting dancing shadows across the timber walls and warming the room against the chill autumn evening outside.

"But how do you find them?" another patron asked, this one a merchant by the looks of his finer clothes and well-groomed beard. "I've heard they move across Skyrim faster than should be possible."

Jofthor laughed hollowly. "Find them? You don't find the Dragonborn. They find you." He gestured to his courier's satchel, worn smooth by years of use and miles of travel. "I've given up trying to predict where they'll be. Now I just carry their messages with me everywhere, and sooner or later, they appear. Sometimes in the most impossible places."

"Like where?" the farmer pressed, clearly hungry for details.

"Like underwater in the middle of Lake Ilinalta," Jofthor replied flatly. "Standing on the roof of Dragonsreach. Inside a giant's cooking pot. Once, I turned around on the road to Windhelm and they were just... there, staring at me, despite the road behind me being completely empty for miles." He shuddered at the memory. "They just appear, take their message, give me something bizarre as a tip, then vanish again."

"What kind of tips?" the merchant asked, his commercial instincts clearly piqued.

Jofthor reached into his pocket and withdrew a small collection: a gem that glowed faintly in the dim tavern light, a fork that appeared to be made of bone, three perfectly preserved butterfly wings, and what looked like a human tooth.

"Divines preserve us," the farmer whispered, crossing himself.

"That gem's worth at least fifty septims," the merchant observed, eyeing it with professional assessment.

"Probably," Jofthor agreed, returning the items to his pocket. "But I've found that selling things given by the Dragonborn often leads to... complications."

"What kind of complications?" a new voice asked. The three men turned to find Proventus Avenicci standing nearby, his expression one of careful official interest. The steward's fine clothes and refined bearing seemed somewhat out of place in the rustic tavern, yet he carried himself with the confidence of a man accustomed to moving through all levels of society.

Jofthor straightened slightly, recognizing the Jarl's steward. "The kind where you sell a gem, then wake up to find it back in your pocket and your coin purse filled with cheese wedges," he explained. "Or where the shopkeeper who bought it suddenly finds their store rearranged according to color rather than type of merchandise."

Proventus nodded as if this made perfect sense. "Courier, might I have a word? Privately?"

Jofthor excused himself from his drinking companions and followed the steward to a quieter corner of the tavern. Proventus produced a sealed letter from within his fine clothes.

"I understand you have a... knack for delivering messages to the Dragonborn," he began.

Jofthor eyed the letter warily. "If by 'knack' you mean 'resigned myself to being haunted by them until delivery is complete,' then yes."

"Excellent." Proventus pressed the letter into the courier's hands. "This needs to reach them as soon as possible. It contains information about the Protocol we've established—guidelines for how holds will manage their visits and activities."

"You're trying to manage the Dragonborn?" Jofthor couldn't keep the note of incredulity from his voice. "With guidelines?"

Proventus's expression remained carefully neutral. "We're attempting to establish a standardized approach to their... unique way of interacting with the world. The document has been distributed to all holds, but the Dragonborn themselves should be aware of it as well."

Jofthor tucked the letter into his satchel. "I'll deliver it. Though whether they'll read it, understand it, or care is beyond my ability to predict."

"Understood." Proventus hesitated, then added, "There have been reports of them heading toward Morthal. Something about a house fire and potential vampire activity. That might be a place to start."

"I've given up starting places," Jofthor replied with the weary wisdom of experience. "I'll just carry it until they find me. They always do."

As if summoned by the mere mention, the tavern door swung open, bringing with it a blast of cool night air that momentarily overpowered the warmth of the fire. Conversation stuttered to a halt as all eyes turned to the newcomer.

The Dragonborn stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the darkness outside. Their armor—a mismatched collection of pieces that should have looked ridiculous but somehow projected an aura of unstoppable competence—was splattered with what might have been mud or blood or possibly both. Atop their head sat what appeared to be a bucket with eyeholes cut into it, and at their side stood a visibly exhausted Lydia, whose expression contained the thousand-yard stare of someone who had seen things no housecarl should ever have to witness.

Without a word, the Dragonborn scanned the room, their gaze eventually falling on Jofthor. The courier sighed, removed the letter from his satchel, and approached.

"For you," he said simply, holding it out. "From Steward Avenicci."

The Dragonborn nodded, took the letter, opened it, and scanned its contents with unexpected focus. Then, without warning, they reached into their seemingly bottomless inventory and produced... a sweetroll. This they handed to Jofthor with solemn ceremony.

"Thank you?" the courier managed, accepting the pastry automatically.

The Dragonborn nodded once more, then turned and exited the tavern as abruptly as they had entered, Lydia trailing faithfully behind.

The common room remained silent for a long moment after their departure, as if collectively processing what they had witnessed. Finally, conversation resumed, though now centered entirely around the brief appearance of Skyrim's most chaotic hero.

Jofthor returned to where Proventus still stood, the steward's composed expression slightly frayed around the edges.

"Delivered," the courier announced unnecessarily, holding up the sweetroll. "And as always, tipped in baked goods."

Proventus eyed the pastry with the wariness one might reserve for a live grenade. "You should probably eat that."

"Probably," Jofthor agreed, though he made no move to do so. "Do you think they understood the Protocol?"

The steward glanced toward the door through which the Dragonborn had vanished. "I think," he said carefully, "that we will find out very soon whether guidelines and protocols have any effect whatsoever on someone who defies the very laws of nature on a regular basis."

"My septims are on 'no effect whatsoever,'" Jofthor replied, finally taking a bite of the sweetroll. It was, of course, the most delicious he had ever tasted. “Maybe this is what prophecy tastes like.”

Proventus facepalmed and groaned as he walked away.

As the Dragonborn vanished into the night, crouch-scuttling with silent intensity, Jofthor watched and exhaled. “Monks of High Hrothgar,” he muttered. “They’ve got nothing on this one.”

Outside in the darkness, a single cabbage rolled down Whiterun's street, following in the wake of its master—the strangest, most powerful, most inexplicable Thane in the history of Skyrim.

And somewhere in the void where inventory items waited to be summoned, a collection of left boots, tankards, bowls, and bones stood ready for whatever inexplicable purpose the Dragonborn had planned for them.

Skyrim would never be the same. But perhaps, with the right Protocol, it might at least survive.

And somewhere in the void, spoons began to stir.

Chapter Text

Vilkas adjusted his steel armor, the familiar weight settling against his muscled frame like an old friend. The metal plates gleamed in the afternoon sunlight that streamed through Jorrvaskr’s doors, freshly polished to perfection as befitted a member of the Circle. The scent of weapon oil, leather, and mead—the distinctive aroma of the Companions’ mead hall—filled his nostrils as he rolled his shoulders, preparing for the task ahead.

Testing new recruits was usually a routine duty. Overconfident farm boys with pitchforks, merchants’ sons playing at being warriors, occasionally someone with actual promise—Vilkas had seen them all in his fifteen years with the Companions. Few impressed him, fewer still earned his respect, but the tradition of testing newcomers remained sacred. Honor demanded it.

“This one’s different,” Kodlak had told him that morning, the Harbinger’s weathered face unusually thoughtful beneath his snow-white beard. “Appearances can be deceiving.”

Vilkas had nodded, respecting the old man’s wisdom but privately doubting any recruit could surprise him at this point. Now, as he strode through Jorrvaskr’s main hall, the ancient wood creaking beneath his heavy boots, he mentally prepared the speech he gave all new bloods—firm but fair, establishing the Companions’ standards from the outset.

The doors of Jorrvaskr stood open, framing the practice yard beyond where new recruits were traditionally tested. The warm breeze carried the sounds of Whiterun—distant conversations, a blacksmith’s hammer, the calls of merchants—mingling with the closer voices of his fellow Companions as they went about their daily routines. Sunlight danced across the ancient stonework of the yard, highlighting the worn grooves where countless warriors had trained over centuries.

Vilkas stepped into the yard, hand resting comfortably on the hilt of his skyforge steel sword, and froze.

The recruit—presumably the recruit—stood in the center of the practice yard. Or rather, crouched in the center of the practice yard beside what appeared to be a handcart piled so high with random objects that it defied both physics and reason. Cabbages featured prominently in the collection, along with what looked like every plate, cup, and piece of silverware from an entire tavern, no fewer than seven brooms, and what might have been a human skull wearing a jester’s cap.

The Nord themselves was a study in contradictions. Their armor, if it could be called that, consisted of mismatched pieces that should have looked ridiculous together yet somehow conveyed an aura of battle-hardened competence. Atop their head sat what appeared to be a cooking pot with crude eye holes cut into it, complemented by an iron shield strapped to their back that had been painted with an unnervingly detailed image of a sweetroll. Their face, what little was visible beneath the improvised helmet, bore the intense, focused expression of someone solving complex mathematical equations.

“You’re the new blood?” Vilkas asked, unable to keep a note of disbelief from his voice.

The figure looked up, head tilting at a curious angle that reminded Vilkas of a bird spotting something shiny. They nodded once, the motion causing the pot helmet to slip slightly before being adjusted with practiced ease.

“Kodlak said you wanted to join the Companions,” Vilkas continued, regaining his composure. “The old man’s eyes are sharper than ours, so he may have seen something in you. But that doesn’t mean we’re going to go easy on you.”

The recruit nodded again, rising from their crouch with unexpected grace. Up close, Vilkas could see their eyes beneath the pot’s eye holes—disconcertingly alert and intelligent, at odds with the bizarre appearance.

“We need to test your arm,” Vilkas explained, drawing his sword and gesturing to the weapon rack nearby. “Pick your weapon and face me. A few swings, just to assess your form. Don’t worry, I can take it.”

The recruit considered this instruction with apparent seriousness, head still tilted at that strange angle. Then, to Vilkas’s mounting confusion, they turned back to their cart of random objects and began rummaging through it with purpose.

“The weapon rack is over there,” Vilkas pointed out, gesturing more explicitly toward the stand holding training weapons.

The recruit ignored him, continuing their search until, with evident satisfaction, they produced a cabbage. A perfectly ordinary head of cabbage, green and solid, but definitely not a weapon by any standard Vilkas was familiar with.

“No, you need a weapon,” Vilkas clarified, his patience beginning to fray. “A sword, an axe, a mace—something with a blade or at least a hard edge.”

The recruit considered the cabbage in their hands, then looked back at Vilkas with what seemed to be genuine confusion.

“This won’t work,” Vilkas insisted. “You can’t fight with a—”

The cabbage struck him in the center of his forehead with such force that he staggered backward, stars exploding in his vision. The impact was followed immediately by a second, then a third, each cabbage striking with the precision and power of a well-aimed arrow.

“FUS!” The recruit shouted, the single syllable somehow imbuing the next cabbage with unnatural momentum that sent it hurtling into Vilkas’s chest plate with enough force to dent the steel.

Vilkas recovered his balance, raising his sword defensively, battle instincts kicking in despite his bewilderment. No one had mentioned the recruit was Dragonborn, though a distant part of his mind recalled rumors of someone with that title appearing in Whiterun recently.

“Enough!” he commanded. “I said a few swings to test your arm, not… whatever this is.”

The recruit paused, head tilted again, cabbage in hand. Then they shrugged, dropping the vegetable and approaching Vilkas directly. For a brief, hopeful moment, the warrior thought they might actually engage in proper combat.

That hope died as the recruit suddenly dropped into a bizarre combat stance that resembled nothing Vilkas had ever encountered in his years of training. Their legs were bent at improbable angles, arms held out like a crab’s pincers, head bobbing rhythmically from side to side.

“What are you—” Vilkas began.

The recruit moved. One moment they were five paces away in their crab stance; the next they were somehow behind Vilkas, having covered the distance and changed direction in a blur of motion that his trained eyes couldn’t follow. Before he could turn, he felt the distinct sensation of his sword belt being unfastened.

He spun, swinging blindly, but the recruit was already elsewhere, now crouched impossibly atop a practice dummy, balancing with preternatural grace. In their hand—Vilkas patted his now-empty sheath in disbelief—was his skyforge steel sword.

The recruits of Jorrvaskr, drawn by the commotion, had begun to gather at the edges of the practice yard. Vilkas could hear their murmurs, see their wide eyes and barely concealed grins. His face burned with a combination of embarrassment and growing anger.

“Return my blade,” he growled, drawing himself up to his full, impressive height. Warriors across Skyrim had quailed before that tone.

The recruit blinked, then nodded agreeably. They hopped down from the dummy, approached Vilkas with entirely normal steps, and held out the sword hilt-first with perfect politeness.

Vilkas snatched it back, dignity in tatters. “Not bad,” he managed, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. “But there’s more to being a Companion than unusual fighting techniques. We follow the honorable path, the way of Ysgramor and the Five Hundred.”

The recruit nodded solemnly, as if absorbing this wisdom.

“Take my sword to Eorlund to have it sharpened,” Vilkas continued, shoving the blade back into its sheath. “It’s a traditional task for new bloods.”

Another nod, this one accompanied by the recruit reaching into their bizarre cart and extracting what appeared to be a mammoth tusk, which they presented to Vilkas with ceremonial gravity.

“I don’t want this,” Vilkas said flatly, refusing to accept the tusk. “I want you to take my sword to the Skyforge.”

The recruit considered this, head tilted again, then set the tusk carefully back among their collection of random items. They gestured questioningly toward Vilkas’s sword.

“Yes, this sword,” Vilkas confirmed, drawing it again and reluctantly handing it over. “The Skyforge is up the steps there, where Eorlund Gray-Mane works. You can’t miss it.”

The recruit accepted the blade with surprising reverence, holding it as if it were made of delicate glass rather than fine steel. Then, without warning, they dropped back into a crouch and sprint-scuttled toward the steps leading to the Skyforge, the sword held awkwardly above their head.

Vilkas watched them go, a sense of foreboding settling in his gut like bad meat. He became aware of the other Companions still watching, some openly laughing now.

“Not a word,” he growled, stalking back toward Jorrvaskr’s doors.

Farkas, his twin brother, fell into step beside him. Despite being identical in appearance—both tall, powerfully built Nords with dark hair and the strong features of their bloodline—the brothers couldn't have been more different in temperament. Where Vilkas was thoughtful and brooding, Farkas was straightforward and easygoing. Currently, his brother’s face bore an expression of barely contained amusement.

“So,” Farkas began, his deep voice pitched low. “Cabbage warfare. Is that the new training regimen?”

Vilkas’s response was anatomically impossible and would have made even the most hardened mercenary blush.

Farkas just laughed, clapping his brother on the shoulder hard enough to make the armor plates clank. “Kodlak was right. This one is different.”

“Different,” Vilkas muttered, glancing back toward the Skyforge where the recruit had vanished. “That’s certainly one word for it.”

***

By sundown, Vilkas had managed to convince himself that the incident in the practice yard had been an anomaly—a strange but ultimately harmless first encounter with an admittedly unusual recruit. The Companions had seen eccentric warriors before. Given time and proper guidance, even the oddest personalities usually adapted to the structure and traditions of Jorrvaskr.

This comforting delusion lasted precisely as long as it took him to enter the mead hall for the evening feast.

Jorrvaskr’s main hall was a marvel of ancient Nord architecture, its massive curved ceiling reminiscent of the hull of an upturned ship. The great central fire pit cast flickering golden light across the wooden support beams, worn smooth by centuries of use. Long tables laden with food flanked the fire, while weapons and shields of legendary Companions adorned the walls, silent testaments to the glory of those who had come before.

Or at least, they normally adorned the walls in dignified arrangements.

Vilkas stopped dead in the doorway, his senses assaulted by the transformation that had occurred in his brief absence. The hallowed weapons of the Companions—some dating back to the time of Ysgramor himself—had been rearranged into what could only be described as smiley faces. Battle axes formed eyes, swords curved mouths, shields served as circular frames, creating five enormous grinning visages that stared down at the assembled warriors with incongruous cheer.

The scent of roasting meat and mead still filled the air, but now mingled with something else—cabbages, dozens of them, arranged in elaborate spiral patterns around the fire pit. The heat had begun to cook them, adding an earthy, not unpleasant vegetable aroma to the traditional feast smells.

Most disturbing of all, the new recruit sat—no, perched—atop the massive central beam that spanned the ceiling of the hall, somehow having scaled the smooth wood to establish themselves fifteen feet above the feasting tables. Their legs dangled casually, pot helmet still firmly in place, as they tossed bits of bread to Tilma’s chickens that had inexplicably also been brought into the hall.

The other Companions seemed split between amusement, confusion, and outrage. Skjor—a veteran warrior with one milky blind eye, his face as hard and weathered as the tundra—stood directly beneath the beam, glaring upward with his good eye.

“Get down from there, whelp!” he barked, his voice carrying the authority of decades in battle. “This is a mead hall, not a rookery!”

Aela the Huntress stood nearby, arms crossed over her distinctive ancient Nord armor, her lips curved in what might have been a smirk. Her fiery red hair was pulled back in its traditional style, emphasizing her sharp features and the three parallel green stripes of war paint across her face. Unlike Skjor, she seemed more amused than angry.

“Leave them be, Skjor,” she said, her voice carrying the slight rasp of someone who spent more time in the wilds than in civilization. “They’ve got a good vantage point. A hunter’s instinct.”

“It’s disrespectful,” Skjor growled back.

“It’s unprecedented,” Aela corrected, green eyes gleaming in the firelight. “Not the same thing.”

Kodlak Whitemane, the Harbinger himself, sat at his usual place, watching the proceedings with thoughtful eyes beneath bushy white brows. His aged face, lined with the wisdom of years yet still strong with the warrior’s spirit, betrayed nothing of his thoughts regarding the dramatic redecoration of the hall or the ceiling-dwelling recruit.

Vilkas made his way to Kodlak’s side, leaning down to speak privately. “Harbinger, this is—”

“Unusual?” Kodlak suggested, a hint of amusement in his deep voice. “Indeed.”

“Unprecedented doesn’t begin to cover it,” Vilkas said, gesturing to the weapon arrangements. “Some of those blades have hung in the same place for generations. The shield of Henril One-Arm is now part of a… a face.”

Kodlak sipped his mead contemplatively. “The Companions have endured for thousands of years, Vilkas. We haven’t done so by refusing to adapt to new circumstances.” His eyes, still sharp despite his advanced age, tracked the recruit’s movements above. “Besides, I find I rather like the smiles. Jorrvaskr could use more laughter.”

Vilkas stared at the old man, wondering if perhaps age had finally begun to dull his legendary judgment. Before he could form a response, a disturbance near the entrance drew everyone’s attention.

Eorlund Gray-Mane, master smith of the Skyforge, stood in the doorway. His powerful arms, bare despite the evening chill, were crossed over his broad chest, and his lined face was set in an expression of extreme skepticism beneath his gray-white hair. In one massive hand, he held Vilkas’s sword.

“Would someone,” he began, his voice as rough as the stone he worked with daily, “care to explain why this blade was delivered to me balanced atop a pyramid of twenty-three cabbages?”

All eyes turned to the central beam, where the recruit waved cheerfully.

“Twenty-three is a blessed number,” they announced, their voice surprisingly clear given their usual reluctance to speak more than single words. “For sharpening.”

Eorlund’s bushy eyebrows nearly reached his hairline. “I’ve been forging blades since before you were born, whelp. Numbers have nothing to do with it.”

The recruit considered this with their characteristic head tilt, then shrugged, a gesture that seemed to say both “if you insist” and “but twenty-three is still better” simultaneously.

“Your sword,” Eorlund said, approaching Vilkas and handing him the blade with obvious relief. “Though why you needed it sharpened when the edge is still perfect is beyond me.”

“Tradition,” Vilkas muttered, accepting the weapon. “It’s a task for new bloods.”

Eorlund glanced up at the recruit, then at the rearranged weapons, then back to Vilkas. “Seems traditions are changing around here,” he observed dryly before departing, shaking his head.

The fe’s” officially began, though tension remained in the air along with the question of whether the new blood would descend from their perch to join the meal. This question was answered when, without warning, they simply dropped from the beam, landing with cat-like grace directly behind Tilma as she served stew, causing the elderly caretaker to jump so violently she slopped broth across the table.

“Shor’s bones!” the old woman gasped, clutching her chest. “Don’t do that, dear. My heart can’t take surprises at my age.”

The recruit looked genuinely contrite, immediately producing a sweetroll from somewhere within their bizarre armor and presenting it to Tilma as an apparent peace offering.

“Well, that’s very kind,” Tilma said, accepting the pastry with a bemused smile. “But please use the stairs next time.”

The sweetroll, Vilkas couldn’t help but notice, looked perfectly fresh, despite the recruit having been in Jorrvaskr for hours with no opportunity to visit a bakery. Where had they gotten it? Where did they store all these items they produced at will? These questions joined the growing list of mysteries surrounding the new blood.
“Where were they keeping that?” Ria whispered.
“Don’t ask,” Aela replied. “There’s no bottom to that armor.”

Dinner proceeded with a strained attempt at normalcy. The recruit, now seated between Ria (the previous newest member) and Torvar (who was already deep in his cups), demonstrated eating habits that defied both conventional manners and basic physics. They consumed enough food for three warriors in the time it took most to finish a single serving, somehow managing this feat despite the pot still covering most of their head.

“So,” Aela said during a brief lull in the general conversation, her sharp eyes fixed on the recruit. “I hear you’re Dragonborn.”

The hall quieted at this direct reference to the rumors that had been swirling through Whiterun. The recruit paused mid-bite of a chicken leg, head tilting in their now-familiar bird-like manner.

“Killed a dragon at the Western Watchtower,” Aela continued. “Absorbed its soul. Used the Voice to send a cabbage through Vilkas’s guard.” Her lips curved into a predatory smile. “Impressive.”

The recruit considered this, then shrugged—that same maddeningly ambiguous gesture that neither confirmed nor denied anything.

“The Greybeards summoned you,” Skjor said, less a question than a statement of fact. “All of Skyrim heard their call.”

Another shrug, followed by the recruit reaching across the table to rearrange Athis’s cutlery into a pattern that made the Dunmer warrior frown in confusion.

“If you are Dragonborn,” Vilkas said, unable to contain himself, “why join the Companions? Surely you have more important duties.”

The recruit looked at him directly then, their eyes surprisingly intense beneath the pot helmet. For a moment, Vilkas had the uncanny feeling of being studied by something far older and stranger than the bizarre Nord sitting across from him.

“Honor,” they said simply. “Family.”

Something in the way they spoke those words—with complete sincerity despite their general strangeness—struck Vilkas silent. It was, perhaps, the most traditional, Companion-like sentiment they had expressed since arriving.

Kodlak nodded approvingly. “Well said. The Companions offer both to those who would earn them.” He raised his mead cup. “To our newest shield-sibling. May your blade stay sharp and your shield arm strong.”

“To the new blood!” the hall echoed, even Vilkas finding himself raising his cup despite his reservations.

The recruit beamed, the expression visible even beneath the pot helmet, and immediately produced—from where, Vilkas couldn’t begin to guess—a cabbage, which they solemnly placed in the center of the table as if it were a priceless offering.

And so the Dragonborn joined the Companions, bringing with them a chaos that would soon exceed even the most outlandish rumors that had preceded their arrival. For Vilkas, trained in the ancient traditions and steadfast ways of Ysgramor’s heirs, it marked the beginning of the most challenging—and eventually transformative—period of his long career among the shield-siblings of Jorrvaskr.

The Age of the Cabbage Warrior had begun.

***

Aela the Huntress moved silently through the underbrush, her footfalls making no more sound than a fox on fresh snow. The forest around Gallows Rock breathed with nocturnal life—the soft hooting of owls, the rustle of small creatures in the undergrowth, the whisper of a light breeze through pine needles. The sharp scents of resin, damp earth, and distant woodsmoke mingled in her sensitive nostrils, along with the fouler stench of the Silver Hand that had taken up residence in the abandoned fort ahead.

The moonlight filtered through the canopy, dappling the forest floor with patches of silver that Aela avoided by instinct, keeping to the shadows as she circled the perimeter of the stronghold. Her body thrummed with the tension of the hunt, senses heightened by both training and the beast blood that ran through her veins, marking her as a member of the Circle—a werewolf, though few outside Jorrvaskr knew that closely guarded secret.

Behind her, considerably less silent, came the newest member of the Circle. The Dragonborn’s induction had been unorthodox, to put it mildly. Most new Companions spent months or years proving themselves before being considered for the inner circle. Most weren’t offered the beast blood until they had demonstrated both prowess and discretion.

But the Dragonborn wasn’t most Companions.

In just two weeks, they had completed more jobs than some members managed in a year—retrieving a stolen family heirloom from a bandit camp (and returning with not only the heirloom but also every piece of cutlery the bandits possessed), clearing out a nest of Falmer that had been attacking travelers (and somehow teaching the blind creatures to arrange themselves in formation before dispatching them), and most impressively, driving a giant from a farm without killing it (through methods that the farmer described as ”unholy cabbage sorcery” but had been undeniably effective).

Their combat skills, while highly unconventional, had proven beyond question. The beast blood had been offered, and to no one’s surprise, enthusiastically accepted.

What had surprised even Aela was their reaction to the transformation itself.

Most new werewolves experienced a period of violent disorientation during their first change—the rush of new senses, the overwhelming power, the primal hunger. Some fought their shield-siblings. Some fled into the wilds. Some cowered in confusion until the effect subsided.

The Dragonborn had transformed, looked down at their new furred body with evident delight, and immediately sprinted to the kitchens of Jorrvaskr, where they proceeded to consume every edible item not locked away. Barrels of apples, sides of venison, wheels of cheese, sacks of potatoes—all devoured with supernatural speed, leaving nothing but scattered crumbs and one very bewildered Tilma who had entered the kitchen to find a werewolf licking honey residue from an empty jar.

“Remember,” Aela whispered now, pausing to survey the fort’s entrance where two Silver Hand guards stood watch, their silver weapons gleaming coldly in the moonlight. “We’re here to find information about their movements, not to engage in a full frontal—”

She turned to find herself speaking to empty air. The Dragonborn had vanished.

A sudden commotion at the fort’s entrance drew her attention. The guards were looking upward in obvious confusion, silver swords drawn. Following their gaze, Aela discovered the source of their alarm.

The Dragonborn, still in human form despite the moon being full above, had somehow scaled the outer wall of the fort and was now perched atop the highest parapet, silhouetted dramatically against the night sky. Even at this distance, Aela could see that they had replaced their usual pot helmet with what appeared to be an actual wolf’s head, the beast’s muzzle sitting above their face like a macabre crown.

“Silver Hand!” they called down, their voice carrying clearly through the quiet night. “I have been sent to negotiate the terms of your surrender!”

“Are you mad?” one guard shouted back. “We don’t surrender to anyone, especially not some lone lunatic in a wolf hat!”

The Dragonborn tilted their head in that characteristic bird-like manner. “Not even to this?”

With theatrical slowness, they began to transform, their body contorting as fur sprouted, limbs elongated, and their frame expanded into the massive form of a werewolf. The change complete, they threw back their head and howled—a sound that echoed across the forest and sent roosting birds scattering from nearby trees.

So much for stealth, Aela thought grimly, already moving forward. The original plan had been to slip in undetected, gather intelligence, and slip out again. But plans, she was learning, rarely survived contact with the Dragonborn.

The Silver Hand guards, to their credit, didn’t flee immediately. They raised their silver swords and shouted for reinforcements. Their bravery proved short-lived, however, when the werewolf atop the parapet produced—impossibly, given that werewolves shouldn’t be able to access human inventories—a cabbage, which they hurled downward with supernatural force.

“FUS RO DAH!” the werewolf Shouted, the full power of the Thu’um imbuing the vegetable with such momentum that when it struck the ground between the guards, it exploded like a deadly green bomb, sending both men flying in opposite directions.

Aela reached the entrance just as the Dragonborn leapt from the parapet, landing with predatory grace in the courtyard beyond. Silver Hand reinforcements were already pouring from the fort’s interior, their faces masks of hatred and fear at the sight of a fully transformed werewolf in their midst.

Nocking an arrow to her bow, Aela prepared to provide cover fire from the shadows. But once again, the Dragonborn defied expectation.

Instead of tearing into the approaching enemies with fang and claw as any sensible werewolf would, they dropped to all fours and began running in tight, rapid circles around the courtyard, tongue lolling, eyes wild with what could only be described as primal joy. The Silver Hand warriors stopped their charge, weapons half-raised, clearly bewildered by this unexpected behavior.

“What in Oblivion is it doing?” one of them asked, lowering his silver mace slightly.

“It’s like it’s got the zoomies,” another observed, using the term commonly applied to excitable dogs.

“The what?” a third demanded.

“You know, the zoomies. When dogs just run around in circles really fast for no reason.”

“That’s not a dog, you idiot, it’s a were—AUGH!”

The discussion ended abruptly as the Dragonborn shifted from running in circles to running directly through the gathered Silver Hand, scattering them like nine-pins. Not attacking—at least not with tooth or claw—just bowling them over with sheer momentum before resuming their circuit of the courtyard at even greater speed.

Aela found herself frozen in place, bow half-drawn, as she watched the most unorthodox combat technique she had ever witnessed unfold before her. The Dragonborn was literally running the Silver Hand to exhaustion, dodging silver weapons with preternatural agility while continuing their manic circling, occasionally pausing to howl triumphantly or push a particular enemy into a wall with a well-placed shoulder.

“Shor’s bones,” she breathed, unsure whether to intervene or simply continue watching the bizarre spectacle.

One particularly brave (or foolish) Silver Hand member managed to get in position for an attack, raising his silver sword for a killing blow as the werewolf passed. Without breaking stride, the Dragonborn snatched the sword from his hand, continued running until they reached the far side of the courtyard, and began meticulously arranging it alongside other confiscated silver weapons, organizing them by size in a perfect line along the stone wall.
Aela blinked. “How are they doing that? Werewolves don’t have inventory access.”
Vilkas murmured, “They... might. It’s best not to question it.”

The Silver Hand warrior stared, weapon hand still raised, now empty, as if unable to process what had just occurred.

Aela put him out of his confusion with a well-placed arrow, then stepped into the courtyard, firing rapidly to drop the few enemies still standing after the Dragonborn’s unconventional assault. Within moments, the courtyard fell silent except for the scuffling sounds of the werewolf, who was now attempting to stack the silver weapons into a precarious tower.

“What,” Aela asked, approaching cautiously, “was that?”

The Dragonborn looked up from their weapon arrangement, tilting their now-lupine head in that same bird-like manner that carried over even in werewolf form. They gestured to the fallen Silver Hand members, then to the weapon tower, as if the connection should be obvious.

“We were supposed to gather intelligence,” Aela reminded them. “Stealth. Information. Remember?”

The werewolf nodded, then gestured toward the fort’s interior entrance with one massive clawed hand.

“Yes, we should continue inside,” Aela agreed. “But perhaps with more caution this time?”

The Dragonborn nodded again, dropped to all fours, and immediately sprint-scuttled through the doorway, leaving Aela to follow with a sigh that contained equal parts exasperation and reluctant admiration.

The beast blood called for the hunt, after all. And who was she to question methods that, however bizarre, produced results? The Silver Hand lay defeated, their weapons confiscated, and the way forward was clear.

If the newest member of the Circle preferred werewolf zoomies to conventional combat, well… the Companions had survived for thousands of years by adapting to changing circumstances.

Even circumstances as unprecedented as the Cabbage Dragonborn.
Vilkas stared at the pile of silver weapons heaped in Jorrvaskr’s main hall, his expression cycling through disbelief, confusion, and finally settling on a resigned sort of acceptance that had become increasingly familiar over the past weeks. The swords, daggers, and maces gleamed in the firelight, their silver surfaces reflecting the flames in rippling patterns across the ancient wooden walls.

“You brought back… all of them?” he asked, pinching the bridge of his nose as if warding off an approaching headache.

Aela leaned against a nearby pillar, arms crossed over her ancient Nord armor, her lips curved in that half-smile that suggested she found the situation more amusing than problematic. “Every single one,” she confirmed. “Apparently they have ‘collection value.’”

The Dragonborn nodded enthusiastically from where they crouched beside the weapon pile, meticulously arranging the silver blades in a spiraling pattern across the floor. They had reverted to human form upon returning to Jorrvaskr but retained something wolf-like in their movements—a predatory grace that hadn’t been present before receiving the beast blood. Their usual pot helmet had been replaced with a circlet made from what appeared to be werewolf fangs, giving them a savage appearance at odds with the childlike concentration they applied to weapon arrangement.

“The Silver Hand are hunters of werewolves,” Vilkas pointed out, lowering his voice on the last word despite the hall being empty save for the three of them. “Their weapons are specifically designed to harm those with the beast blood. Why would you want to collect them?”

The Dragonborn looked up, head tilting in that bird-like manner. “Can’t use them if we have them all,” they explained, the simple logic delivered with such conviction that Vilkas found himself momentarily speechless.

“They’ll just make more,” he managed finally.

Another head tilt, followed by the Dragonborn producing a small journal from somewhere within their bizarre armor. They handed it to Vilkas, who accepted it automatically.
Vilkas paused. The words came back to him—“Honor. Family.” And now he understood.
He gave the Dragonborn a small, respectful nod.

“What’s this?” he asked, opening the worn leather cover to reveal pages filled with cramped handwriting.

“Silver Hand plans,” Aela supplied. “Locations of their hideouts, notes on their leadership structure, and most importantly, details of their weapon forging. It seems they have a very specific source for their silver.”

Vilkas scanned the pages, his initial skepticism giving way to reluctant interest. “This is… actually useful intelligence,” he admitted.

“Of course it is,” Aela said, the slight rasp in her voice more pronounced as she added, “Our new shield-sibling may have unconventional methods, but the results speak for themselves.”

Vilkas grunted noncommittally, continuing to page through the journal. The Dragonborn returned to their weapon arrangement, now humming tunelessly as they positioned each silver blade with painstaking precision.

The massive doors of Jorrvaskr swung open, admitting Farkas, Vilkas’s twin brother. Snow dusted his dark hair and broad shoulders, quickly melting in the warmth of the hall. The scent of cold air and pine followed him, along with the earthier aroma of the stables—he had been on patrol along Whiterun’s outer farms.

“Brother,” he greeted Vilkas with a nod, then paused as his eyes fell on the weapon spiral taking shape on the floor. “I see our new recruit has been busy.”

“Just returned from Gallows Rock,” Aela explained. “A successful hunt.”

Farkas’s eyes brightened. Though physically identical to his brother, his expression carried none of Vilkas’s perpetual skepticism, instead lighting with simple appreciation of a job well done. “Good hunting, then,” he said, nodding to the Dragonborn. “Skjor will be pleased.”

“Skjor isn’t back yet,” Vilkas said, a note of concern entering his voice. “He was supposed to meet them at Gallows Rock.”

Aela straightened, her relaxed posture vanishing. “We never saw him. I assumed he’d been delayed.”

The Dragonborn looked up from their weapon arrangement, head tilting as they processed this information. Their eyes—unusually focused compared to their typically distracted demeanor—moved between the three warriors.

“He left before you did,” Farkas said slowly. “Said he was going to scout ahead.”

A heavy silence fell over the hall, broken only by the crackling of the fire and the soft clink of silver weapons as the Dragonborn abandoned their spiral pattern and rose to their feet. Without a word, they headed for the doors, purpose evident in every line of their body.

“Wait,” Vilkas called. “We need to plan—”

But the Dragonborn was already gone, the heavy doors swinging shut behind them with a finality that echoed through the suddenly too-quiet hall.

“They’re going back to search for him,” Aela said, already moving to follow. “And they’re right to do so. If Skjor never made it to Gallows Rock…”

She didn’t need to finish the thought. The Silver Hand were merciless hunters of werewolves. If they had captured Skjor—a member of the Circle, one who carried the beast blood—his fate would be grim indeed.

“I’ll come with you,” Farkas said, hand already moving to the hilt of his greatsword.

Vilkas nodded, setting aside the journal. “As will I. If the Silver Hand have taken one of our own, they’ll answer to all of us.”

But by the time they gathered their weapons and supplies, the Dragonborn was nowhere to be found in Whiterun. They had vanished as completely as if they had never existed, leaving behind only a spiral of silver weapons on Jorrvaskr’s floor and three increasingly worried Companions.

***

The Silver Hand outpost known as Broken Fang Cave lived up to its name—the entrance resembled nothing so much as a gaping maw in the mountainside, jagged rock formations protruding like fangs from both above and below. A cold wind moaned through the opening, carrying the musty scent of damp stone and something less pleasant—old blood and death. Snow dusted the ground outside, unmarred by footprints despite the guards that should have been posted at the entrance.

Inside, illuminated by guttering torches in iron sconces, the scene was one of complete devastation. Bodies of Silver Hand members lay scattered throughout the entry chamber, their weapons still sheathed or positioned nearby as if they had never had time to draw them. The killing had been swift, efficient, and utterly silent.

Most disturbing of all was the arrangement of the bodies. They had been carefully positioned after death, placed in a seated circle as if participating in some macabre meeting. In the center of this circle lay a single cabbage, inexplicably pristine amidst the carnage.

Deeper in the cave, past twisting tunnels lined with cells designed to hold captured werewolves, the devastation continued. Every Silver Hand member had been dispatched with brutal efficiency, and every corpse had been meticulously arranged in poses that suggested they were still going about their duties—one seated at a table with a quill positioned in lifeless fingers, another propped against a wall as if on guard, two placed on either side of a doorway like ceremonial sentinels.

In the deepest chamber, a horrific sight awaited any who ventured so far. Skjor—veteran Companion, member of the Circle, one of Jorrvaskr’s most respected warriors—lay dead on a blood-stained altar, his body bearing the unmistakable marks of torture and silver-inflicted wounds. His killers had shown no mercy, no respect for the warrior’s code he had lived by.

They, in turn, had received none. Their bodies formed a perfect circle around the altar, each positioned on their knees with heads bowed as if in supplication or acknowledgment of some greater power. Blood pooled beneath them, spreading in patterns that seemed almost deliberate—not random spatters but precise lines connecting each body to the next, forming a symbol no living Silver Hand member remained to interpret.

And in the center of it all, seated cross-legged beside Skjor’s body with head bowed in apparent meditation, was the Dragonborn.

They had reverted to human form, though traces of the beast remained in the elongated fingers that still bore hint of claws, in the amber glow that lingered in otherwise human eyes. Their mismatched armor was soaked with blood, yet they sat in perfect stillness, like a statue carved from flesh rather than stone.

When Aela, Vilkas, and Farkas finally tracked them to this place, following a trail of increasingly disturbing arrangements of Silver Hand corpses, they found them still in that position—silent, unmoving, watching over their fallen shield-brother.

“By Ysgramor,” Vilkas breathed, taking in the scene with growing horror. The metallic scent of blood hung thick in the air, mingling with the earthier smell of disturbed soil and the smoky remnants of extinguished torches. The only sound was the distant drip of water somewhere in the cave system, a steady rhythm like a heartbeat.

Aela approached the altar, her face a mask of grief and cold fury. “They tortured him,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper yet somehow filling the chamber. "They made him suffer.”

Farkas moved to Skjor’s side, his broad features solemn as he gently closed the dead warrior’s remaining eye. “We’ll bring him home,” he said simply. “Give him the pyre he deserves.”

The Dragonborn remained motionless throughout this exchange, their eyes fixed on some middle distance, seeing something beyond the physical chamber. When they finally spoke, their voice was different than any of the Companions had heard before—deeper, more resonant, carrying echoes of the Thu'um even in normal speech.

“The Silver Hand are broken,” they said. “This nest. Three others. All silent now.”

Vilkas stared at them, comprehension dawning slowly. “You’ve been hunting them? All night? Alone?”

The Dragonborn nodded once, the motion fluid despite their apparent exhaustion.

“How many?” Aela asked, a note of savage approval in her voice.

“All of them,” came the simple reply.

The three Companions exchanged glances, the magnitude of what had occurred here sinking in. The Silver Hand were not a small organization—they had outposts throughout Skyrim, dozens of members dedicated to the eradication of werewolves. For one person, even a Dragonborn, to eliminate multiple strongholds in a single night…

“You should have waited for us,” Vilkas said, though the reprimand lacked conviction. “We’re shield-siblings. We fight together.”

The ”ragonborn finally looked directly at him, their eyes still carrying that amber werewolf glow. “Family protects family,” they said. “No time to wait. His scent was already cold.”

It was perhaps the longest speech any of them had heard from the normally taciturn warrior, and the sentiment it expressed—so perfectly aligned with the Companions’ own ethos despite the macabre execution—left Vilkas without response.

“You did right by him,” Aela said firmly, placing a hand on the Dragonborn’s shoulder. “Skjor would have approved of your hunt. It was… honorable.”

Something in that word seemed to reach the Dragonborn in a way nothing else had. They blinked, and when their eyes opened again, the amber glow had faded, leaving them appearing suddenly smaller, more human, and utterly exhausted.

“Home,” they said softly. “Take brother home.”

Farkas nodded, already moving to prepare Skjor’s body for transport. “We’ll handle it from here,” he assured them. “You’ve done enough. More than enough.”

The journey back to Whiterun passed in solemn silence, each Companion lost in their own thoughts. The Dragonborn, despite their evident exhaustion, insisted on helping carry Skjor’s body, taking turns with Farkas and Vilkas to bear the fallen warrior across the tundra as Aela scouted ahead.

It was only when they approached the stables outside Whiterun that Vilkas noticed something strange about their burden. Skjor’s armor—the distinctive wolf armor worn by veteran Companions—had been meticulously cleaned of blood and arranged with perfect precision on his body. His weapons had been polished to a mirror shine. Even his hair and beard had been neatly combed, with small braids worked into both that hadn’t been present before.
Aela whispered, “They braided his beard. That’s… that’s a kin-right. Only family does that.”

The Dragonborn had somehow found time, in the midst of their vengeful rampage, to prepare Skjor’s body with all the traditional care of a Nord funeral preparation—a task typically performed by family members to honor the deceased’s passage to Sovngarde.

“You considered him family,” Vilkas said quietly, the realization striking him with unexpected force. “Not just a shield-sibling, but true family.”

The ”ragonborn nodded, their expression solemn beneath their eccentric headgear. “All Companions,” they clarified. “All family.”

For the first time since the strange, cabbage-wielding warrior had arrived at Jorrvaskr, Vilkas felt a genuine connection to them—an understanding that transcended their bizarre behavior and unconventional methods. Beneath the chaos and peculiarity lay a soul that truly understood the core of what the Companions represented: not just honor or glory, but the bonds of chosen family, forged in battle and loyalty rather than blood.

As they passed through Whiterun’s gates, carrying their fallen brother home for his final rites, Vilkas found himself reconsidering many of his initial judgments about the Dragonborn. Perhaps there was wisdom in Kodlak’s decision to welcome them after all—a wisdom that, like the old man himself, saw deeper than surface appearances.

***

Kodlak Whitemane’s quarters in the living quarters beneath Jorrvaskr were a reflection of the man himself—austere yet comfortable, orderly without being rigid, and filled with the collected wisdom of a lifetime as a warrior. Shelves lined with books on battle tactics and Nord history stood alongside weapon racks holding blades too old and valuable for regular use. The scent of leather bindings, weapon oil, and the distinctive herbal tea the old warrior favored filled the warm air, creating an atmosphere of scholarly contemplation rather than martial aggression.

The Harbinger himself sat in his customary chair, his aged face lined with grief beneath his snow-white beard and hair. Skjor’s funeral pyre had burned the previous night, sending another Companion to Sovngarde with all the honor due a fallen warrior. Now, Kodlak’s keen eyes studied the Dragonborn with thoughtful intensity as they perched—there was no other word for it—on the edge of a weapon chest across from him.

“Your actions against the Silver Hand were effective,” Kodlak acknowledged, his deep voice carrying the weight of authority without need for volume. “Perhaps too effective.”

The Dragonborn tilted their head, clearly not understanding the criticism. They had removed their wolf-fang circlet out of respect for the Harbinger, revealing hair that stood in wild directions as if it had never encountered a comb.

“Vengeance clouds judgment,” Kodlak continued. “The Silver Hand are not simply our enemies—they are a symptom of a larger truth we must confront. The beast blood is not the blessing many in the Circle believe it to be.”

The Dragonborn's intense focus sharpened at this statement. They leaned forward slightly, birdlike in their attentiveness.

“I have been researching our condition,” Kodlak said, gesturing to the books scattered across his table. “Those with the beast blood are claimed by Hircine upon death—bound to his Hunting Grounds rather than ascending to Sovngarde. It is a curse, not a gift, and I had hoped to find a cure before…” He trailed off, his hand moving unconsciously to his chest where illness had taken root despite his warrior’s constitution.

The Dragonborn processed this information in silence, their expressive face cycling through confusion, concern, and finally settling on determination. Without warning, they produced a cabbage from within their armor and set it on Kodlak’s table with ceremonial precision.

Kodlak blinked, clearly thrown off his train of thought. “I… thank you?” he hazarded.

The Dragonborn shook their head, then pointed to the cabbage, then to the books, then made a sweeping gesture that encompassed the room and beyond—a pantomime that left the Harbinger visibly bewildered.

“I don’t understand,” Kodlak admitted.

With a sigh that suggested the limitations of verbal communication were truly burdensome, the Dragonborn finally spoke. “Will help,” they stated firmly. “Find cure. For all. For Sovngarde.” They tapped the cabbage once more, as if it were an oath token. “Promise.”

Understanding dawned on the old warrior’s face. “You wish to help find a cure for the beast blood? To free the souls of the Circle?”

The Dragonborn nodded emphatically.

“But you only just received the blood,” Kodlak pointed out. “Most new to the Circle revel in the power it brings. Aela certainly does.”

Another shrug, this one conveying both “that may be true” and “it doesn’t change my decision” simultaneously.

Kodlak studied them for a long moment, his weathered features thoughtful. “You continue to surprise me, young one. Perhaps there is more wisdom in your… unique perspective than many give you credit for.”

The Dragonborn's only response was to produce a sweetroll—again, from some mysterious storage location within their patchwork armor—which they placed beside the cabbage with equal ceremony.

“I see,” Kodlak said, though it was clear he didn’t entirely. “Well, if you truly wish to help, there is something you could investigate. The witches of Glenmoril Coven—they were the source of our curse. Their magic might hold the key to breaking it.”

The Dragonborn's eyes lit with immediate interest. They rose from their perch on the weapon chest, nodding decisively.

“This isn’t a simple task,” Kodlak warned. “The hagravens of Glenmoril are powerful and dangerous. You should not go alone.”

But the Dragonborn was already moving toward the door with purpose, pausing only to collect the cabbage while leaving the sweetroll behind like a token of their promise.

“At least consult with Vilkas before you depart!” Kodlak called after them. “He has research that might—”

The door closed, leaving the Harbinger alone with a sweetroll and the distinct impression that events were unfolding according to some plan he could not fully perceive. With a sigh that carried both exasperation and fondness, he turned back to his books, the sweetroll sitting incongruously among ancient tomes of werewolf lore like a frosted sentinel of chaos.

***

The Underforge was one of the Companions’ most closely guarded secrets—a hidden chamber beneath the Skyforge where members of the Circle conducted the ritual of beast blood and other ceremonies too private for even Jorrvaskr’s main hall. Rough-hewn from the living rock of the mountain, its walls were adorned with ancient carvings depicting wolves and warriors in various poses of power and triumph. A shallow basin dominated the center of the chamber, designed to hold blood for the transformation ritual.

The air was cool and still, carrying the metallic scent of old blood and the earthier smell of stone that had never seen sunlight. Torches in iron brackets cast flickering shadows across the ancient carvings, making them seem to move in the corner of one’s vision—wolves running, warriors transforming, an endless cycle of man becoming beast and beast returning to man.

It was not, traditionally, a storage space. Which made the current state of the Underforge all the more bewildering to Vilkas as he stood in the entrance, staring at what could only be described as a werewolf nest.

Blankets, furs, and pillows from every bed in Jorrvaskr had been piled in a great circular mound near the blood basin. Interspersed among these were items of such random assortment that cataloging them would have driven a more methodical mind to despair: silver weapons arranged in sunburst patterns, cabbages positioned at precise intervals, every left boot from Whiterun (a collection apparently imported from the Dragonborn’s home in Falkreath), and what appeared to be every sweet roll in a ten-mile radius.

In the center of this bizarre nest, curled in a distinctly canine posture despite being in human form, lay the Dragonborn. They appeared to be napping, though one eye cracked open at Vilkas’s entrance, regarding him with drowsy interest.

“What,” Vilkas began, gesturing wordlessly at the transformed chamber, “is all this?”

The Dragonborn yawned, stretching in a way that seemed to involve more joints than a human body typically contained. “Comfort,” they explained, voice rough from sleep. “For Circle. For pack.”

“You’ve turned the Underforge into a… a den,” Vilkas said, struggling to keep accusation from his tone. “This is a sacred space for the Companions.”

The ”ragonborn tilted their head, genuine confusion evident in their expression. “Yes,” they agreed. “For Companions. For pack.” They gestured to the nest, then to Vilkas, then back to the nest, clearly inviting him to join them.

“That’s not—we don’t—” Vilkas stumbled over his words, caught between exasperation and a strange reluctance to outright reject what was clearly intended as a gesture of inclusion. “The Underforge is for ceremonies, not for… nesting.”

The Dragonborn considered this, head still tilted. “Why not both?” they asked with simple logic.

Before Vilkas could formulate a response, the stone door ground open again, admitting Aela. The huntress paused, taking in the transformed chamber with considerably less shock than Vilkas had displayed.

“So this is where all the bedding went,” she observed dryly. “Tilma was about to organize a search party.”

The Dragonborn brightened at Aela’s arrival, patting the nest beside them in clear invitation. To Vilkas’s astonishment, Aela actually considered it for a moment before shaking her head.

“Later, perhaps,” she said. “Right now, we have business to discuss.” Her expression grew serious as she turned to Vilkas. “The Dragonborn has been investigating a possible cure for the beast blood, at Kodlak’s request.”

Vilkas straightened, his annoyance about the nest immediately forgotten. “A cure? What have you found?” The question was directed at the Dragonborn, who was now arranging small pebbles in a pattern across a silver shield, apparently having lost interest in the conversation.

“They found the Glenmoril Coven,” Aela continued when it became clear no response was forthcoming. “Alone. Without telling anyone.”

“What?” Vilkas rounded on the Dragonborn, who looked up briefly from their pebble arrangement. “The hagravens of Glenmoril are extremely dangerous! You could have been killed. Or worse.”

The Dragonborn shrugged, a gesture that somehow conveyed both “but I wasn’t” and “what’s done is done” simultaneously. They reached into their ever-present collection of random items and produced a cloth bundle, which they handed to Vilkas with solemn ceremony.

Vilkas accepted it automatically, his expression shifting from anger to confusion as he felt the contents through the fabric. “What is this?” he asked, unwrapping the bundle carefully.

Inside lay several withered objects that, after a moment of horrified recognition, Vilkas identified as hagraven heads. They had been carefully preserved, their grotesque features frozen in expressions of surprise rather than the malevolence typically associated with the creatures.

“Witches,” the Dragonborn explained, pointing to the heads. “Source of blood curse. Kodlak needed.”

“You killed the entire Glenmoril Coven?” Aela asked, her voice containing a note of reluctant admiration. “Alone?”

The Dragonborn nodded, then returned to their pebble arrangement as if delivering multiple hagraven heads was a matter of routine.

Vilkas and Aela exchanged glances, their expressions a mixture of disbelief and growing acceptance. The Dragonborn had been with the Companions for less than a month, yet had already reshaped the organization in ways that defied conventional understanding. They had avenged Skjor, apparently decimated the Silver Hand, retrieved the very witch heads Kodlak’s research suggested might hold the key to curing the beast blood, and converted the Underforge into a communal werewolf nest—all while maintaining their peculiar obsession with cabbage-based combat and random item collection.

“I’ll take these to Kodlak,” Vilkas said finally, rewrapping the grisly bundle. “He’ll want to know immediately.”

The Dragonborn nodded without looking up from their pebble pattern, which had begun to take the distinct shape of a wolf’s head.

As Vilkas turned to leave, Aela lingered, her expression thoughtful as she studied the nest and its creator. “You know,” she said, “the beast blood affects each of us differently. Some fight it, some embrace it, some find a balance.”

The Dragonborn looked up, head tilting in question.

“I’ve never seen anyone adapt to it quite like you have,” Aela continued. “It’s almost as if… as if you were always part wolf, even before the blood.” A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “Or part something, anyway.”

The Dragonborn’s answering smile was surprisingly gentle beneath their usual intensity. They gestured to the nest again, the invitation clear.

After a moment’s hesitation, Aela shook her head—not in refusal but in bemused surrender. “Just for a moment,” she said, settling onto the edge of the nest. “And I’m not explaining this to Skjor if he—” She caught herself, grief flickering across her features. “I’m not explaining this to anyone.”

The Dragonborn nodded solemnly, then returned to their pebble arrangement, apparently content with this small victory in their ongoing campaign to reshape the Companions according to their own peculiar vision.

Outside in Jorrvaskr, dinner was served on the floor, as every plate in the hall had mysteriously vanished. No one commented on this development, nor on the fact that every chair had been rearranged to form a circle around the central fire. The Companions, it seemed, were adapting.

***

No one had expected the Silver Hand to retaliate so boldly, so desperately. Their numbers had been decimated by the Dragonborn’s vengeful rampage, their leadership scattered or eliminated. Yet in the darkest hours before dawn, a small force of their most dedicated hunters had infiltrated Jorrvaskr itself.

They hadn’t come for revenge, but for symbols—specifically, the fragments of Wuuthrad, the legendary axe of Ysgramor, displayed proudly in the mead hall. And in their theft, they had dealt the Companions a double blow: not only taking their most sacred relic, but mortally wounding Kodlak Whitemane in the process.

The atmosphere In Jorrvaskr following the attack was thick with grief and rage. The air seemed heavier, filled with the scent of spilled blood and the acrid tang of failure. The usually boisterous hall was silent save for the crackling of the central fire and the occasional murmur of warriors discussing plans for retaliation. Even the ancient timbers seemed to mourn, creaking in the wind that found its way through the now-damaged roof.

Vilkas paced the length of the hall, his armor still splattered with the blood of the Silver Hand members who hadn’t escaped his initial counterattack. His handsome features were contorted with a fury so potent it bordered on madness, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides as if seeking throats to crush.

“We attack now,” he growled, rounding on the gathered Companions. “Tonight. We hunt down every last one of them and feed their hearts to the crows.”

Aela, her own grief evident in the tightness around her eyes despite her composed expression, shook her head. “We don’t even know where they’ve taken the fragments. Charging off blindly would dishonor Kodlak’s memory.”

“Waiting dishonors him!” Vilkas snarled, his voice echoing off the ancient walls. “Every moment those fragments remain in Silver Hand possession is an insult to everything the Companions stand for!”

Farkas, always the steadier of the twins despite his simpler nature, placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “We will find them,” he promised. “But we need a plan.”

The Dragonborn had not participated in this discussion. They sat cross-legged on the floor near where Kodlak had fallen, staring at the bloodstain with an intensity that made the other Companions give them a wide berth. Their usual chaotic energy had been replaced by a stillness so complete they might have been carved from stone.

“What about you?” Vilkas demanded, rounding on them suddenly. “You tore through their ranks for Skjor. Will you not do the same for Kodlak? For the man who welcomed you when others doubted?”

Slowly, with deliberate movements that reminded all present of a predator uncurling, the Dragonborn rose to their feet. Their eyes, when they finally looked up, contained a cold fire that even Vilkas instinctively recoiled from.

“Yes,” they said simply.

That single word carried such weight, such deadly promise, that the hall fell completely silent. Even the fire seemed to dim.

“The Silver Hand’s main base is at Driftshade Refuge,” Aela said into the stillness. “Their leader, Krev the Skinner, will have taken the fragments there.”

The Dragonborn nodded once, a gesture of acknowledgment rather than gratitude for the information. They moved toward the doors with purpose, pausing only to collect their unusual helmet—today shaped like a wolf’s head with the jaws forming a protective guard over their face.

“Wait,” Vilkas called, his anger momentarily redirected into confusion. “We should plan the attack together. As shield-siblings.”

The ”ragonborn turned back, studying him with that unsettling intensity. Then, to everyone’s surprise, they gestured for the Companions to gather closer. When all had assembled in a rough circle, the Dragonborn dropped to one knee and began drawing in the bloodstained dust of the hall floor.

What emerged was a surprisingly detailed map of what could only be Driftshade Refuge—its layout, guard positions, potential entry points, all rendered with precision that suggested either previous reconnaissance or an uncanny ability to predict enemy fortifications. The Dragonborn’s finger moved across their dirt map, tracing routes and attack vectors with military efficiency entirely at odds with their usual chaos.

“You’ve… been there before?” Aela asked, clearly impressed despite herself.

The Dragonborn shook their head, then tapped their temple and made a howling gesture.

“Beast blood,” Farkas translated, surprising everyone with his insight. “Werewolf senses. You can… what, smell the layout?”

A nod, followed by the Dragonborn pointing to each of the Companions in turn, then tracing different routes through their dirt map.

“You want us to split up,” Vilkas realized. “Attack from multiple directions?”

Another nod, more emphatic.

What followed was the strangest war council in the Companions’ long history. The Dragonborn, normally incapable of focused communication for more than a few seconds, led them through a detailed assault plan using nothing but gestures, dirt drawings, and occasionally arranging nearby items to represent fortifications or enemies. The clarity of the strategy was undeniable, despite the bizarre delivery method.

“It’s a good plan,” Aela acknowledged when they had finished. “But Kodlak’s funeral must come first. We owe him that honor before we seek vengeance.”

The Dragonborn stilled, clearly torn between immediate action and proper respect for the fallen Harbinger. After a moment of internal conflict visible in their expressive face, they nodded solemnly.

“Tonight we prepare Kodlak for his journey to Sovngarde,” Vilkas agreed, his earlier rage banked but not extinguished. “Tomorrow, we reclaim what was stolen and make the Silver Hand pay their blood price.”

The Companions dispersed to prepare for the funeral, each lost in their own grief and memories of the fallen Harbinger. Only the Dragonborn remained by their dirt map, adding small pebbles to represent enemies with methodical precision, planning a vengeance that would shake the very foundations of the Silver Hand’s existence.

In the Underforge, the werewolf nest lay abandoned, its creator’s focus now entirely shifted from comfort to retribution. Yet a single cabbage had been placed in its center—a token or memorial whose significance only the Dragonborn truly understood.

***

The funeral pyre of Kodlak Whitemane stood prepared in the Skyforge, the ancient Nordic forge that had served the Companions since the days of Ysgramor himself. Unlike conventional funeral pyres built on the ground, a Harbinger’s final journey began in the very flames that had forged the weapons of countless legendary warriors. The forge’s unique position, built into the rocky outcropping above Jorrvaskr, allowed mourners to gather in a natural amphitheater around the central flames.

The sun was setting over Whiterun, painting the sky in shades of gold and crimson that mirrored the flames soon to consume Kodlak’s mortal remains. A chill wind carried the scent of pine and snow from the distant mountains, mingling with the earthier smells of the forge—hot metal, coal, and the distinctive aroma of skyforge steel being worked. Eorlund Gray-Mane stood solemn sentinel beside his forge, his weathered face set in lines of grief beneath his silver-white hair.

The people of Whiterun had gathered to pay respects to the legendary warrior who had served as a protector and elder of their community for decades. Jarl Balgruuf himself stood with his court, his fine clothes subdued in color out of respect for the occasion. Guards, merchants, farmers, and citizens of all stations filled the space around the forge, their hushed voices creating a low murmur like distant waves.

The Companions formed an honor guard around the pyre, each warrior resplendent in polished armor that gleamed in the fading sunlight. Vilkas and Farkas stood at the head of the pyre, their identical features set in expressions of solemn grief. Aela and the other members of the Circle flanked the sides, while the whelps—the newer, less prestigious members—formed an outer ring.

Notably absent was the Dragonborn.

“Where are they?” Vilkas murmured to Aela as the time for the ceremony approached. “This dishonors Kodlak’s memory.”

Aela shook her head slightly, her green eyes scanning the gathering. “They were here earlier, helping prepare the body. Perhaps they’re approaching from another direction.”

The traditional Nord funeral was a solemn affair, beginning with speeches honoring the deceased’s accomplishments, followed by the lighting of the pyre, and concluding with a feast celebrating the warrior’s passage to Sovngarde. As the last rays of sunlight faded from the horizon, Eorlund stepped forward to begin the proceedings.

“Before the ancient flame,” he intoned, his deep voice carrying across the hushed gathering.

“We grieve,” the Companions responded in unison.

“At this loss,” Eorlund continued.

“We weep,” came the ritual response.

“For the fallen,” the smith said, his voice catching slightly.

“We shout,” the Companions answered, their combined voices rising in strength.

“And for ourselves,” Eorlund concluded.

“We take our leave.”

With these ancient words spoken, Eorlund lifted a torch to ignite the pyre. The dry wood caught quickly, flames leaping upward to embrace Kodlak’s body, which had been arranged with all the dignity befitting a Harbinger—dressed in his finest armor, his weapon placed upon his chest, his white beard and hair neatly combed and braided in the traditional Nord style for honored dead.

As the flames grew higher, a disturbance at the edge of the gathering drew attention. The crowd parted, some gasping in surprise, others backing away in alarm.

The Dragonborn approached the pyre, but not in human form. They had taken on the aspect of the beast, their massive werewolf form silhouetted dramatically against the night sky. Yet unlike the savage, uncontrolled transformations that characterized most new to the beast blood, they moved with deliberate dignity, walking upright with slow, measured steps toward the burning pyre.

“Stop them!” someone cried from the crowd. “The beast will desecrate the ceremony!”

But the Companions, after their initial shock, made no move to interfere. There was something in the werewolf’s bearing—a solemnity, a purpose—that stayed their hands despite the flagrant exposure of their most closely guarded secret.

The werewolf reached the burning pyre and, to the astonishment of all present, knelt before it in a gesture of profound respect. Then, raising massive furred hands to the night sky, they howled—not the savage cry of a hunting wolf, but a mournful sound that carried all the grief of a lost pack member, a fallen alpha, a beloved leader gone to join the ancestors.

The howl echoed across Whiterun, causing dogs to bark in response and torches to flicker in the sudden gust of wind that accompanied it. Some in the crowd covered their ears, while others found themselves inexplicably moved by the primal expression of sorrow that transcended human language.

“What are they doing?” Vilkas hissed, torn between horror at the exposure of their secret and a strange, reluctant admiration for the raw emotion in the werewolf’s howl.

“Honoring him,” Aela replied softly. “In the oldest way they know.”

The werewolf—the Dragonborn—fell silent, lowering their great head in a posture of submission before the flames. Then, with movements of surprising grace, they reached into a pouch that somehow remained intact despite their transformation and withdrew a collection of small objects.

The crowd gasped as the werewolf began arranging items around the base of the pyre—not random objects as might be expected from the Dragonborn’s usual chaos, but tokens that held deep significance to Kodlak. His favorite mead cup. A book of Nordic poetry he had often quoted. The small dagger he used to trim his beard. Each was placed with ceremonial precision, forming a circle of remembrance around the burning pyre.
Eorlund nodded once. “Even the forge recognizes the strength in their madness.”

Eorlund Gray-Mane, showing the unflappable temperament that had made him legendary among Nordic smiths, simply nodded to the werewolf as if their presence was entirely expected. “The fire burns hot, and Kodlak’s spirit ascends to Sovngarde,” he continued the ceremony, refusing to acknowledge the bizarre interruption.

As if this were a cue, the werewolf rose and, to the further astonishment of all present, began to change back. The transformation from beast to human was typically a painful, ugly process—bones cracking, skin rippling, a grotesque middle state between wolf and man. But the Dragonborn somehow made it seem almost graceful, a fluid shifting from one form to another as natural as water flowing over stones.

Within moments, they stood in human form again, dressed not in their usual mismatched armor but in the formal attire of a Companion attending a funeral—though they had added their own touch in the form of a circlet made from wolf fangs. They took their place in the circle of honor around the pyre as if nothing unusual had occurred, though the murmurs from the crowd suggested that the secret of the companions' beast blood was well and truly exposed.

“You’ve revealed us to all of Whiterun,” Vilkas whispered furiously as the ceremony continued around them. “Decades of secrecy, undone in a moment of… what? Theatrical grief?”

The Dragonborn turned to him, their eyes reflecting the pyre’s flames with unusual intensity. “Kodlak wanted freedom,” they said simply. “Freedom from hiding. From shame. From beast curse.”

Before Vilkas could respond, a strange phenomenon began to occur at the heart of the pyre. As Kodlak’s body was consumed by flames, a spectral form rose from the burning remains—not smoke or ash, but a translucent figure that resembled the Harbinger as he had been in his prime, before illness had begun to weaken his powerful frame.

“His spirit,” Aela breathed, her voice hushed with awe.

But something was wrong. The spectral form of Kodlak seemed to struggle, caught between rising toward the star-filled sky and being dragged downward by unseen forces. His transparent features contorted with effort as he fought against whatever sought to claim him.

“Hircine,” Vilkas realized aloud. “The beast blood. It’s pulling him to the Hunting Grounds instead of Sovngarde.”

Without hesitation, the Dragonborn stepped forward, approaching the struggling spirit with determined strides. From within their formal attire, they produced a small object—a hagraven’s withered head, one of those they had collected from the Glenmoril Coven.

“Stand back!” Aela warned, realizing what they intended. “This magic is dangerous—”

But the Dragonborn had already tossed the head directly into the heart of the pyre. The effect was immediate and dramatic. Green flames erupted where the head landed, and a howling sound—not of wolf but of something far more ancient and malevolent—filled the air. The spectral form of Kodlak seemed to shudder as something dark and feral was torn from it, a shadowy wolf-shape that writhed in apparent agony before dissolving into the unnatural green fire.

Then, with a final surge of conventional flame, the pyre burned white-hot for a brief, blinding moment. When vision returned to the stunned onlookers, Kodlak’s spirit stood transformed—fully solid-seeming despite its spectral nature, no longer struggling but standing tall and proud, a smile of profound peace on his transparent features.

The ghost of Kodlak Whitemane looked directly at the Dragonborn and bowed deeply.

“You’ve done it,” the spirit said, his voice carrying clearly despite having no physical form to produce it. “The curse is broken. I can feel the call of Sovngarde!”

The Dragonborn nodded solemnly, returning the bow with perfect formality.

“Thank you, shield-sibling,” Kodlak continued. “You’ve proven yourself worthy a hundred times over. The Companions need a new Harbinger, and I can think of none more suited than you, strange though your methods may be.”

A collective gasp went up from the gathered Companions. The position of Harbinger was sacred, traditionally passing to the most experienced, most honored member. For Kodlak to name the newest, most chaotic member as his successor was unprecedented.

“But Harbinger,” Vilkas began, unable to contain his shock, “they’ve barely—”

Kodlak’s spirit held up a hand, silencing him. “The Harbinger’s choice is final, Vilkas. And in time, you will understand it as I do.” His ghostly gaze swept the circle of Companions. “The fragments of Wuuthrad must be recovered. The Silver Hand must answer for their crimes. And the beast blood must be cleansed from all who wish to be free of it.” He looked back to the Dragonborn. “I leave these tasks in capable hands, unconventional though they may be.”

With those words, the spirit of Kodlak Whitemane began to ascend, growing more transparent with each passing second until, with a final nod of farewell, he vanished entirely—bound not for Hircine’s Hunting Grounds, but for the hallowed halls of Sovngarde, where the greatest warriors of Nord history awaited their fallen brother.

***

The funeral attendees stood In stunned silence, trying to process what they had just witnessed. A public werewolf transformation. A ghost. A magical cleansing ritual involving a hagraven’s head. The naming of the strangest Companion in living memory as the new Harbinger. It was too much for many to comprehend all at once.

Into this shocked silence, the Dragonborn spoke with uncharacteristic clarity and volume.

“Jorrvaskr,” they announced, gesturing toward the mead hall with ceremonial gravity. “Feast. For Kodlak. For his journey.”

And somehow, despite everything that had occurred, this simple direction broke the tension. The ritual was familiar—after the burning, the feast. The celebration of a life well-lived and a death well-met. The people of Whiterun, still murmuring about werewolves and spirits, began to move toward the mead hall, guided by this one normal element in an otherwise extraordinary ceremony.

As the crowd dispersed, Vilkas approached the Dragonborn, his expression a complex mixture of emotions—anger, confusion, reluctant respect, and lingering grief.

“You’ve exposed our secret to all of Whiterun,” he said, his voice low. “Transformed at Kodlak’s funeral, of all places. And somehow, in the process, you’ve broken the curse that has plagued him for decades.” He shook his head in bewilderment. “I don’t know whether to thank you or challenge you to the Circle’s traditional battle-test.”

The Dragonborn tilted their head, considering this. Then, to Vilkas’s surprise, they extended a hand in the traditional Nordic warrior’s clasp—forearm to forearm, a gesture of respect between equals.

After a moment’s hesitation, Vilkas accepted the gesture, his larger hand clasping the Dragonborn’s forearm firmly. “Fine. But we still have work to do. The fragments of Wuuthrad must be recovered from the Silver Hand.”

“Tomorrow,” the Dragonborn agreed. “Tonight, we feast. For Kodlak.”

Vilkas nodded reluctantly. “For Kodlak.”

As they made their way down to Jorrvaskr, where torches blazed welcomingly against the deepening night, Vilkas found himself reconsidering everything he thought he knew about the strange warrior who had so disrupted the Companions’ traditions. Perhaps there was method in their madness after all. Perhaps Kodlak, in his wisdom, had seen something in the cabbage-wielding chaos-bringer that the rest of them had missed.

Or perhaps, Vilkas reflected as they entered the mead hall to find every piece of tableware arranged in the shape of a giant wolf on the floor, the Harbinger had simply decided that the Companions had grown too rigid in their ways, too set in their traditions, and needed the kind of shake-up that only the Dragonborn co”ld provide.

Either way, the Age of the Cabbage Harbinger had officially begun. Skyrim would never be the same.

The aftermath of the Silver Hand’s raid on Jorrvaskr and Kodlak’s funeral marked a turning point for the Companions. The recovery of Wuuthrad’s fragments from Driftshade Refuge was accomplished with brutal efficiency under the Dragonborn’s leadership—a campaign that left no Silver Hand member alive to continue the organization’s crusade against werewolves. The legendary axe was reforged by Eorlund Gray-Mane, restored to its original glory for the first time in millennia.

But the greater change came in the fundamental nature of the Companions themselves. The secret of the beast blood was no longer so secret, at least in Whiterun, though most citizens seemed to have adopted a policy of deliberate ignorance—they had seen what they had seen at Kodlak’s funeral, but they didn’t speak of it openly, respecting the warriors who had protected their city for generations regardless of what forms they might take beneath the full moon.

Within Jorrvaskr, the Dragonborn’s unconventional leadership style created ripples that slowly transformed into waves. The werewolf nest in the Underforge, initially viewed with skepticism by most of the Circle, gradually became an accepted feature—a place where those with the beast blood could embrace that aspect of themselves in safety, among shield-siblings who understood.

The ritual cleansing that had freed Kodlak’s spirit was offered to any Companion who wished to be cured of the beast blood. Some, like Vilkas, accepted immediately. Others, particularly Aela, chose to retain what they viewed as Hircine’s blessing rather than a curse. The Dragonborn passed no judgment either way, respecting each warrior’s choice with unexpected wisdom.

And throughout it all, the chaotic energy that had first marked the Dragonborn’s arrival continued unabated—cabbages still featured prominently in combat training, weapons still found themselves arranged in unusual patterns on Jorrvaskr’s walls, and meals still occasionally had to be served on the floor when every plate mysteriously vanished.

The matter of the Dragonborn’s ongoing collection compulsions was addressed in a lengthy letter Vilkas found himself writing to the Companions’ associates across Skyrim—a document he never imagined having to compose, yet approached with the same diligence he brought to all his duties.

*From the desk of Vilkas, Member of the Circle*
*Jorrvaskr, Whiterun Hold*
*4th of Sun’s Height, 4E 201*

*To All Associates and Allies of the Companions:*

*It is with mixed emotions that I inform you of recent changes within our ancient order. As many will have heard, our honored Harbinger Kodlak Whitemane has departed for Sovngarde following an attack by our enemies. His wisdom and leadership will be sorely missed.*

*In accordance with tradition, a new Harbinger has been named. Here convention must give way to extraordinary circumstance, as Kodlak himself, in his final moments, selected our newest member to succeed him—the one known throughout Skyrim as Dragonborn.*

*For those who have not yet encountered our new Harbinger, some preparation may be beneficial before seeking the Companions’ aid or visiting Jorrvaskr. While their combat prowess is beyond question and their dedication to honor unimpeachable, their methods and mannerisms may prove… surprising to the uninitiated.*

*In the interest of maintaining positive relations with all our associates, I offer the following guidelines:*

*1. Any cabbage in their possession should be considered a weapon, not food. Do not attempt to cook, serve, or consume these. They are not decorative either, despite appearances.*
*2. If they adopt a crouching position during conversation, this is normal and not an indication of imminent attack or digestive distress. Similarly, if they suddenly freeze and stare into middle distance for extended periods, simply wait patiently for them to resume activity.*
*3. Should they present you with random objects (sweetrolls being particularly common), accept these as tokens of high respect regardless of their apparent value or usefulness.*
*4. The rearrangement of your possessions into patterns may occur without warning. This is not theft but rather a form of communication whose meaning remains enigmatic even to those of us who have served with them longest.*
*5. References to werewolves should be avoided unless you wish to receive an impromptu lecture on the virtues of “pack comfort” and possibly an invitation to what they call “the nest.”*
*6. Any silver weapons in your possession may be respectfully confiscated. This is non-negotiable and, frankly, not worth contesting.*

*I should note that despite these peculiarities, the Dragonborn has proven themselves a worthy successor to Kodlak. Their unique perspective has already brought positive changes to our order, and their combat effectiveness is unmatched, if unconventional. The honor and traditions of the Companions remain intact, merely… reinterpreted.*

*Should you require the Companions’ assistance, contracts may still be arranged through the usual channels. Be advised, however, that completion methods may differ substantially from past experiences. The job will be done, but possibly with more cabbages involved than historically documented.*
Proventus: “We have opened the city to cabbage-based warfare, spectral ascension, and public lycanthropy. I will need a new ledger.”

*In service and honor,*
*Vilkas*

*P.S. If asked about Sovngarde, it is best to simply nod and agree that “twenty-three is indeed the blessed number.” Further inquiry leads only to confusion.*

As Vilkas sealed the letter, he glanced out the window of his quarters to the practice yard below, where the newly appointed Harbinger was conducting a training session with the whelps. Rather than traditional weapon drills, they appeared to be practicing what could only be described as extreme staring—each warrior locked in unnervingly long eye contact with their partner while slowly moving objects toward the edges of tables.

According to the Dragonborn, this technique—which they called “The Intimidation Stare”—had proven effective against various enemies from bandits to draugr. The evidence was difficult to dispute, given their success rate, though Vilkas remained skeptical that psychological warfare involving tableware would ever replace good steel in serious combat.

His contemplation was interrupted by a knock at his door, followed immediately by Aela entering without waiting for a response. The huntress’s expression carried an unusual mixture of amusement and exasperation.

“The Harbinger requests your presence in the yard,” she announced. “Apparently, it’s time for ‘The Follower Tower.’”

“The what?” Vilkas asked, though he already suspected he wouldn’t like the answer.

“They want to stack all Circle members on each other’s shoulders,” Aela explained, confirming his fears. “To ‘reach high things,’ they said. Farkas is already volunteering for the base position.”

Vilkas closed his eyes briefly, summoning patience from reserves he hadn’t known he possessed before the Dragonborn’s arrival. “Tell them I’ll be right down.”

As Aela departed, Vilkas found himself adding a postscript to his letter before sending it off with the waiting courier. The additional warning seemed only fair to their associates across Skyrim.

*P.P.S. Should our Harbinger request that you participate in something called “The Follower Tower,” polite refusal is acceptable. If you do agree, be advised that your position in the resulting human structure may not respect conventional hierarchies of rank or status. The Harbinger themselves invariably claims the top position, regardless of weight considerations or basic physics.*
The tower collapsed—gently, improbably—into a pile of tangled limbs and shocked silence.
“We nearly had it,” the Dragonborn declared solemnly, brushing cabbage leaves from their shoulder.

With that final warning committed to parchment, Vilkas sealed the letter and headed down to the practice yard, where the Companions—the most honored warrior band in Skyrim, heirs to the legacy of Ysgramor himself—were preparing to stack themselves like children’s blocks under the enthusiastic direction of their cabbage-wielding Harbinger.

As he took his place in the forming tower, Vilkas reflected that perhaps this too was a kind of honor—being part of something so ancient yet so willing to embrace change, even change as bizarre as the Dragonborn’s leadership. The Companions had endured for thousands of years not through rigid adherence to the past, but through adapting to the present while maintaining their core values of courage, honor, and companionship.

If adaptation now required balancing Athis on his shoulders while the Dunmer in turn supported Ria, who served as the platform for Njada, who steadied Torvar, who braced Aela, who held Farkas (a questionable strategic decision given their relative sizes), who finally supported the Harbinger as they reached for a bird’s nest that could have been retrieved with a simple ladder—well, so be it.

The Age of the Cabbage Harbinger continued, and Skyrim could only watch in bewildered fascination as it unfolded.

Chapter Text

The ice-carved bridge spanning the Sea of Ghosts was a deceptively beautiful death trap. Ancient magic held its crystalline structure together against the battering waves far below, while treacherous sheets of ice made each step a potential hazard. Faralda stationed herself precisely where she had for the past two decades—at the point where the solid mainland yielded to the bridge's magical construction. Her frost-blue Altmer eyes scanned the horizon with the practiced watchfulness of a gatekeeper who had seen countless aspiring mages turn back after glimpsing the perilous journey to the College.

The wind carried the sharp scent of salt and ice, mixed with the subtle ozone tang of magical energy that always surrounded the College. Her green apprentice robes rippled in the constant arctic breeze as she pulled her hood tighter around her elongated elven features. After decades of service to the College, she had grown accustomed to the bone-chilling cold that kept most applicants at bay before they even attempted entry.

This morning, however, was different. Winterhold had been buzzing with rumors since sunrise—tales that grew more outlandish with each retelling and seemed to converge on a single, disturbing focal point: the Dragonborn.

"More sugar with that ale?" the bartender had overheard his patron ask.

"What's that, old Nazeem told you of cabbage warfare?"

The stories had arrived via merchant caravan the previous evening, and by morning the entire settlement of Winterhold was rife with speculation. A Dragonborn who had laid waste to dragons with thrown vegetables. Someone who collected thousands of identical items for unknown purposes. A warrior who had risen to Harbinger of the Companions in weeks rather than years, bringing unprecedented chaos to even that ancient institution.

As a scholar and protector of the College, Faralda prided herself on her rational skepticism. Such tales were clearly embellished to the point of fantasy. The real Dragonborn, if one even existed, was surely a noble warrior devoted to stopping the return of dragons, not someone who... fought with cabbages?

The sound of distant commotion from the town below drew her attention. Winterhold was not known for excitement, particularly on a grey morning when most sensible people stayed indoors. The noise grew louder—alarmed shouts, the clatter of shutters being hastily closed, someone screaming about werewolves.

"Surely not," Faralda murmured, her professional curiosity warring with disbelief. The College's protective wards would certainly detect any lycanthropic presence. Their ancient magic had been specifically designed to—

A blur of movement shot up the road from Winterhold faster than any horse, any saber cat, any creature she had ever witnessed. In the millisecond it took to register what she was seeing, the shape resolved into something that made her heart seize: a massive werewolf, easily nine feet tall, its dark fur rippling with unnatural speed as it—

—ran in a tight circle around the College's outer courtyard, its huge paws barely touching the ice-covered ground. The creature's tongue lolled from its mouth in what appeared to be sheer joy rather than blood-lust as it completed one circuit, then another, then a third at a speed that defied both physics and lycanthropic physiology.

"By the Eight," Faralda breathed, her training taking over as she prepared a binding spell. The College must be protected from—

The werewolf completed its fourth circle, then, impossibly, dove behind the corner of the Hall of Elements. Faralda waited, muscles tense, magic crackling at her fingertips. Seconds ticked by. No howls, no destruction, no signs of the beast that had just performed what could only be described as werewolf "zoomies" around the most prestigious magical institution in Skyrim.

Instead, from around the same corner emerged a figure on foot—a Nord of indeterminate gender, walking with casual ease despite the treacherous ice. They wore a patchwork of armor that shouldn't have matched yet somehow conveyed an aura of practical chaos, topped with what appeared to be a pot with eyeholes carved into it serving as a helmet. Strapped to their back was a collection of items so diverse and numerous that cataloging them would require its own academic paper.

The figure approached the bridge without hesitation, either unaware of or unconcerned by the lethal drop to the churning waters below. As they neared, Faralda got a better look at what they carried: scrolls, books, various skulls (far too many skulls), what might have been a cabbage, several plates, and items that defied immediate identification.

This couldn't possibly be the same...

"Greetings," the figure said, stopping precisely at the marked boundary between mainland and magical bridge. Their voice carried the hint of an accent Faralda couldn't place, with the measured tone of someone who had practiced this interaction.

"Welcome to the College of Winterhold," Faralda replied automatically, launching into her standard greeting. "I'm Faralda. I take it you're here to attend—"

"Heard about Dragonborn," the figure interrupted, their head tilting at an angle that reminded Faralda uncomfortably of a bird examining a particularly interesting worm. "They say they do magic here. Want to learn."

The gears in Faralda's mind clicked into place with dawning horror. The werewolf. The rumors. The collection of random objects and skulls. "Are you... are you the Dragonborn?"

The figure shrugged, a gesture that somehow conveyed "possibly," "maybe," and "does it matter?" all at once.

"I see," Faralda managed, her professional composure reasserting itself. "Well, the College of Winterhold only admits those with the necessary aptitude for magic. I'll need to administer a simple test to evaluate your capabilities."

The standard entrance test varied based on the applicant's stated magical preferences. For those interested in Destruction, she typically asked for a Flames spell to be cast into the ancient Midden well. It was a simple task—one that weeded out pretenders while preserving the dignity of those who lacked true magical talent.

"Cast a Flames spell into the well down there," she instructed, gesturing to the circular stone structure at the bridge's end. "A standard Flames spell, that's all. Each applicant—"

"FUS!" the figure shouted, the single word carrying such physical force that it sent a gust of wind powerful enough to ruffle Faralda's robes.

She stared, mouth slightly open, as the effects of the shout became apparent. From the depths of the Midden well erupted not flame, but an explosion of skulls—dozens, possibly hundreds of them. Human skulls, dragon skulls, sabre cat skulls, troll skulls, skulls she couldn't identify and wasn't sure she wanted to. They fountained upward in a spectacular display, arcing through the air before clattering onto the bridge and courtyard in a macabre rain.

But this wasn't random chaos. As the skulls settled, Faralda realized with mounting disbelief that they hadn't just fallen—they had been arranged. Positioned. The human skulls formed a clear pattern down the center of the bridge, while larger specimens created borders on either side. Different species alternated in careful sequence: dragon, troll, bear, sabre cat, repeating in a design that resembled nothing so much as a rainbow made of death.

"That's not... that's not a Flames spell," Faralda said weakly, her decades of academic training struggling to process what she had just witnessed.

The Dragonborn nodded enthusiastically, then produced a sweetroll from somewhere within their armor and offered it to her as if she had just complimented their interior decorating skills.

"I..." Faralda accepted the pastry automatically, her mind still trying to reconcile the Thu'um with spell-testing protocols. The sweetroll was warm, perfectly fresh despite the frigid temperature, and smelled of cinnamon and honey.

"Learn magic?" the Dragonborn prompted, their eyes visible beneath the pot helmet showing unusual focus.

Years of gatekeeping, decades of turning away those who lacked the necessary aptitude or dedication—all of it crumbled in the face of someone who had demonstrated more raw magical power (albeit unconventionally) than many current College members. And they were Dragonborn. Whatever chaos they brought with them, their potential value to magical research couldn't be denied.

"Yes," Faralda heard herself say. "Yes, you may enter the College of Winterhold."

As the Dragonborn stepped onto the bridge, carefully avoiding disturbing their skull rainbow display, Faralda made a mental note to warn the faculty. Specifically Tolfdir, who would be responsible for this student's education. And Urag, whose library would likely suffer. And Colette, whose restoration studies might be tested in ways the discipline had never encountered before.

Warning seemed... inadequate.

Perhaps prayer would be more appropriate.

The Dragonborn was already sprinting across the skull-lined bridge with the same eerie speed the werewolf had displayed earlier, their footsteps somehow avoiding every ice patch that had claimed lesser applicants. They disappeared into the College's main entrance with purpose, leaving Faralda alone with her thoughts, her sweetroll, and the sudden certainty that the College's definition of "unprecedented" was about to be thoroughly revised.

From somewhere within the College's ancient walls came the sound of something large and heavy being moved. Or stacked. Or both.

Faralda took a bite of the sweetroll. It was, indeed, delicious.

This was going to be interesting.

***

The Hall of Attainment hummed with the subtle magical energies that suffused all of the College's architecture. Ancient Nordic runes carved deep into stone walls glowed faintly blue, reacting to the magical currents that flowed through the building like blood through veins. Tolfdir stood in the center of his quarters, surrounded by floating magical tomes, quills that wrote of their own accord, and a sphere of controlled flame that provided both light and warmth against the perpetual arctic chill.

At well over a century old, the master mage had witnessed countless students pass through these halls. His wild white hair and beard framed a face lined with decades of patient instruction, and his faded blue robes bore the occasional burn mark and potion stain that came with teaching Destruction magic to enthusiastic novices. His quarters reflected his teaching philosophy—organized chaos, where magical artifacts and research materials were arranged in ways that made sense only to him.

He was currently reviewing lesson plans for the new term when the warning came—not through formal channels, but through the College's gossip network, which operated faster than any courier service.

"Have you heard?" Phinis Gestor burst through the door without knocking, the Breton Conjuration expert's normally composed features showing unusual agitation. "Faralda just admitted the Dragonborn to the College!"

"The Dragonborn?" Tolfdir's bushy eyebrows rose with interest rather than concern. "Fascinating! I was just reading about them. Apparently they're quite remarkable—defeating dragons, gaining influence across multiple holds. Though I must say, some of the tales seem rather... embellished. Something about fighting with vegetables?"

"You haven't heard the full extent of the rumors," Phinis insisted, beginning to pace. "They've turned the Companions into chaos, stockpile cabbages like most people collect gold, and apparently just now performed some kind of skull-arranging miracle to pass Faralda's entrance test."

"Now, now," Tolfdir soothed, his teacher's instinct for calm reassertion kicking in. "Every talented student starts somewhere. I'm sure the reality is far less dramatic than the rumors suggest. After all, they've shown the wisdom to seek out proper magical education."

Phinis opened his mouth to argue further when a commotion from the College's entrance hall interrupted him. Both mages paused, listening to what sounded like... was that someone arranging furniture? Or possibly dismantling it?

"Perhaps I should greet our newest student," Tolfdir suggested, rising from his chair with the deliberate movements of someone who had learned to conserve energy over a very long life. "A friendly welcome can work wonders for even the most... unusual personalities."

As he made his way to the entrance hall, each step along the ancient stone floors reminded him of the countless students he had mentored. Some had been prodigies, others late bloomers. Some had challenged conventions, while others had clung rigidly to tradition. All had found their place in magical society eventually.

The entrance hall, usually a solemn space lined with arcane displays and recruitment posters, had been transformed. Every loose piece of furniture—benches, small tables, decorative stands—had been stacked in increasingly precarious towers that reached toward the vaulted ceiling. At the base of each tower sat what appeared to be a bowl, as if the entire structure were some kind of bizarre offering.

At the center of this architectural chaos stood a figure that could only be the Dragonborn. They were meticulously placing a small cup atop the highest tower when they noticed Tolfdir's arrival. Turning with birdlike quickness, they offered a nod of greeting that made their pot helmet tilt at an alarming angle.

"Welcome to the College of Winterhold!" Tolfdir projected his warmest teaching voice across the hall. "I'm Tolfdir, Master Wizard of the College. I understand you're our newest student?"

The Dragonborn nodded again, then gestured proudly to their furniture towers.

"Interesting architectural theory," Tolfdir observed diplomatically. "Though I wonder if we might discuss your magical education instead? What schools of magic interest you most?"

In response, the Dragonborn produced a handful of nirnroot plants from somewhere within their armor and proceeded to eat them raw, stems and all. The distinctive chiming sound of the normally-poisonous plant filled the hall as they chewed thoughtfully.

"Ah," Tolfdir said, his academic mind immediately shifting into analysis mode. "Testing the boundaries between Alchemy and... nutrition? Fascinating approach, though I should mention nirnroot is typically used in potion-making rather than dietary—"

The Dragonborn had moved to a nearby arcane enchanter, one of the College's precious artifacts used to imbue items with magical properties. Before Tolfdir could intervene, they began placing cheese wheels in the soul gem slots with careful precision.

"No, no, that's not quite... the enchanting table requires soul gems for..." Tolfdir trailed off as the enchanter, against all logical expectation, began to glow. The cheese wheels were absorbing magical energy, taking on an otherworldly sheen that suggested they had been somehow... enchanted.

"That's not possible," he murmured, stepping closer to observe. The fundamental laws of enchanting were quite clear about—

A spell erupted from the Dragonborn's hands, not aimed at any target but at themselves. Flames engulfed their form completely, turning them into a walking inferno. Rather than crying out in pain or attempting to extinguish the flames, they simply stood there, occasionally adjusting their burning cheese wheels on the enchanter.

"Dear me!" Tolfdir rushed forward, already preparing a ward spell to protect the student who was apparently immolating themselves for academic purposes. "Young one, Destruction magic must be used with proper—"

The flames vanished as suddenly as they appeared, leaving the Dragonborn entirely unharmed. They looked at Tolfdir expectantly, as if waiting for comments on their magical examination.

"I see," Tolfdir said slowly, his academic fascination beginning to war with concern for College protocols. "You're testing the relationship between offensive spells and defensive countermeasures. Quite advanced for a beginner, though I must emphasize the importance of safety when—"

The Dragonborn was already moving to the next stage of their apparent magical exploration, heading toward the hallway that led to the Arcaneum—the College's vast library. Tolfdir followed, simultaneously intrigued and alarmed by their purposeful strides.

"The Arcaneum is one of our greatest treasures," he began his standard library introduction speech. "Countless tomes of magical knowledge, carefully preserved and cataloged by—"

He stopped as they entered the library, his centuries of academic experience failing to prepare him for what happened next. The Dragonborn scanned the impressive collection of scrolls, books, and manuscripts with intense focus, then began methodically rearranging them. Not by subject matter, author, or magical school as Urag gro-Shub's carefully maintained system dictated, but by color.

Red books moved to shelves on the left. Blue to the right. Green books created a band in the center. The ancient orcish librarian, who had ruled this domain with iron fists for decades, stood frozen in horror as hundreds of years of careful organization were dismantled in minutes.

"Stop! Stop at once!" Urag roared, his tusks bared in rage. "That's the first edition of Shalidor's Insights you're moving! It must remain adjacent to the Collapse notes for proper cross-referencing!"

The Dragonborn paused in their color-coding, head tilting as they considered this new information. After a moment of apparent contemplation, they produced what looked like a wooden spoon from their armor and offered it to the apoplectic librarian.

"A spoon?" Urag sputtered. "You're destroying the organizational system of the greatest magical library in northern Tamriel, and you're offering me a spoon?"

The Dragonborn nodded earnestly, then returned to their task with renewed vigor. Books flew through the air with mechanical precision, reshelving themselves by color in a demonstration of telekinetic ability that would have impressed Tolfdir under any other circumstances.

"Perhaps," Tolfdir suggested carefully, placing a calming hand on Urag's shoulder before the librarian could draw his sword, "we could view this as an opportunity to reassess our organizational system? A fresh perspective on knowledge arrangement?"

Urag's growl could have curdled milk in another hold.

The Dragonborn completed their rainbow rearrangement and immediately moved to the nearest study table, where apprentice mage Brelyna Maryon had been peacefully studying. With disturbing efficiency, they began removing books from the shelves and stacking them on her head while she tried to read. One book, two books, five books—

"Um," Brelyna said uncertainly, her dark Dunmer features fixed in an expression of pure bewilderment. "I'm trying to study Alteration theory?"

The Dragonborn nodded supportively and added three more books to her head-tower, balancing them with the precision of someone who had done this before. Many times. The tower reached twelve books before physics demanded intervention.

"Student!" Urag barked. "Stop treating ancient tomes like building blocks! Those books are irreplaceable!"

The Dragonborn fixed Urag with an intense stare, suddenly motionless except for their hand, which began sliding a rare manuscript of "The Night of Tears" slowly toward the edge of the table. They maintained eye contact the entire time, the threat clear: any sudden movement would send the priceless text crashing to the floor.

"You wouldn't dare," Urag whispered, his warrior instincts warring with scholarly horror.

The book inched closer to the edge. The Dragonborn's stare never wavered.

"Fine!" Urag threw up his hands. "Read whatever you want! Just don't damage the collection!"

The manuscript was carefully placed back on the table—only for the Dragonborn to immediately begin a new game of "how-many-books-can-balance-on-Brelyna" while the unfortunate Dunmer apprentice tried to continue her studies beneath an increasingly precarious tower of magical knowledge.

Tolfdir, whose teaching philosophy emphasized patience and understanding of different learning styles, found himself revising his opinions of what constituted "unusual" student behavior. This went beyond unconventional. This was creating entirely new categories of academic challenge.

As he watched the Dragonborn produce a quill, dip it in ink, and begin writing what appeared to be a shopping list on the blank space of a 2nd Era magical treatise, Tolfdir realized that the College's next chapter was about to be written in ways no Arch-Mage had ever anticipated.

And for all his decades of experience, he wasn't sure whether to be terrified or excited by the prospect.

The Dragonborn's list, he couldn't help but notice, featured various cheeses, thirty cabbages, and "more pots (bigger eye holes)."

This was definitely going to be interesting.

***

The Hall of Elements crackled with barely contained magical energy as steam hissed from the College's alchemy stations. J'zargo, Khajiit apprentice mage and self-proclaimed master of Destruction magic, prowled between workbenches with predatory grace. His orange fur was meticulously groomed, golden earrings glinting in the blue magelight, and his apprentice robes bore far fewer scorch marks than most associated with his chosen school of magic. His green eyes gleamed with calculated ambition as he considered the arrival of the College's newest student.

"This one has heard the rumors," he announced to no one in particular, his accented voice carrying the confidence of someone who had never met a magical challenge he didn't believe he could overcome. "Dragonborn, they say. Khajiit is not impressed. Magic is not learned overnight, despite what the legends claim."

Onmund, the young Nord apprentice working at a nearby station, looked up from his book with mild concern. "The faculty seem rather worried about them. Tolfdir was muttering something about books being used as hats?"

"Pah!" J'zargo waved dismissively. "This one has studied at the College for years. Some dragon-souled warrior cannot possibly surpass J'zargo's magical knowledge!" His tail swished with characteristic determination. "When this Dragonborn arrives, J'zargo will show them what real magic looks like!"

As if summoned by his declaration, the doors to the Hall of Elements burst open. The Dragonborn entered with purpose, scanning the room with eyes that seemed to catalogue every magical implement, every bubbling cauldron, every student. They zeroed in on J'zargo with unnerving precision.

"Ah!" the Khajiit preened. "You must be the famous Dragonborn. J'zargo heard you—"

His introduction was cut short as the new student produced a Destruction spell tome from their collection and, to J'zargo's complete shock, began eating it. The ancient vellum pages tore with disturbing ease as the Dragonborn consumed the magical knowledge with the efficiency of someone devouring a sweetroll.

"No! Stop!" J'zargo lunged forward, clawed hands outstretched. "That is a rare tome of Incinerate! You cannot simply eat—"

The Dragonborn swallowed the last page, looked thoughtful for a moment, then unleashed a perfect Incinerate spell that sent golden flames streaming across the hall. Several students dove for cover as the intense magical fire passed harmlessly overhead before dissipating against the far wall.

"Impossible," J'zargo breathed. "This one has studied that spell for months! You cannot learn advanced Destruction magic by... by eating books!"

The Dragonborn tilted their head in that bird-like manner, then produced a scroll of Firebolt and began a similar culinary experience. J'zargo watched in horrified fascination as magical knowledge was consumed literally rather than studied.

"This defies everything the College teaches!" he protested, though his competitive nature couldn't help analyzing the effectiveness of this bizarre learning method. "Magic requires careful study, practiced application, theoretical understanding—"

The Dragonborn finished their scroll-snack and promptly cast a chain of Firebolts that ricocheted off the protective wards built into the hall's architecture, each blast hitting exactly where the caster intended. The display of control was undeniable.

J'zargo's fur bristled with a mixture of irritation and unwilling admiration. "Fine. Perhaps your methods are... unorthodox. But J'zargo knows things you could not possibly learn by eating!"

To demonstrate his superiority, he cast a precise Telekinesis spell, lifting a feather with delicate control. "This one can manipulate objects with pure thought. Try to match this sophistication!"

The Dragonborn nodded enthusiastically, then also cast Telekinesis—but instead of a feather, they lifted three sweetrolls, two cabbages, and what appeared to be a dragon bone simultaneously. With casual ease, they launched these objects across the hall, each one striking a specified target with perfect accuracy. The dragon bone even knocked a book off a distant shelf.

"Show off," J'zargo muttered, though his tail was now swishing with the rhythm of competitive consideration. "This one can show greater practical applications!"

***

By the afternoon, word had spread throughout the College about their unusual new student. Faculty members gathered in the Hall of Elements to observe what they privately referred to as "The Dragonborn Phenomenon."

"They've been giving scrolls of useless spells to test subjects," Phinis reported during an impromptu faculty meeting. "Except they eat the scrolls rather than reading them, claim it 'absorbs knowledge faster,' then demonstrate mastery of spells that should require weeks of study."

"The alchemy lab is experiencing unprecedented demand," Colette Marence added, wringing her hands. "They keep requesting restoration magic practice on potatoes. Literal potatoes. Apparently they believe that if you can heal vegetables, you can heal people."

"And don't get me started on the enchanting experiments," Drevis Neloren grumbled. "They've enchanted every plate in the dining hall. The Disintegrate Armor enchantment on my lunch plate was particularly embarrassing when I tried to eat stew."

The Arch-Mage, Savos Aren, listened to these reports with growing concern while reviewing protective ward logs. The ancient magical barriers that shielded the College had been designed to repel hostile forces, detect forbidden magic, and maintain the delicate balance between different schools of study. Never had they been tested by someone who could shift between human and werewolf forms while simultaneously channeling Dragonborn powers.

"According to these readings," he said, adjusting his spectacles, "the wards are experiencing fluctuations whenever our new student approaches certain magical artifacts. The response pattern suggests they're reacting to multiple sources of power—Dragonborn, werewolf, and whatever force allows them to... eat knowledge."

As if on cue, a tremendous crash echoed from the direction of the Arcanaeum. Savos sighed deeply, the sound of a man who had maintained order for decades only to watch it crumble in hours.

"Perhaps we should investigate the latest incident?" he suggested wearily.

The faculty procession found the Arcanaeum in a state Urag had never experienced in his tenure. Books of various sizes were stacked throughout the room—not just on shelves, but forming elaborate towers, bridges connecting bookshelves, and what appeared to be a scale model of Dragonsreach constructed entirely from ancient tomes.

The Dragonborn stood at the center of this literary architecture, carefully arranging skulls (when had they brought in skulls?) around a makeshift throne made of stacked Spell Tomes from the 3rd Era. Urag sat in the corner, rocking slightly, holding his personal copy of "The Homilies of Blessed Almalexia" like a security blanket.

"The system," he whispered to anyone who would listen. "The organizational system I spent decades perfecting..."

"Student," Savos addressed the Dragonborn directly. "While we appreciate your... enthusiasm for our collection, perhaps we could discuss appropriate handling of rare texts?"

The Dragonborn looked up, noticed the assembled faculty, and immediately began producing enchanted items from their inventory. Each one was carefully presented to a different faculty member with ceremonial solemnity.

"A boot enchanted with Water Breathing," Phinis observed, accepting the soggy footwear uncertainly. "For... underwater bibliophile activities?"

"A plate with Shock Damage," Drevis noted, eyeing his gift suspiciously. "I suppose one could defend oneself against hungry students?"

"A hat enchanted with Fortify Restore Magicka," Colette discovered, examining what appeared to be a bucket with eye-holes and feathers. "That's... actually quite practical?"

The Dragonborn nodded proudly, then returned to their skull-throne construction project. Each skull was placed with mathematical precision, suggesting either madness or methodology far beyond current magical understanding.

"Note the arrangement," Tolfdir murmured, his academic curiosity overriding his administrative concerns. "There's a pattern here—dragon skulls for power positions, troll skulls for support structures, human skulls for decorative elements. It's not random at all."

"That's what concerns me," Savos admitted quietly. "Everything they do appears chaotic, yet there's underlying structure we don't comprehend. They're operating by rules we haven't discovered yet."

Before further discussion could occur, a magical disturbance rippled through the College. The Eye of Magnus—the mysterious artifact that had been dormant for centuries in the College's depths—was radiating waves of energy that caused every mage's hair to stand on end.

"The Eye," Savos breathed, instinctively moving toward the Hall of Elements. "It's reacting to..."

The Dragonborn had already abandoned their skull throne and was moving with purpose toward the source of the disturbance. As they approached the College's staff of Magnus—the artifact used to control and study the Eye—they produced an armful of random objects: cheese wheels, cabbages, butterflies in jars, even a live mudcrab that snapped irritably.

"What are they doing?" Phinis wondered aloud.

"Testing the limits of ancient magical artifacts with produce?" Drevis suggested, his tone suggesting this was exactly the sort of thing he'd expect from their new student.

The Dragonborn began presenting their offerings to the staff of Magnus one by one. Each item was held near the artifact's crystal surface, causing varying reactions—the cheese wheels made it glow faintly, the cabbages produced harmonic vibrations that could be felt through the floor, and the mudcrab caused the entire staff to pulse with energy that sent shivers through every mage present.

"Fascinating," Tolfdir muttered, already preparing to document this unprecedented magical interaction. "They're treating one of Skyrim's greatest mystical artifacts like... like a magical sorting device for random objects."

The Eye of Magnus itself began to respond, its massive spherical form deep within the College shifting in its stone cradle. Pulses of light traveled along the ancient conduits carved into the walls, creating patterns that suggested the artifact was... attempting to communicate? Or possibly playing?

"Is it just me," J'zargo asked, his competitive nature temporarily forgotten in the face of this spectacle, "or does it appear the Eye is trying to hide from them?"

Indeed, as the Dragonborn approached the grated viewing area that overlooked the Eye's chamber, the artifact seemed to phase partially out of reality, its solid form becoming translucent like morning fog.

"The Eye has never exhibited playful behavior before," Savos said with academic understatement. "This is unprecedented."

The Dragonborn, undeterred by the artifact's disappearing act, simply sat cross-legged on the floor and began arranging their collection of objects in increasingly complex patterns. Each configuration caused different reactions from the Eye—sometimes it would stabilize and glow more brightly, other times it would fade further from the material plane.

"They're playing hide and seek," Colette realized with wonder. "The Dragonborn is playing hide and seek with one of the most powerful magical artifacts in existence."

"Hide and seek with skulls and cabbages," Drevis corrected. "Let's be precise in our terminology."

As the faculty watched in collective bewilderment, the newest member of their institution continued their curious experiments with ancient magic. The College of Winterhold, repository of arcane knowledge and bastion of scholarly pursuit, found itself faced with a fundamental question: could their centuries of accumulated wisdom survive the chaos that the Dragonborn brought with them?

Or perhaps, more concerning—would their academic texts survive being treated as between-meal snacks?

The Eye of Magnus pulsed once more, casting long shadows across the hall where the most prestigious magical institution in Skyrim grappled with its strangest student yet.

From somewhere in the depths of the College, the distinct sound of someone force-feeding a healing potion to a potato echoed ominously through ancient stone corridors.

Yes, Savos thought, pinching the bridge of his nose as he prepared for what was sure to be a very long conversation with the Faculty Board. This was definitely going to be interesting.

***

The next morning brought fresh chaos to the College of Winterhold. Reports had reached Savos Aren's office before dawn—from various faculty members who had attempted to return to their quarters only to discover the Dragonborn's latest experiment.

"They call it 'Object Rain,'" Nyrandil reported, the lanky Nord cook running his fingers through his silver hair in distress. "Bowls, plates, cheese wheels—even books—dropping from the ceiling throughout the night. I found my sleeping quarters buried under approximately three hundred and seventeen individual dining implements."

"The precision is what concerns me," Mirabelle Ervine, the Master Wizard, added. Her Breton features were pale with exhaustion, dark circles under her eyes suggesting a sleepless night. "Not a single item struck anyone or caused damage. They aimed specifically to land on sleeping surfaces. Mathematics alone doesn't explain it."

Savos pressed his temples, feeling the beginnings of a headache. "Has anyone checked the Eye of Magnus this morning?"

"About that," Phinis hesitated, avoiding eye contact. "It's... playing."

"Playing?" Savos repeated carefully, as if he might have misheard.

"Every time the Dragonborn approaches with collections of objects—which is always—the Eye phases partially out of reality. Then it pulses with different colors based on whatever items they're holding. Last night, I observed them sorting a collection of gems by how much light the Eye emitted when viewing each stone."

Savos stared at his conjuration expert, processing the impossible. "The Eye of Magnus is sorting gemstones?"

"Enthusiastically," Phinis confirmed. "The Dragonborn has apparently decided that bright yellow resonance indicates inferior gems, while deep blue pulsing suggests higher quality. They're developing their own grading system entirely divorced from any established magical theory."

A commotion from the courtyard interrupted further discussion. Through the frost-covered windows, they could see students gathering, pointing skyward. Savos rushed to observe, dreading what fresh spectacle awaited.

The Dragonborn had constructed an elaborate apparatus in the courtyard—furniture stacked with engineering precision to create a tower that reached nearly to the College's roof. At various levels, students were positioned as if participating in some incomprehensible lesson. But it was what sat atop this precarious structure that drew gasps from the assembled observers.

A full tea service, complete with pot, cups, and an assortment of sweetrolls, balanced impossibly at the summit. The Dragonborn stood at the base of their creation, gesturing animatedly to J'zargo, who had apparently been volunteered as the demonstration subject.

"The Furniture Stacking Theory!" Tolfdir exclaimed, joining them at the window. "They're attempting to teach levitation through structural engineering principles!"

"That's not a theory," Savos pointed out. "That's scaffolding made from dormitory furniture."

"Ah, but watch," Tolfdir insisted, his bushy eyebrows dancing with academic excitement. "They're having students cast levitation spells while climbing. Testing whether physical proximity to height influences magical vertical manipulation. Revolutionary!"

J'zargo, demonstrating the false bravado that characterized his studies, was indeed climbing the tower. The Khajiit mage cast Telekinesis repeatedly, attempting to manipulate various floating objects while ascending. His concentration was broken when a perfectly cooked potato flew past his head, launched from the Dragonborn's Telekinesis spell below.

"Is that... a potato?" Faralda joined them at the window, her Altmer features pinched with confusion.

"Apparently they're testing whether healing spells work on vegetables," Savos explained wearily. "If a potato can be healed, their theory goes, then surely it can be healed while in motion."

The potato, mysteriously, began to glow with restoration magic mid-flight before splattering against a protective ward on the College's outer wall.

"They're learning through complete deconstruction of magical fundamentals," Tolfdir mused. "Not studying what magic does, but what it doesn't do, and finding the exceptions."

"That's chaos theory, not magical theory," Drevis Neloren interjected, arriving with his characteristic sneer. His prematurely gray hair was disheveled, suggesting he too had experienced the overnight Object Rain. "Speaking of which, I found seventeen enchanted socks in my bed this morning. Why socks? How were socks enchanted? The fundamental question of sock enchantment may haunt me forever."

Through the window, J'zargo had reached the summit of the furniture tower and was now attempting to pour tea for students positioned on lower levels. The Dragonborn, apparently satisfied with this demonstration of their "Furniture Stacking Theory," had moved on to a new experiment: arranging students in a circle and placing different animal familiars in the center.

"What are they doing now?" Savos asked, though part of him dreaded the answer.

"Testing the limits of familiar summoning," Phinis answered. "They want to know how many familiars can exist simultaneously. They've summoned fire atronachs, storm atronachs, and... is that a chicken familiar?"

Indeed, what appeared to be a ghostly chicken now pecked at the ethereal ground, much to the confusion of the more traditional summoned creatures.

"A chicken familiar is not within established conjuration parameters," Phinis frowned. "Yet there it clucks."

"Nothing is within established parameters anymore," Savos muttered, watching as the Dragonborn began adding milk to the familiar circle. "Our newest student has made 'impossible' into a daily vocabulary word."

The chicken familiar, showing more personality than most magical constructs, began aggressively pecking at the nearest fire atronach. The ensuing chaos sent students scattering, though the Dragonborn merely observed with scientific detachment, occasionally making notes by arranging cutlery in the snow.

"Cutlery notes?" Savos asked weakly.

"Fork means 'success,' spoon means 'partial success,' knife means 'recalibrate and try again,'" Tolfdir translated, having apparently cracked the Dragonborn's notation system. "They're developing their own scholarly documentation method entirely independent of written language."

Before Savos could respond to this new revelation, a messenger burst into the faculty room, nearly colliding with a floating stack of rotating cheese wheels that had apparently escaped from the latest enchantment experiment.

"Arch-Mage! The excavation at Saarthal—there's been an incident!"

Savos closed his eyes briefly. "Define 'incident.'"

"The Dragonborn accompanied the expedition as requested. They've been... reorganizing the archaeological findings."

"Reorganizing how?"

The messenger swallowed hard. "They're apparently conducting what they call 'archaeological offerings'—burying collections of bowls and books as 'counter-artifacts' to balance what we're removing. They've also been reorganizing the contents of everyone’s pockets and possessions while they sleep. Tolfdir's camping supplies now include forty-three identical iron daggers and a single right boot."

"Why a right boot?" Drevis wondered aloud. "Their usual collection obsession focuses on left boots."

"Balance," the messenger quoted solemnly. "They said it was 'for balance.'"

Savos felt his carefully maintained composure beginning to crack like thin ice on a spring pond. The College had weathered many challenges—the Great Collapse, the distrust of Nords, the power struggles between magical schools. But never had it faced a force that so thoroughly dismantled their understanding of magical law while simultaneously advancing their practical knowledge.

"I need..." he began, then paused. What did he need? A vacation? A drink? A time-travel spell to prevent yesterday from happening?

"Arch-Mage," Ancano, the Thalmor advisor, glided into the room with his characteristic smugness only slightly ruffled by finding his quarters full of enchanted plates. "I couldn't help overhearing the discussion about our newest... student."

"Advisor," Savos acknowledged wearily.

"I simply want to express my concern about allowing such unbridled chaos within these hallowed halls. The College has standards, traditions—"

"They enchanted every piece of cheese in the College with light spells," J'zargo interrupted, apparently having descended from the furniture tower with all limbs intact. "Khajiit's midnight snack illuminated the entire dining hall. The audacity! The innovation! J'zargo is torn between admiration and fury!"

"Cheese with light spells," Savos repeated flatly. "Of course. Why not?"

The faculty fell silent as the implications settled. The College of Winterhold, bastion of magical learning and research, had become a testing ground for theories that defied everything they knew about magic. Yet each impossible act was technically magic, just magic performed in ways no mind had conceived before.

"Perhaps," Tolfdir suggested gently, "we're witnessing the birth of new magical understanding. Unconventional, yes. Unprecedented, certainly. But potentially revolutionary."

"Revolutionary involves throwing out old ideas to embrace new ones," Savos countered. "This is more like... magical anarchism. They're not replacing our theories—they're ignoring them entirely and somehow succeeding anyway."

A crash from the direction of the Arcaneum made everyone wince. Urag's roar of "NOT THE FIRST EDITION!" echoed through ancient stone corridors.

"We need protocols," Mirabelle stated firmly. "Some way to contain or channel this energy without destroying our accumulated knowledge."

"Protocols suggest predictability," Drevis pointed out. "We can't predict a mind that views spell tomes as breakfast cereal and teaches magic through furniture arrangements."

"Then we adapt," Savos declared, though the weariness in his voice suggested the toll this adaptation was taking. "The College has survived this long by evolving. If our newest student requires us to reconsider everything we know about magic, then perhaps it's time for such a reconsideration."

As if summoned by his words, the Dragonborn entered the faculty room. In their arms, they carried what appeared to be a normal collection of scrolls and books. Without ceremony, they placed this bundle on the central table and stepped back expectantly.

"What are these?" Savos asked, inspecting the stack. They appeared to be various spell tomes and journals, though some had been partially chewed around the edges.

The Dragonborn didn't speak. Instead, they pointed to the stack, then to each faculty member in turn, then back to the stack. The message seemed clear: these were gifts, or perhaps peace offerings.

Phinis cautiously selected a scroll from the pile. "It's a spell formula for summoning multiple familiars simultaneously. But the notation system..." He unrolled it further, his eyebrows rising. "It combines traditional magical symbols with... cutlery arrangements? This is the chicken familiar spell!"

"Mine appears to be the theoretical basis for cheese-light enchantments," Drevis admitted reluctantly, examining a partially eaten tome. "Complete with mathematical proofs. The proofs are in arranged dinner settings, but the mathematics are... actually sound."

One by one, the faculty members discovered their "gifts" were actually coherent magical theories based on the Dragonborn's chaotic experiments. Heretical, perhaps, but logically constructed using entirely new systems of notation and proof.

"They're teaching us," Tolfdir realized with wonder. "Not learning from us—teaching us their understanding of magic through the universal language of... kitchen implements."

Savos studied the Dragonborn, trying to reconcile the figure before him with everything reported since their arrival. The pot helmet tilted at that familiar angle, suggesting curiosity rather than judgment as they waited for understanding to dawn among their instructors.

"Very well," Savos said finally. "You may continue your studies at the College of Winterhold. But," he added firmly, "we will establish some basic guidelines to protect our collections and our sanity."

The Dragonborn nodded eagerly, then reached into some secret place in their armor and produced a sweetroll, which they placed ceremoniously on Savos's desk before departing as silently as they had arrived.

The faculty room fell quiet as everyone processed the morning's revelations. The College they had known was changing, challenged by a force that tested not just magical knowledge but their entire approach to learning.

"Guidelines," Savos repeated firmly to himself, picking up the sweetroll. It was still warm, perfectly glazed, and smelled of cinnamon and achievement.

As he took a bite, wondering whether accepting food from the Dragonborn counted as participating in their chaos, the Eye of Magnus pulsed with what could only be described as amusement, and somewhere in the College, a familiar burst of flour suggested spell-testing in the kitchen once again.

From the courtyard came the distinctive sound of J'zargo attempting to recreate the furniture tower climbing experiment, apparently inspired by witnessing success achieved through complete disregard for traditional magical methodology.

The College of Winterhold had stood for centuries as a beacon of magical knowledge and study.

Now it stood as a beacon of magical knowledge, study, and whatever it was the Dragonborn was doing with those skulls in the Arch-Mage's herb garden.

Savos could only hope Skyrim was ready for what his College might accidentally unleash upon the world.

***

The excavation of Saarthal had become something of a pilgrimage site for novice mages seeking both ancient knowledge and proximity to the College's most fascinating student. By the third day of digging, Tolfdir found himself managing not just an archaeological expedition but also an ongoing lesson in "adaptive magical exploration"—the phrase he had coined to describe the Dragonborn's approach to academic research.

Snow crunched beneath boots as the expedition team made their way through ancient Nordic ruins. The air inside Saarthal carried the distinctive chill of places untouched by living breath for millennia, flavored with dust, stone, and the ozone tang of dormant magic. Every step deeper into the ruins revealed more of the ancient past—wall carvings depicting the Snow Prince's war, burial chambers of the Atmorans, and scattered artifacts that spoke of a culture both savage and sophisticated.

"Now remember," Tolfdir instructed his apprentices, his white beard frosted with condensation from his own breath, "Saarthal was destroyed during the Night of Tears. Every artifact we discover helps us understand that crucial period of Nordic history. We must treat each finding with reverence and scholarly care."

The Dragonborn, who had taken to wearing what appeared to be a skeever pelt draped over their pot helmet for the expedition, nodded solemnly. Their agreement lasted approximately five minutes.

"What are they doing now?" Brelyna asked, her dark Dunmer eyes tracking their newest colleague's movements with the wariness of someone who had experienced too many unexpected book-towers.

"I believe," Tolfdir said slowly, watching the Dragonborn carefully place a series of wooden bowls into an empty burial urn, "they're creating what they call 'archaeological offerings.' Some form of sympathetic magic, perhaps? Replacing what we take with items of equivalent cultural value?"

"But those are just bowls," J'zargo pointed out, his orange fur now dusted with tomb dirt. "Modern bowls. Khajiit sees no cultural equivalence."

"I believe the Dragonborn operates on different cultural values," Tolfdir suggested diplomatically, just as their subject of discussion began systematically burying spell tomes in the ancient Nordic soil.

"Those are from the College library!" Onmund protested, recognizing the distinctive binding of several advanced texts. "We can't bury knowledge!"

The Dragonborn paused, considered this objection, then produced what appeared to be a first edition of "Vernaccus and Bourlor" and buried it deeper, patting the soil with care usually reserved for planting saplings.

"Perhaps," Tolfdir tried again, "they're performing some form of ceremonial protection magic? Seeding knowledge to grow in new forms?"

The academic justifications grew increasingly strained as the expedition progressed. When they discovered the ancient Dragonborn puzzle door, Tolfdir expected their newest recruit to contribute their unique insights into draconic mechanisms.

Instead, the Dragonborn arranged three cabbages in front of the door, stepped back, and waited expectantly.

"That's... not how the door mechanism works," Tolfdir explained gently. "You need to rotate the symbols to match the combination found on the claws or wall carvings."

The Dragonborn pointed to the cabbages with an expression suggesting the solution was obvious. After several minutes of confused silence, they sighed—a sound that conveyed deep disappointment in the group's inability to grasp simple magical concepts—and used a single "FUS" to blast the door open, warping the ancient mechanism completely.

"Archaeologically speaking, that's a catastrophe," Onmund whispered in horror.

"Practically speaking, the door is open," J'zargo countered, already moving to investigate the chamber beyond. "Khajiit respects results over methods."

What they found beyond the door was worth the methodological sacrilege. A chamber filled with ancient Atmoran artifacts, each one a window into prehistory. Tolfdir's academic heart soared even as his preservation instincts wept when the Dragonborn immediately began "reorganizing" the findings.

"No, no, those pottery shards are arranged by age for dating purposes!" he pleaded, watching centuries of contextual information being reshuffled by color. "Blue shards with blue shards won't help us understand their cultural development!"

The Dragonborn had already moved on to another display, where they were meticulously transferring the contents of every expedition member's pack into ancient Nordic burial chests. When Arniel Gane discovered his research notes had been replaced with forty-three identical iron daggers, the explosion of academic rage echoed through stone corridors like the Night of Tears reborn.

"They've completely undermined the purpose of controlled excavation!" Arniel ranted, his prematurely balding head red with fury. "Archaeological context is everything! We can't just swap modern iron daggers for ancient artifacts and expect to learn anything!"

But even as he spoke, something strange was happening. The ancient runes carved into the chamber walls had begun to glow—not with the dormant magical energy they had expected, but with active illumination that suggested response to current events. The Dragonborn's "archaeological offerings" were somehow awakening protective enchantments that had lain dormant for millennia.

"Fascinating," Tolfdir breathed, his scholarly curiosity trumping his methodological concerns. "They've found a way to activate the ward stones through sympathetic exchange. The ancient Atmorans must have built in protocols for replacing removed artifacts!"

"Protocols that required cabbages and daggers?" Brelyna asked skeptically.

"Protocols that recognized exchange rather than theft," Tolfdir corrected. "Though I doubt they anticipated such... colorful interpretations of equivalent exchange."

The expedition continued deeper into Saarthal, each chamber bringing new archaeological treasures and new chaos as the Dragonborn applied their unique understanding of magical research. Ancient puzzles were solved through experimentation that would horrify traditional scholars—they didn't study the mechanisms, they simply tried every possible interaction until something worked. Pressure plates, rotating pillars, elemental locks—all yielded to persistent, chaotic testing.

"They're like a child pushing every button to see what happens," Arniel complained during their midday rest.

"Except the child can shout doors open and heal injuries with potatoes," J'zargo pointed out. "And Khajiit notices they remember every combination that works. There is method in the madness, yes?"

"The madness of successful trial and error," Arniel admitted reluctantly. "Which is, technically, a valid research method. I just prefer my research to not involve potential death by ancient Nordic traps."

The deepest chamber of Saarthal proved to be both reward and challenge. Ancient texts lined stone walls, preserved by magic beyond their years. Tolfdir practically vibrated with academic excitement as he identified treatises on the death of dragons, explorations of ancient Nordic magic, and what appeared to be preliminary notes on the Eye of Magnus.

The Dragonborn approached these priceless texts with predatory focus. Before anyone could stop them, they began—of course—eating random pages.

"STOP!" Every mage in the chamber shouted in unison, creating a chorus of magical protection spells that turned the air electric.

The Dragonborn paused, a scroll of "Applications of Telekinetic Magic in Architecture" hanging from their mouth like a bizarre tobacco pipe. They chewed thoughtfully, swallowed, then proceeded to reconstruct the architectural concepts described in the text using levitated stones and burial urns.

"They're building directly from absorbed knowledge," Tolfdir realized in amazement. "Not just learning—literally incorporating and demonstrating immediately."

What followed was part architectural marvel, part archaeological horror. Using only telekinesis and objects found in the chamber, the Dragonborn recreated ancient Nordic building techniques, weaving protective enchantments that had been lost for millennia. They rearranged stone blocks to demonstrate load-bearing principles, showing how the Atmorans had stabilized their structures against earthquakes.

"It's brilliant," admitted Phinis, who had journeyed to Saarthal specifically to observe. "Horrifying, ethically questionable, but absolutely brilliant. They're not just learning history—they're reconstructing it."

"Reconstructing it by eating priceless texts," Arniel muttered, though he was taking notes furiously. "The Faculty Board will have apoplexy."

As the expedition prepared to return to the College, the Dragonborn made their final "archaeological offering"—a perfectly preserved sweetroll placed reverently on an ancient altar, surrounded by a circle of arranged flower petals. The sweetness of fresh pastry mingled with the musty scent of ancient stone, creating an aroma that seemed to bridge thousands of years.

"What does it mean?" Brelyna wondered aloud.

"Perhaps," Tolfdir suggested, "it's an offering to whatever spirits remain in Saarthal. A sweetroll for the sweet after-life?"

The Dragonborn simply nodded, satisfied with whatever symbolism they had intended, and began the journey back to the surface.

***

The Faculty Meeting that evening was unprecedented in its urgency. Every master of every school gathered in the Arch-Mage's chambers, the air thick with competing magical energies and thicker with unprecedented concern. Savos Aren presided over the chaos with the patience of a man who had accepted that normality was now a historical concept.

"We need to address the fundamental question," he opened without preamble. "Is the Dragonborn's presence at this institution beneficial or detrimental to our mission of magical education?"

"Beneficial!" Tolfdir raised his hand enthusiastically. "They've demonstrated practical applications of theories we've only discussed in abstract. The archaeological reconstruction alone represents breakthrough methodology—"

"They ate a five-thousand-year-old scroll!" Arniel interrupted. "The methodology is 'whatever fits in my mouth'!"

"But it worked," J'zargo pointed out, his tail swishing with characteristic agitation. "Khajiit has studied traditional methods for years. This one can admit when new methods achieve results. Even if those methods involve consuming knowledge like cheap mead."

"The ethical considerations are staggering," Colette fretted, wringing her hands. "They're healing potatoes while our students struggle with basic restoration. The fundamental principles of life energy can't be transferred through root vegetables!"

"Actually," Drevis Neloren raised a thin finger, "my research indicates they may have discovered a previously unknown property of starch-based healing matrices. The potatoes show regeneration patterns consistent with minor healing spells."

"You're all missing the larger picture," Faralda interjected, her Altmer composure clearly strained. "The Eye of Magnus is playing hide and seek. HIDE. AND. SEEK. With a student who somehow manages to make it phase through reality while carrying armfuls of skulls. This isn't about methodology—this is about the fundamental nature of magic itself being re…writ...ten by someone who views our greatest mystical artifact as a toy!"

Silence fell as the enormity of her statement sank in. The Eye of Magnus, source of countless mysteries and even more speculation, responding playfully to the chaos that surrounded the Dragonborn suggested implications that stretched the boundaries of magical theory.

"Perhaps," Phinis suggested carefully, "we should consider that our understanding of magic has become too rigid. The Dragonborn isn't breaking magical law—they're revealing how limited our interpretation of those laws has become."

"Revealing or replacing?" Mirabelle asked pointedly. "There's a difference between expanding knowledge and overthrowing it entirely."

"The question becomes," Savos interrupted, raising his hand for silence, "whether we can afford to resist this change. The Dragonborn has already begun teaching other students their methods. J'zargo has confirmed efficacy in several 'impossible' applications. Our choice is to either adapt our curriculum or watch as traditional magical education becomes obsolete."

A knock at the door prevented further debate. Onmund entered, looking sheepish and excited in equal measure.

"Arch-Mage? The Dragonborn is in the Hall of Elements. They're conducting what they call 'Spell Combination Catastrophe'—using conflicting school spells simultaneously."

"That's suicide!" Colette exclaimed. "Healing and damage magic cancel each other out! Calm and Frenzy create paradoxical mental states! The risks—"

"They're channeling the paradox energy into new spell effects," Onmund continued. "A 'Frenzy of Calm' that makes targets extremely aggressive about being peaceful. A 'Healing Flame' that cauterizes while it cures. It's unprecedented—and several students are requesting to study these techniques."

The faculty exchanged glances that ranged from horror to reluctant respect. The College of Winterhold, fortress of traditional magical scholarship, stood at a crossroads. They could maintain their standards and reject methods that defied everything they had established. Or they could embrace the chaos and risk everything they had built.

"Motion to vote," Savos announced. "All in favor of establishing a new course of study: Experimental Arcane Methodology, with our resident Dragonborn as visiting lecturer?"

The room divided between raised hands and skeptical frowns. But in the end, curiosity and practicality won over tradition. The vote passed by a narrow margin.

"The College will adapt," Savos declared, though his tone suggested he was trying to convince himself as much as his faculty. "We're scholars. Scholars evolve or become obsolete."

As the meeting adjourned, reports filtered in of the latest developments:

The Dragonborn had successfully enchanted every plate in the dining hall with varying degrees of Fork Levitation, creating what they called "Self-Serving Dinnerware"

Multiple students had reported their beds significantly more comfortable after an overnight visit from their newest colleague, who apparently installed extra pillows by phasing them through solid walls

Urag had given up trying to maintain his cataloging system and was now sorting books by "How Much The Dragonborn Likes Them," a scale based entirely on how many times each tome had been eaten

The protective runes that hadn't activated in decades were now pulsing with cheerful energy whenever their newest student performed particularly creative magical violations

As Savos returned to his quarters, he found a stack of partially chewed spell tomes on his desk, arranged in order of digestibility. A note attached read simply: "For study. Tastier than sweetrolls."

The College of Winterhold had survived the Great Collapse. It would survive the Great Chaos.

Probably.

In the depths of the College, the Eye of Magnus pulsed with what sounded suspiciously like laughter, anticipating its next game of hide and seek with the most entertaining student to grace these halls in centuries.

And somewhere in the Hall of Elements, the sound of vigorous potato healing echoed through ancient stone, suggesting the future of magical education would be nothing if not interesting.

The archives would record this period as "The Year Magic Learned to Laugh."

Skyrim, for better or worse, would never be the same.

Chapter Text

The crisp autumn wind carried the scent of Lake Honrich—a peculiar blend of fish, wet wood, and the earthy tang of the surrounding forest—through the cracked window of Riften's keep. Steward Anuriel adjusted the collar of her fine cotton garments, trying to ward off the perpetual dampness that seemed to seep through Mistveil Keep's ancient stone walls. The Bosmer woman's slender fingers, adorned with simple silver rings denoting her position of office, fidgeted with a worn quill as she gazed at the letter before her. Her amber eyes, characteristic of her Wood Elf heritage, narrowed in concentration, the delicate points of her elongated ears twitching occasionally as she reread the message for the third time.

The letter from Steward Nenya of Falkreath rested on her polished oak desk, surrounded by the usual administrative clutter of a busy steward—tax records, property deeds, and citizen complaints. Candlelight flickered across the parchment, casting dancing shadows that seemed to animate the words into expressions of disbelief that matched Anuriel's own.

Propped against the nearby wall was a wicker basket containing no fewer than thirty-seven tankards—the latest additions to the collection currently occupying every available surface in Honeyside, the Dragonborn's recently purchased property. The steward had taken to "safeguarding" these new acquisitions when the house had finally reached its physical capacity for storing drinking vessels. The faint smell of ale still clung to some of them, a persistent reminder of Keerava's increasingly vocal complaints about the Bee and Barb's dwindling supply of serveware.

My Dear Colleague Anuriel, the letter began in Nenya's precise Altmer script.

I write to you in the spirit of professional solidarity that has become something of a necessity since our mutual acquaintance began their collection of hold titles. As I currently stand guard over what must be every left boot in Falkreath Hold (arranged, as you may have guessed, in a spiral pattern of decreasing size), I find myself wondering if your tankard situation has improved.

“Proudspire Manor,” she added, “now houses more cabbage than Solitude’s entire marketplace. I hear they’re organized by hue.”

But I write with news that may be of interest regarding our mutual friend's companion. The housecarl Lydia was last observed in Solitude, dragging what witnesses described as "every cabbage in the market" across the city on some "essential Thane duty." The poor woman has not been seen since this incident three days ago, though local guards have taken to calling her "The Cabbage Warden of Solitude," and I'm told there are betting pools regarding her potential return—or lack thereof.

One must admire her dedication, though I confess my own housecarl Rayya has begun constructing what she calls a "contingency fort" out of wooden plates behind Lakeview Manor. I believe she's preparing for the inevitable return of our mutual friend.

With sympathetic regards, Nenya Steward of Falkreath Hold

P.S. Have the new "Dragonborn Protocols" reached Riften yet? Proventus Avenicci is quite insistent that all holds implement them immediately. I've enclosed the official document, though I confess I've had my hands full enforcing Article 7: "Proper Boot Placement and Protection Directives."

“Cabbage Time,” Nenya wrote, “is a period of intense, almost ritualistic focus. The Dragonborn arranges them in patterns that scholars still debate. Some claim it’s nonsense. Others say it’s prophecy.”

Anuriel sighed, setting the letter aside to examine the attached protocol document. Her gaze drifted to the window, where the morning sun glinted off Lake Honrich's surface. In the distance, Riften's marketplace was visible, already bustling despite the early hour. The distinctive red-haired figure of Brynjolf could be seen at his usual corner stall, no doubt hawking his latest "miracle cure" to unsuspecting travelers.

The steward's reflections were interrupted by a sharp knock at her door, followed by the entrance of a city guard whose normally impassive helmet did little to conceal his obvious distress.

"Steward Anuriel," he began, the echoing quality of his voice betraying the hollowness of his helm, "the market vendors are requesting clarification on the new... Dragonborn Priority Lanes."

"The what?" Anuriel blinked, glancing down at Proventus's document with growing dread.

"Someone's painted lines through the market—red lines, with sweet rolls placed at intervals. The merchants want to know if this is an official city directive or if they should report vandalism."

Anuriel massaged her temples, feeling the beginnings of what had become known among hold stewards as a "Dragonborn Headache."

"Tell them," she said carefully, "that while the lanes aren't officially sanctioned, it would be... prudent to leave them in place. Consider them a preemptive security measure."

As the guard departed, Anuriel turned back to her window. Her gaze settled on Honeyside, where a small crowd had gathered to gawk at what appeared to be a perfect replica of the Throat of the World constructed entirely from stacked tankards on the front porch.

Somewhere in Skyrim, she thought grimly, a housecarl struggled with a mountain of cabbages, and a collection of left boots awaited the return of their enigmatic collector. And here she sat, guardian of an ever-growing drinking vessel museum, wondering which hold would next fall victim to the Dragonborn's unique brand of problem-solving.

She only hoped Brynjolf knew what he was getting into.

***

Riften's marketplace pulsed with the particular energy of commerce and deceit that had long characterized the city. The afternoon sun filtered through gaps in the wooden canopies, casting dappled light across weathered stalls and the faces of merchants hawking everything from fresh fish to dubious potions. The scent of the canal's brackish water mingled with the aroma of baking bread from Marise's stall, the sweetness of Black-Briar mead samples, and the earthy fragrance of fall apples hauled in from nearby farms. Beneath it all lurked the perpetual damp-wood smell that permeated the entire city—a reminder of Riften's foundation of ancient timbers rising from the lake.

Brynjolf inhaled deeply, savoring the symphony of scents that told stories no words could capture. A good thief knew that smell revealed as much as sight—the mustiness of a warehouse with poor security, the metallic tang of a merchant who handled too many coins, the floral notes of a noble's perfume marking them as a valuable mark. Today, the market carried another smell, one that had become increasingly familiar: anticipation. Tension. Change.

News traveled quickly in a city built on secrets. Whispers of the Dragonborn's exploits had reached Riften weeks ago, carried by merchants and travelers in hushed, incredulous tones. Tales of werewolf transformations at solemn Nordic funerals. Stories of the prestigious College of Winterhold being turned upside down, with students reportedly using cheese wheels as magical conduits and sorting spells by taste rather than effect. Accounts of Whiterun's legendary Companions being reorganized into furniture-scaling towers at their new Harbinger's whim.

And now, if Brynjolf's information was correct, this force of nature was in Riften. Already a Thane, if the rumors were true. Already disrupting Maven Black-Briar's carefully ordered world.

The red-haired Nord smiled, his sharp green eyes scanning the crowd from his position behind his modest stall of "miracle cures." Tall and lean with the coiled readiness of a predator, Brynjolf had built his reputation on charm, connections, and an uncanny ability to spot opportunity. His fine clothes, while not ostentatious, were of quality that belied his market vendor persona—a subtle signal to those who knew how to look that there was more to him than met the eye.

"Dragonborn Protocols now in effect," read a freshly painted sign near Brand-Shei's stall. Next to it, a confused-looking guard stood watch over what appeared to be a lane marked by sweet rolls placed at precise intervals, creating a path through the market's center.

Brynjolf's keen ears picked up fragments of conversation as shoppers navigated this strange new addition to Riften's marketplace:

"I heard Whiterun's completely rearranged their shops," a woman in a farmer's smock was saying to her companion. "The cheese merchant's display is now sorted by color rather than type. Confused the poor man so much he sold eidar for the price of goat!"

"That's nothing," replied her friend, a man whose rough hands suggested labor in the fishery. "My cousin's a student at the College of Winterhold. Says their bridge collapsed after some experiment with cheese levitation went wrong. They're using floating cheese platforms to cross the gap now—called it a 'temporary measure' but the Arch-Mage seems to prefer it!"

"Floating cheese bridges? You've had too much mead this morning," the woman scoffed, though her tone lacked conviction.

Brynjolf smiled. Exaggeration was the lifeblood of rumors, but there was usually a kernel of truth at their core. And these rumors seemed consistent with what Anuriel had reluctantly confirmed during his last "official business" visit to Mistveil Keep: the Dragonborn wasn't just visiting Riften. They were reshaping it, one inexplicable collection at a time.

His attention shifted to a commotion near Grelka's armor stall. Maven Black-Briar stood there, her aristocratic features twisted into an expression of thinly veiled fury as she gestured at what appeared to be a soup bowl in her hand. Even from this distance, Brynjolf could hear the distinctive tone of Maven's controlled rage.

"This is the fifth day I've had to drink from bowls," she was saying to a nervous-looking Keerava, who had apparently been summoned from the Bee and Barb. "Every tankard in my establishment has vanished. Every mug. Even the ceremonial goblets from my personal collection!"

The Argonian innkeeper's tail swished anxiously against the wooden boardwalk. "I've ordered replacements from Whiterun, but the merchant says there's a hold-wide shortage there as well. Something about the Companions requiring them for 'structural training exercises'?"

Maven's eyes narrowed, the dark pools conveying a threat more effective than any blade. "I don't care if you have to commission new ones from the Skyforge itself. Fix this. My meadery cannot serve our signature product in soup bowls."

"Yes, Maven. Of course, Maven," Keerava nodded, backing away with the practiced deference of someone who knew exactly where true power in Riften resided.

Brynjolf watched with interest as Maven turned toward Anuriel, who had emerged from Mistveil Keep with a scroll that undoubtedly contained Proventus Avenicci's infamous protocols.

"Don't tell me you're implementing that absurdity," Maven's voice carried clearly across the marketplace. "Whiterun's economy is in shambles because of these 'accommodations.' Cheese prices have tripled. Left boots are worth more than right. The entire meadery district has had to recalibrate their delivery schedules around 'potential Dragonborn appearances'!"

Anuriel's response was too quiet to hear, but her placating gestures told Brynjolf everything he needed to know. Even Maven Black-Briar, with all her connections and influence, was learning the futility of resisting the chaotic tide that followed the Dragonborn across Skyrim.

A flash of movement caught Brynjolf's eye—a figure moving through the crowd with peculiar grace that seemed simultaneously predatory and playful. Despite wearing mismatched armor pieces topped with what appeared to be a cooking pot modified with eye holes, they moved with absolute confidence. Citizens of Riften, normally alert for pickpockets and scammers, simply stepped aside, their expressions suggesting this was already a familiar presence.

The Dragonborn had arrived. And they were heading straight for Brynjolf's stall.

Time to make his move.

Brynjolf straightened his emerald-colored vest and fixed his most charming smile in place. Here was the wildcard the Guild needed—the chaos agent who might just turn their recent string of bad luck around. If, that is, he could channel that chaos in a productive direction.

"Never done an honest day's work in your life for all that coin you're carrying, eh lad?" he began as the Dragonborn reached his stall.

The pot helmet tilted at a curious angle, bird-like in its intensity. For a moment, Brynjolf found himself under a scrutiny so focused it was almost uncomfortable—as if he were being categorized, catalogued, and possibly assigned a place in some incomprehensible organizational system.

"I've got a little errand," Brynjolf continued smoothly, undeterred by the silent assessment. "Simple enough—distract the crowd while I plant evidence in Brand-Shei's pocket. Interested?"

The Dragonborn nodded once, decisively, then immediately shouted at full volume: "I AM DOING SECRET THIEF STUFF NOW!"

The marketplace fell silent. Every head turned toward them. Brynjolf felt his carefully constructed facade crack like thin ice in spring.

Jofthor, the beleaguered courier, could be seen ducking into an alley, desperately trying to avoid eye contact with yet another stack of floating sweet rolls.

"That's... not exactly what I had in mind by 'distract,'" he managed through gritted teeth, maintaining his smile with professional determination.

Nearby, a guard sighed audibly, shook his head, and turned away, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like "not paid enough for this."

Brynjolf could feel his carefully laid plan dissolving before it had even begun. Yet strangely, despite the Dragonborn's announcement, no one in the market seemed particularly alarmed. If anything, the merchants exchanged knowing glances, as if this were simply another expected development in Riften's ongoing adjustment to their newest Thane.

"Okay, look," Brynjolf lowered his voice, leaning closer. "Just create a distraction—any distraction—while I plant Madesi's ring on Brand-Shei. Simple, right?"

The Dragonborn nodded again, their eyes beneath the pot helmet gleaming with what might have been mischief or possibly just reflected sunlight. Then, without warning, they sprinted to the center of the marketplace and began casting what Brynjolf recognized as a Telekinesis spell.

What followed defied explanation. Market stalls began to shift—not violently or chaotically, but with deliberate precision. Wooden structures that had stood in the same positions for years glided across the boardwalk, rearranging themselves into what Brynjolf gradually realized was an elaborate maze. Sweet rolls floated upward from their designated markers, forming an aerial pathway that paralleled the newly constructed labyrinth below.

“Learned it at the College,” the Dragonborn explained, as the sweet rolls hovered like obedient familiars. “Advanced Pastry Manipulation. Very technical.”

A farmer nearby blinked as the Dragonborn crouched, spun three times, and appeared five stalls away. "Fast travel," they explained to nobody in particular. "Faster than walking."

"My cabbages!" cried a merchant as his entire inventory levitated, forming a slowly rotating dome above the rearranged market.

"THE ULTIMATE DISTRACTION!" the Dragonborn declared proudly, gesturing to their creation with obvious satisfaction.

The crowd, rather than panicking, simply stared in collective bewilderment. Even the guards seemed uncertain how to respond to a crime that wasn't technically destructive but absolutely violated every unwritten rule of public order.

Brynjolf, recognizing opportunity when it presented itself, slipped through the confusion toward Brand-Shei's now-dislocated stall. The Dunmer merchant was too busy watching his merchandise float three feet above its normal position to notice the sleight of hand that would normally have been Brynjolf's most delicate work.

But when he reached for Brand-Shei's pocket, the ring wasn't in Brynjolf's hand. It had vanished. He patted his own pockets with growing alarm, scanning the chaos for his missing plant.

The Dragonborn appeared beside him, materializing with that unnerving silence that Brynjolf had previously only associated with the Guild's most skilled operatives. They held out Madesi's ring proudly.

"Put it on the guard instead," they explained, pointing to a helmeted city watchman who was unsuccessfully trying to catch a floating wheel of cheese. "He looks trustworthy."

"That's the opposite of—" Brynjolf began, then stopped himself. "Look, the point is to frame Brand-Shei, not the city guard. It's a simple job with a specific goal."

The Dragonborn considered this, head tilted in that now-familiar bird-like manner. Then, without warning, they plucked the ring from Brynjolf's fingers and launched themselves through the floating maze with preternatural agility, weaving between hovering sweet rolls and suspended cabbage heads.

By the time Brynjolf caught up, the Dragonborn was already climbing down from what appeared to be a pyramid of perfectly stacked dinner plates that had materialized in the market's center. Brand-Shei was being escorted away by two guards, protesting his innocence while Madesi's ring glinted incriminatingly from his pocket.

"How did you..." Brynjolf began, then shook his head. "Never mind. Job's done. Meet me in the Ragged Flagon—if you want to make some real coin, that is."

The Dragonborn nodded enthusiastically, then proceeded to collect every plate, cup, and fork from the surrounding stalls with mechanical efficiency. Merchants watched in resigned silence as their serveware vanished into whatever impossible storage space the Dragonborn utilized, occasionally exchanging receipt slips pulled from thin air. These papers, Brynjolf noted with disbelief, appeared to be official "Requisition Forms" stamped with the Jarl's seal.

"Proventus Avenicci's Dragonborn Protocol, Section Three: Supply Acquisition Rights," a particularly well-informed merchant explained to his bewildered neighbor. "They're technically allowed to take anything that's an established collection category."

"But that's half my inventory!" the neighbor protested.

"Should've stocked fewer forks."

Brynjolf pinched the bridge of his nose, already foreseeing the Guild's reaction to their newest recruit. Mercer would be livid about the public spectacle, though the job had technically been completed successfully. Vex would undoubtedly have pointed observations about discretion and professionalism. Delvin might be amused, at least until the Dragonborn started rearranging his meticulously organized fence records.

As if reading his thoughts, the Dragonborn paused in their collection spree and leaned close to Brynjolf.

"Mercer Frey has a bad cheese-wheel aura," they informed him matter-of-factly. "Shouldn't be trusted."

"I... what?" Brynjolf blinked, momentarily thrown off-balance by the non-sequitur. "Keep that particular insight to yourself for now, lad. Guild politics are complicated enough without... cheese auras entering the equation."

The Dragonborn nodded solemnly, then resumed their gathering. By the time they had finished, the marketplace resembled a dining establishment that had been stripped for parts—functional but eerily devoid of anything that could serve, contain, or transport food.

With a sigh that carried both resignation and reluctant fascination, Brynjolf guided his new recruit toward the entrance to the Ratway. Whatever happened next, he suspected the Thieves Guild was about to experience its own version of the changes already sweeping across Skyrim.

He only hoped their underground headquarters was structurally sound enough to withstand a "cheese levitation experiment."

The guard with the soup bowl was still watching them as they descended into the dank tunnels beneath Riften, his expression unreadable behind his helmet. But Brynjolf could have sworn he heard him mutter, "Better them than us," as the trapdoor closed behind them.

***

The Ratway welcomed them with its characteristic assault on the senses—a damp, fetid darkness where the perpetual drip of water provided rhythm to the occasional scuttling of skeevers. The tunnels beneath Riften were a labyrinth of crumbling brick and ancient stonework, long forgotten by most of the city above. Moisture beaded on walls stained green and black with centuries of mold, while the ambient temperature dropped noticeably compared to the autumn air of the marketplace. The smell was a complex bouquet of stagnant canal water, decay, mildew, and something unidentifiable that suggested it was better not to investigate too closely.

"Watch your step," Brynjolf advised, his voice echoing slightly in the enclosed space. "The Ratway isn't as welcoming as the market."

The Dragonborn seemed utterly unfazed by the grim surroundings. If anything, they appeared to be cataloguing every damp corner and crumbling archway with scientific interest. Their head swiveled with owl-like precision, taking in details that even Brynjolf, with his years of traversing these tunnels, often overlooked.

As they navigated the winding passages, Brynjolf couldn't help but notice the unusual silence of their progress. Even in full armor with that ridiculous pot helmet, the Dragonborn moved with preternatural stealth—not the practiced quiet of a trained thief, but something more instinctive, like a predator accustomed to stalking prey.

"The Flagon's just ahead," Brynjolf said as they approached the final turn. "Fair warning—my colleagues might not be as... accommodating as I am. The Guild's been having a run of bad luck, and strangers aren't exactly welcome these days."

The Dragonborn nodded, producing a sweet roll from somewhere within their armor and offering it to Brynjolf with what seemed to be genuine sincerity.

"Er, thanks," he accepted the pastry automatically, noting with puzzlement that it was still warm and smelled freshly baked, despite having apparently been stored in armor that had seen better days. "But maybe hold off on the gift-giving until we've established how things work in the Guild."

Another nod, followed by the Dragonborn retrieving the sweet roll, examining it carefully, then returning it to wherever impossible space they stored their collections.

They rounded the final corner, and the Ragged Flagon spread before them—a cistern converted into what passed for civilized space in the Ratway. A circular stone platform surrounded a pool of murky water, upon which floated what had once been a ship, now repurposed into a bar. Ancient support pillars ringed the space, while makeshift wooden walkways connected various seating areas. Lanterns cast their yellow glow across worn tables where Riften's underground elite conducted their business, creating pools of light that reflected in the still water below.

The smell here was marginally better than the tunnels—stale ale and mead mingled with the smoke from cooking fires and the leather-and-oil scent that seemed to follow thieves everywhere. Quiet conversations hushed as they entered, eyes tracking their progress across the walkway to the bar where Vekel the Man wiped eternally at a wooden counter with a rag that had seen better decades.

"Brynjolf," a female voice cut through the silence, sharp as a well-honed blade. "What's this I hear about the market being turned into a maze?"

Vex emerged from the shadows, her platinum-blonde hair almost ethereal in the dim light. The Imperial woman's features were striking—high cheekbones, piercing eyes, and a mouth currently set in a line of disapproval. Her leather Guild armor fit her athletic frame perfectly, moving with her like a second skin. The twin daggers at her hips weren't for show—Brynjolf had seen her use them with surgical precision against those foolish enough to cross her.

"Ah, Vex," Brynjolf smiled, falling easily into the charming rogue persona that had served him well through countless tight situations. "I was just introducing our newest recruit. They completed the Brand-Shei job quite... effectively."

"Effectively?" Vex's eyebrow arched skeptically. "Maven's breathing down my neck about market disruptions, Brynjolf. The entire city guard is trying to put stalls back where they belong. Dirge had to help Keerava find her entire inventory of plates, for Nocturnal's sake!"

The Dragonborn, seemingly oblivious to the tension, had already begun examining the Flagon's layout with the same focused intensity they had shown in the tunnels. Before either thief could react, they were rearranging barrels near the far wall, organizing them by what appeared to be weight rather than content.

"What are they doing?" Vex hissed, her hand instinctively moving toward one of her daggers.

"Creating order," Brynjolf hazarded a guess, watching as the Dragonborn began constructing what could only be described as a sweet roll tower in the corner of the bar. The pastries appeared one after another from their mysterious inventory, each placed with mathematical precision to form a structure that defied both physics and reason.

"That's not order. That's—"

"Excuse me," Vekel interrupted, his normally impassive bartender's expression showing uncharacteristic alarm. "Are they polishing our silverware?"

Indeed, the Dragonborn had moved on from their sweet roll architecture to the Flagon's modest collection of cutlery, which they were systematically cleaning with a cloth that had materialized from the same impossible space that apparently housed endless pastries and stolen plateware.

"Criminal aesthetics," they explained seriously, holding up a freshly polished fork that gleamed in the lantern light. "Reputation enhancement."

Vex made a strangled sound that suggested she was reconsidering her career choices. "Reputation? We're thieves, not a fancy tavern in Solitude!"

The Dragonborn tilted their head, considering this objection with apparent seriousness. After a moment of contemplation that felt longer than it probably was, they nodded once and proceeded to arrange the polished silverware in a pattern that roughly resembled a lockpick on the bar's counter.

"Criminal symbolism," they amended. "Better branding."

Brynjolf couldn't help the laugh that escaped him, earning a glare from Vex that would have withered a less confident man. "You have to admit, they've got style."

"Style doesn't pay debts," Vex countered, though Brynjolf noticed her posture had relaxed slightly as she observed the Dragonborn's methodical work. "And it definitely doesn't explain why they're now... building a cabbage pyramid?"

Sure enough, the Dragonborn had produced a collection of improbably pristine cabbages and was arranging them into a perfect pyramid near the bar entrance. Each vegetable was placed with the precision of a master architect, creating a structure whose purpose remained as mysterious as its builder.

"Ambiance," the Dragonborn explained without looking up from their work. "Improves morale."

"Morale," Vex repeated flatly. "In a thieves' den."

"Actually," Tonilia spoke up from her usual place near the fence's counter, "I kind of like it. Adds a touch of color, you know?"

Vekel nodded thoughtfully, polishing a mug with his eternal rag. "Been saying for years we could use some decorative touches down here. Makes the place feel almost... respectable."

"We're not supposed to be respectable!" Vex protested, though with noticeably less conviction than before.

Brynjolf watched with growing fascination as the Flagon's denizens, hardened criminals and skeptics all, gradually began to accept—even appreciate—the Dragonborn's bizarre modifications to their sanctuary. Dirge, the imposing bouncer who rarely expressed interest in anything beyond threatening newcomers, was examining the sweet roll tower with what appeared to be genuine admiration for its structural integrity.

"Might be worth seeing what else they can do," Brynjolf suggested to Vex, lowering his voice. "The Guild needs fresh ideas. And you have to admit, they get results."

Vex's expression suggested she was mentally calculating the distance to the nearest exit, but her practical nature won out over her irritation. "Fine. They can try Goldenglow. If—if—they can handle that without turning the entire estate into a vegetable display, we'll talk about proper membership."

Brynjolf smiled, clapping her on the shoulder. "That's the spirit! Always knew you had a progressive streak beneath all that professional menace."

"Don't push it," Vex warned, though the corner of her mouth twitched in what might have been the ghost of a smile. "And keep them away from the loot room. Last thing we need is our inventory being 'organized' by whatever system makes sense in that head."

As if on cue, a crash echoed from the direction of said loot room, followed by what sounded suspiciously like the systematic sorting of stolen goods.

"Too late," Brynjolf sighed, already moving toward the source of the disturbance. "Shall we see what 'improvements' our new colleague has in store for our inventory management?"

Vex's response contained several creative suggestions regarding what Brynjolf could do with his recruitment policy, none of which were anatomically possible. But she followed him nonetheless, curiosity apparently overcoming irritation.

What they found in the loot room defied explanation. The Guild's carefully managed collection of stolen goods—previously organized by value, fence-ability, and market demand—had been completely reimagined. Now, items were arranged by color and reflectivity in concentric circles, creating a display that resembled nothing so much as a bizarre retail experiment.

"It's..." Brynjolf began, searching for words.

"The world's most chaotic thrift store," Vex supplied, her tone suggesting she wasn't entirely displeased with the result. "At least nothing's missing."

The Dragonborn looked up from their work, beaming with evident pride. They gestured to a particularly striking arrangement of silver candlesticks and jeweled necklaces that formed a pattern reminiscent of a constellation.

"Nocturnal's Sign," they explained. "Lucky. Good for business."

Brynjolf and Vex exchanged glances. The former shrugged, while the latter sighed in resignation.

"Tell me about Goldenglow," the Dragonborn requested, suddenly all business despite standing in the midst of what looked like an art installation constructed from stolen goods.

"Well," Vex began cautiously, her professional pride temporarily overriding her skepticism, "it's a heavily guarded estate on an island in Lake Honrich. The owner, Aringoth, has hired extra security since cutting ties with Maven Black-Briar. I need you to break in, clear out his safe, and burn three beehives to send a message."

"Don't burn the whole place down," Brynjolf added hastily, suddenly aware of potential pitfalls in these instructions when applied by their newest recruit. "Maven wants to maintain deniability. Just three hives, no more."

The Dragonborn nodded, their expression beneath the pot helmet suggesting intense concentration. "Stealth mission. Understood." Then, without further discussion, they marched purposefully out of the loot room, leaving Brynjolf and Vex to wonder what exactly they had just set in motion.

"Did we just make a huge mistake?" Vex asked quietly, staring at the rearranged loot room with a mixture of fascination and horror.

"Probably," Brynjolf admitted. "But think of it this way—whatever happens, it won't be boring."

From somewhere in the Flagon, they heard Delvin Mallory's distinctive voice raised in alarm: "Who replaced all our lockpicks with spoons? And why are they arranged in the shape of a sweet roll?"

Vex closed her eyes briefly. "I hope you're right about them being good for business, Bryn. Because I'm pretty sure we've just unleashed chaos incarnate on our operation."

Brynjolf smiled, a genuine expression rather than his usual calculated charm. "Sometimes chaos is exactly what a stagnant business needs. Besides," he added, eyeing the constellation-like arrangement of stolen goods, "you have to admit it's prettier than our usual setup."

"I hate you sometimes," Vex muttered, though without real venom.

"I know," Brynjolf replied cheerfully. "Now, let's go explain to Delvin why spoon lockpicks are the latest innovation in thievery. I have a feeling we're all going to need to develop some creative explanation skills with our new colleague around."

As they left the loot room, neither thief noticed the small cabbage that had been carefully placed in the exact center of the "Nocturnal's Sign" arrangement—a signature whose meaning remained known only to its creator.

The Age of Cabbage had come to the Thieves Guild. And despite their protests, Riften's master criminals were about to discover that resistance was not only futile but possibly missing the point entirely.

Goldenglow Estate rose from Lake Honrich like a defiant fist, its timbers weathered by perpetual moisture but sturdy against the evening mist that crept across the water's surface. The main house dominated the central island, its windows glowing amber against the darkening sky, while wooden walkways connected outlying buildings where the estate's famous bees produced honey that had once been the exclusive resource of Maven Black-Briar's meadery. The air hummed with the distant buzz of hives, a constant undercurrent to the sound of water lapping against wooden supports. The scent of honey, rich and sweet, mingled with the earthy dampness of the surrounding lake and the occasional waft of smoke from guard campfires.

Vex crouched behind a rocky outcropping on the shore, her pale hair hidden beneath a dark hood as she surveyed the security measures she had previously failed to overcome. Mercenaries patrolled the perimeter with clockwork precision, their torches cutting through the gathering darkness as they checked each access point. The water route she had attempted before was now guarded by a mercenary in a small boat, rowing lazy circles around the island's perimeter.

"Remember," she whispered to the figure beside her, "stealth is essential. We need to slip in, burn exactly three beehives, crack the safe, and leave. No witnesses, no trace."

Vex turned to confirm her companion understood these critical instructions, only to find empty space where the Dragonborn had been moments before. A splash from the direction of the lake made her stomach drop with the certainty that comes from deep professional instinct: the mission was already veering off course.

"By the Eight," she muttered, frantically scanning the shoreline.

There, swimming directly toward the front gate of Goldenglow—not sneaking along the less-guarded water route she had indicated, but approaching the main entrance where at least four guards stood watch—was the Dragonborn. Their pot helmet was somehow still in place despite the swim, bobbing above the water's surface like a particularly determined cooking utensil out for an evening paddle.

Years of professional training kept Vex frozen in place rather than rushing after her reckless companion. Intervention now would only result in two captures instead of one. She would wait, reassess, and—

"HELLO, GUARDS!" the Dragonborn's cheerful greeting carried across the still water with remarkable clarity. "I AM HERE FOR A TOUR OF THE BEEHIVES!"

Vex's heart sank further as the guards rushed to the edge of the dock, weapons drawn. This was exactly the opposite of the Guild's carefully calibrated approach to infiltration. She waited for the inevitable sounds of combat, mentally calculating how she might extract her catastrophically indiscreet partner from imprisonment.

Instead, she heard laughter.

Peering carefully around her cover, Vex witnessed a scene that defied her professional understanding. Rather than apprehending the intruder, the guards appeared to be helping the Dragonborn out of the water, their postures suggesting amusement rather than hostility.

"Been expecting a collector," one guard was saying as he offered a hand up. "Boss said someone might come to evaluate the apiaries. Didn't expect them to swim up to the front door, though!"

The Dragonborn, dripping lake water that formed a puddle around their mismatched boots, nodded enthusiastically. "Best approach! Most direct. Very wet."

"You could have used the boat service from Riften," another guard suggested, though his tone indicated he found the swim approach entertaining rather than suspicious.

"Boats are for fish," the Dragonborn replied with apparent sincerity. "Tour now? Bee assessment? Very important work."

As the guards escorted the Dragonborn through the front gate, Vex remained hidden, her professional worldview experiencing significant recalibration. Had the Dragonborn somehow known about a scheduled expert visit? Was this bizarre approach actually a calculated strategy rather than chaotic impulse?

Unable to follow through the main entrance, she circled to her original infiltration point—a less guarded section of shoreline where the distance to swim was shortest. From there, she would try to rendezvous with her companion inside, assuming the Dragonborn's cover wasn't blown in the first five minutes.

As Vex slipped silently into the cool waters of Lake Honrich, she couldn't shake the feeling that she was missing something fundamental about her new colleague's approach to thievery. Something that possibly involved the systematic subversion of every Guild tactic she had spent years perfecting.

The thought was not comforting.

***

Inside Goldenglow's main house, Aringoth's mercenaries were experiencing a phenomenon previously unknown to hired muscle throughout Skyrim: complete bewilderment in the face of inexplicable professional courtesy.

"And this is the main hallway," a guard named Brugor was explaining, having somehow been transformed from security detail to tour guide. "Owner's quarters are upstairs, off-limits to visitors. Beehives are outside to the east."

The Dragonborn nodded attentively, though their gaze seemed focused less on the architectural details being presented and more on the collection of silverware displayed in the dining room they were passing. As the guard continued his improvised tour, the display cabinet mysteriously became emptier, its contents vanishing into the visitor's improbable inventory through sleight of hand that would have impressed even Delvin Mallory.

"How long have you worked here?" the Dragonborn asked, their rare complete sentence momentarily startling the guard.

"Few weeks," Brugor shrugged. "Pay's decent. Owner's jumpy though—doubled security recently, won't say why. Something about a business deal gone wrong."

"Maven Black-Briar," the Dragonborn nodded sagely. "Bad cheese wheel aura."

"What?"

"Nothing. Bee tour now?"

As they proceeded through the estate, the Dragonborn maintained a constant stream of diversionary conversation, punctuated by the occasional vanishing decorative object. By the time they reached the door leading to the beehives, Goldenglow's interior had been systematically stripped of every fork, spoon, and plate—all while the guards remained unaware that their visitor was doing anything beyond showing unusual interest in the estate's cutlery selection.

Outside once more, the Dragonborn surveyed the beehives with the same focused intensity they applied to their collecting activities. The apiary buzzed with activity despite the late hour, the air heavy with the scent of honey and beeswax.

"Very impressive," they nodded to their escort. "Need private time with bees now. Professional assessment."

"I'm supposed to stay with visitors," Brugor frowned, though his posture suggested he wasn't particularly committed to this duty.

"Bees need privacy for honest evaluation," the Dragonborn explained, their expression suggesting this was common knowledge among apiaries assessors. "Could take time. Very detailed work."

Something in their tone—or perhaps the hypnotic effect of dealing with someone whose reality seemed to operate on fundamentally different principles—convinced the guard to nod and step back.

"I'll be just over there," he gestured to a nearby watchpost. "Give a shout when you're done with your... bee privacy."

The moment the guard was out of immediate earshot, the Dragonborn's demeanor shifted from eccentric visitor to methodical operative. They counted the beehives with quick efficiency, identified three for destruction, and—

"What in Oblivion are you doing?" Vex's harsh whisper came from the shadows behind the easternmost hive. The Imperial thief had somehow penetrated the estate's perimeter defenses, her leather armor dripping lake water as she crept forward in a proper thieving crouch. "You walked right in through the front door!"

"Best entrance," the Dragonborn nodded. "Most direct."

"That's not how stealth missions work!"

"Worked though," they shrugged, gesturing to the unguarded beehives. "Three to burn, yes? For message sending."

Vex's expression suggested she was reconsidering several life choices that had led her to this moment. "Yes. Three hives, no more. Then we crack Aringoth's safe and leave—preferably without announcing our departure to every guard on the estate."

The Dragonborn nodded seriously, then produced a small flame in their palm—a basic Destruction spell that glowed orange in the darkness. With surprising precision, they ignited the first hive, then the second, then the third in quick succession. The dry wood and straw caught quickly, sending sparks into the night sky and disturbing the bees within, who emerged in angry, confused swarms.

"Safe now," the Dragonborn declared, already turning back toward the main house.

"Wait!" Vex grabbed their arm. "We can't just walk back through the house! Every guard will be—"

"Busy with bees," they nodded sensibly, pointing to where Brugor and several other mercenaries were now fleeing from increasingly aggravated insect clouds. "Optimal distraction."

Against her better judgment, Vex found herself following the Dragonborn back into the estate through the now-unguarded door. Inside, the halls were eerily empty as the security forces dealt with the apiary fire.

"Upstairs," Vex whispered, gesturing toward the staircase. "Aringoth's quarters and safe are on the second floor. We'll need to pick the locks without alerting—"

The Dragonborn ignored this advice completely, instead walking directly to the staircase and up to the locked door of Aringoth's private quarters. Rather than producing lockpicks, they drew a deep breath and Shouted: "FUS!"

The door shuddered, its lock mechanism splintering under the force of the Thu'um. It swung open with a creak that seemed offensively loud in the otherwise quiet house.

"That's not lockpicking!" Vex hissed, torn between horror at the breach of Guild technique and reluctant appreciation for the effectiveness.

"Faster," the Dragonborn shrugged, already moving into Aringoth's bedroom where the High Elf owner of Goldenglow was cowering behind his bed, his golden skin pale with fear.

"Please," the Altmer whimpered, his fine clothes rumpled from hasty dressing at the sound of intruders. "Take whatever you want! Just don't kill me!"

The Dragonborn tilted their head, studying Aringoth with the same intensity they had applied to the beehives earlier. "Safe combination?"

"T-top shelf, behind the copy of 'Fall of the Snow Prince,'" Aringoth stammered, pointing to a bookshelf across the room. "The key is there. Just please leave me alone!"

While Vex secured the trembling elf with a length of rope from her pack (maintaining some professional standards despite the unorthodox mission), the Dragonborn retrieved the key and approached the safe in the corner. Rather than using the key immediately, they pressed an ear against the metal door, listening with exaggerated concentration.

"What are you doing now?" Vex asked, her tone suggesting she knew she would regret the question.

"Listening for cheese wheel aura," the Dragonborn explained, as if this were a standard security measure taught to all thieves. "Very important for proper safe assessment."

Before Vex could formulate a response to this baffling statement, the Dragonborn inserted the key and opened the safe with anticlimactic ease. Inside were several coin purses, a stack of legal documents, and a sealed letter that matched the description of their primary target.

While Vex collected these items with professional efficiency, the Dragonborn's attention had already shifted to Aringoth's collection of left boots, neatly arranged in a row beside his wardrobe. With methodical precision, they gathered each boot and stored it in their inexplicable inventory.

"Are you... stealing his boots?" Vex asked, unable to keep the incredulity from her voice.

"Only left ones," the Dragonborn clarified, as if this distinction were critically important. "Collection category."

"Of course," Vex muttered. "Why take valuable jewelry when you can have used footwear?"

With the safe contents secured and Aringoth's left boots confiscated, they made their way back downstairs. The commotion outside had intensified, with guards shouting orders and the glow of the burning beehives casting orange light through the windows.

"Now we sneak out the back," Vex whispered, gesturing toward a service door that would lead them away from the main disturbance.

The Dragonborn nodded in agreement, then proceeded to walk directly out the front door, where they began arranging Aringoth's left boots in a perfect pyramid on the entrance steps.

"What are you doing?" Vex demanded, pulling them back into the shadows of the doorway. "We need to leave unseen!"

"Signature," the Dragonborn explained simply. "Important for professional reputation. Guild branding."

Before Vex could object further, they placed a final boot atop the pyramid, producing a cabbage from their inventory to crown the strange monument. Stepping back to admire their creation with the pride of an artist completing a masterpiece, they nodded once in satisfaction.

"Now we go," they declared, promptly dropping into the water and swimming away with powerful strokes that belied the awkwardness of their mismatched armor and pot helmet.

Left with little choice, Vex followed, glancing back at the boot pyramid on Goldenglow's steps. Despite herself, she felt a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. The display was absurd, unprofessional, and completely contrary to Guild procedure.

It was also, she had to admit, unmistakable. Anyone who had heard the rumors circulating through Skyrim would immediately know who had been responsible for the raid on Goldenglow. This was more than a theft—it was a statement.

As they swam back toward the shore where Brynjolf waited with a small boat, Vex found herself reevaluating her initial assessment of the Dragonborn's methods. Unorthodox, certainly. Chaotic, undeniably. But the mission objectives had been achieved with an efficiency she couldn't argue with. The safe was cracked, the beehives burned, and their escape was well underway—all without a single guard raising a weapon against them.

Perhaps there was something to be learned from chaos after all.

***

"They did what?" Brynjolf couldn't keep the disbelief from his voice as Vex recounted the Goldenglow mission in the relative privacy of the Ragged Flagon's quietest corner. The tavern hummed with the usual evening activity—Vekel polishing glasses that now gleamed with unprecedented cleanliness, Tonilia negotiating with a fence from Markarth, Dirge intimidating a debtor who had foolishly wandered into Guild territory.

"Walked in the front door, announced themselves as a bee inspector, burned the hives during a 'professional assessment,' then Shouted the bedroom door open," Vex repeated, taking a long drink from her mead bottle. "All while systematically stealing every piece of silverware in the place."

"And the boot pyramid?"

"Left as a calling card on the front steps. Topped with a cabbage."

Brynjolf leaned back in his chair, processing this information. "And Mercer?"

"Hasn't seen the full report yet," Vex grimaced. "I thought it best to... frame the narrative appropriately before presenting it to him."

"Wise decision," Brynjolf nodded. The Guild Master's temper was legendary, and his adherence to traditional methods even more so. The news that their newest recruit had completed a stealth mission by announcing their presence to every guard on the estate would not be well received without significant contextual preparation.

"Where's our creative colleague now?" he asked, scanning the Flagon for the distinctive pot helmet.

"Last seen reorganizing the loot room again," Vex sighed. "Something about 'color-coding for improved profit margins.' I didn't have the energy to argue."

As if summoned by their conversation, the Dragonborn emerged from the Cistern entrance, carrying what appeared to be a complete inventory ledger constructed entirely from arranged cutlery. Spoons formed columns, forks created row dividers, and knives indicated particularly valuable items. The entire apparatus should have collapsed immediately, yet somehow maintained perfect structural integrity as they set it on the table before Brynjolf.

"Inventory optimization complete," they announced proudly. "Twenty-seven percent increase in visual appeal. Twelve percent decrease in storage space requirements through vertical stacking protocols."

Brynjolf studied the cutlery spreadsheet with undisguised fascination. "And these markings here?" he asked, pointing to where a particular arrangement of spoons created a pattern at the ledger's edge.

"Profit projections. Based on Maven Black-Briar's increasing irritation levels and compensatory spending. Mathematically sound."

Vex's eyebrows rose toward her hairline. "You're calculating Maven's irritation as a market factor?"

"Most reliable economic indicator in Riften," the Dragonborn nodded seriously. "Three more tankard thefts required before mead price increase. Very predictable cycle."

Before either thief could respond to this unconventional economic theory, the distinct sound of Mercer Frey's footsteps echoed from the Cistern entrance. The Guild Master emerged, his perpetual scowl deepening as he spotted the Dragonborn's cutlery accounting system.

"What," he demanded, his voice carrying the edge that had made lesser thieves confess to crimes they hadn't committed, "is happening to my Guild?"

Mercer Frey was not a physically imposing man, yet he dominated any space he occupied through sheer force of personality. His features were sharp, almost predatory, with eyes that calculated value and weakness in equal measure. Years of Guild leadership had etched permanent lines of suspicion around his mouth and between his brows. His Guild Master armor, dark leather reinforced at strategic points, fit his wiry frame perfectly, allowing for the silent movement that had made him legendary among thieves before his ascension to leadership.

"Mercer," Brynjolf greeted with forced casualness. "I was just about to bring you the Goldenglow report. Complete success—safe cracked, documents acquired, message sent to Maven's satisfaction."

Mercer's gaze remained fixed on the Dragonborn, who had begun adjusting the fork section of their accounting display with methodical focus, apparently unconcerned by the Guild Master's presence.

"This is the new recruit?" Mercer asked, though the question seemed rhetorical. "The one responsible for rearranging the entire Riften market and sending Brand-Shei to jail through what I'm told was a 'synchronized cabbage distraction'?"

"Their methods are unconventional," Brynjolf conceded, "but effective. The Goldenglow job was—"

"Bad cheese wheel aura," the Dragonborn interrupted, looking directly at Mercer for the first time. They had paused in their cutlery adjustments, their posture suddenly alert in a way that reminded Brynjolf of a predator sensing danger. "Very bad. Worst I've seen. Concerning."

The Flagon fell silent, every Guild member suddenly finding urgent business elsewhere as Mercer's expression darkened to thunderous proportions. Even Dirge, not known for his tactical retreats, found a distant corner to examine with great interest.

"What did you say?" Mercer's voice was dangerously quiet.

"Assessment complete," the Dragonborn continued, undeterred. "Multiple data points. Nordic burial techniques applied to unsuitable cheese varieties. Very problematic spiritual implications."

Brynjolf cleared his throat, desperately seeking a diversion from this rapidly deteriorating conversation. "About the Goldenglow documents—"

"Irrelevant details," the Dragonborn waved dismissively, still focused on Mercer. "Core issue is cheese-based moral corruption. Nocturnal disapproves. Very specific about proper dairy arrangements."

Mercer's hand moved to the hilt of his sword, a motion so slight it would have been imperceptible to anyone not trained in the Guild's methods. Brynjolf tensed, preparing to intervene in what was rapidly becoming a situation with potential for bloodshed.

Before either Guild member could act, the Dragonborn produced a sweet roll from their inventory and placed it precisely in the center of the cutlery accounting display. The pastry gleamed in the Flagon's dim light, its frosting forming a pattern that, if observed from the correct angle, resembled the Guild's shadowmark for "Danger."

"Offering to Nocturnal," they explained, pushing the entire arrangement toward Mercer. "For balance restoration. Very important for Guild prosperity."

For a long moment, the tension in the Flagon could have been cut with one of the display knives. Then, with a visible effort at self-control, Mercer removed his hand from his sword hilt.

"Get this... person out of my sight," he instructed Brynjolf. "And make sure they understand the Guild's standards for professional conduct before their next assignment. We are thieves, not interior decorators or pastry chefs."

With that, he turned and stalked back toward the Cistern, his rigid posture suggesting a man deliberately restraining himself from violence through sheer force of will.

As the door closed behind him, the Flagon's collective breath was released in a nearly audible sigh of relief.

"That," Vex said into the silence, "could have gone worse."

"Could have gone better," Brynjolf countered, turning to the Dragonborn. "What was that about cheese wheel auras? And why antagonize Mercer directly?"

The Dragonborn's expression was unreadable beneath their pot helmet, but their voice carried unusual seriousness when they responded. "Truth is important. Even when inconvenient. Especially when inconvenient."

Something in their tone—a certainty that transcended their usual chaotic energy—made Brynjolf pause. He studied their posture, the subtle tension in their shoulders, the way they had positioned themselves between Mercer and the Flagon's other occupants. It was the stance of someone prepared for conflict, not the random impulse of chaos for its own sake.

"We'll discuss this later," he decided, making a mental note to investigate the strange emphasis on Mercer's supposedly problematic relationship with cheese wheels. If the Dragonborn's previous insights were any indication, there might be more to this apparently nonsensical accusation than was immediately apparent.

The tension dissipated as the Flagon returned to its normal operations, though Brynjolf noticed Delvin Mallory watching the proceedings with unusual interest from his regular table. The bald Breton's expression suggested he was filing away the entire interaction for future reference—a habit that had helped him survive decades in a profession not known for its long-term career prospects.

"So," Brynjolf turned back to the Dragonborn, deliberately shifting to more neutral territory, "Goldenglow was a success, unconventional methods aside. I think you've earned an official place in the Guild."

The Dragonborn's focus immediately switched from potential conflict to enthusiastic acceptance, their body language transforming from alert predator to excited new recruit in an instant. They produced what appeared to be a Guild armor set from their mysterious inventory—though Brynjolf was certain no one had issued them equipment yet—and began examining it with obvious anticipation.

"Can I modify the helmet?" they asked, gesturing to their beloved pot headgear. "Important for personal branding."

Vex made a sound that might have been either amusement or despair. "Why not? You've modified everything else around here."

"Speaking of modifications," Brynjolf interjected, suddenly remembering a critical component of the Guild experience, "the Nightingale ceremony is coming up. Mercer mentioned you might be ready for that level of... involvement."

The Dragonborn paused in their armor examination, head tilting in that now-familiar bird-like manner. "Nocturnal ceremony? With fancy robes and dramatic lighting?"

"I... yes, I suppose that's one way to describe it," Brynjolf admitted, wondering how they had acquired such specific information about one of the Guild's most closely guarded secrets.

"Will decorate shrine," the Dragonborn nodded decisively. "Floating sweet rolls. Very impressive visual effect. Learned at College. Good for divine respect cultivation."

Vex's expression suggested she was mentally calculating the distance to the nearest exit. "Decorating Nocturnal's shrine. With pastries. The Daedric Prince of Shadow and Luck will absolutely love that."

"Nocturnal appreciates aesthetic innovation," the Dragonborn stated with such confidence that Brynjolf almost believed they had personal knowledge of the Daedric Prince's decorative preferences. "Very progressive for a divine entity. Open to modern shrine arrangements."

Brynjolf exchanged glances with Vex, both of them silently acknowledging that the Nightingale ceremony was likely to be an experience unlike any in the Guild's long history. Whether Nocturnal would indeed appreciate "aesthetic innovation" remained to be seen, but one thing was certain—the traditional solemnity of the event was about to be thoroughly reimagined.

"Well then," Brynjolf said finally, raising his mead bottle in a toast. "To our newest Guild member. May your... unique contributions continue to keep things interesting."

"To chaos incarnate," Vex added, a reluctant smile tugging at her lips as she raised her own drink. "And may the Gods help us all."

The Dragonborn beamed, producing their own mead bottle that was, inexplicably, served in a left boot rather than a proper tankard. They raised this unconventional drinking vessel in enthusiastic participation.

"To proper cabbage arrangement," they declared. "Very important for Guild prosperity!"

Somewhere in the shadows of the Flagon, Delvin Mallory could be heard adding a notation to the Guild's official records: "Beware Cabbage Time. This is not a drill."

The Age of Sweet Roll Accounting had come to the Thieves Guild of Riften. And despite their initial resistance, even its most hardened members were beginning to suspect that chaos might be exactly what they needed.

Except Mercer. Mercer was definitely not pleased about the cheese wheel accusations. But that, as the Dragonborn would say, was a problem for future cabbage arrangements to resolve.

The Twilight Sepulcher loomed against the night sky, its ancient Nordic architecture a solemn monument to secrets kept and oaths sworn. Stone arches, weathered by centuries of exposure, framed an entrance that few would recognize as the terrestrial sanctuary of a Daedric Prince. The air here carried a peculiar stillness, as if the very atmosphere acknowledged the boundary between mortal realm and divine domain. The scent of aged stone mingled with the earthy dampness of the surrounding forest and something less definable—a subtle hint of shadow given form, of luck manifested as fragrance.

Karliah stood at the entrance, her indigo skin almost ethereal in the moonlight. The Dunmer thief's slight frame belied the lethal skill and determination that had kept her alive during decades of exile, while her violet eyes—unusual even among her kind—scanned the path for any sign of the expected arrivals. Her Nightingale armor, a masterwork of enchanted leather that merged shadow and stealth into physical form, shifted with each movement like a living extension of her body.

"They're late," she observed, her melodic voice carrying just enough for Brynjolf to hear from his position a few paces behind.

"Aye," the Nord confirmed, adjusting his own Nightingale attire. The armor felt strange after years of more conventional Guild equipment—lighter, more responsive, almost sentient in how it seemed to anticipate his movements. "Though with our new recruit, I've learned that time is... flexible."

Karliah's eyebrow arched. "You've mentioned their unconventional methods, but surely the importance of the Nightingale oath will inspire some degree of punctuality?"

Before Brynjolf could respond, a sound from the forest path drew their attention. Not the careful footsteps of a trained thief approaching a sacred site, but the distinct clatter of what seemed to be multiple pots and pans knocking together, accompanied by what might have been... were those bells?

"I believe," Brynjolf sighed, "that's our colleague now."

The Dragonborn emerged from the treeline with their characteristic lack of stealth, their approach heralded by the symphony of kitchenware they had apparently decided was appropriate accompaniment to a sacred Daedric ritual. Their Nightingale armor—which should have been identical to that worn by Brynjolf and Karliah—had been modified with what appeared to be additional pockets, presumably to accommodate their various collections. The standard hood had been replaced with their signature pot helmet, though it had been painted black to maintain the aesthetic harmony of the Nightingale ensemble.

Most concerning of all, they were accompanied by what appeared to be a procession of floating sweet rolls, hovering in the air behind them like pastry attendants to some bizarre culinary deity.

"I'm sorry," Karliah said faintly, her composure momentarily fractured by the spectacle. "Are those... levitating pastries?"

"Shrine decoration," the Dragonborn explained, gesturing proudly to their hovering entourage. "Very impressive magical effect. Learned at College. Nocturnal will appreciate innovative approach to devotional aesthetics."

Brynjolf cleared his throat. "Perhaps we should focus on the ceremony first? The Twilight Sepulcher has traditional protocols that—"

"Enhanced with sweet rolls," the Dragonborn nodded sagely. "Much improved spiritual resonance. Tested extensively with cheese wheels at College. Confirmed magical harmony amplification properties."

Karliah's expression suggested she was reconsidering her decades-long devotion to returning the Nightingales to their former glory. "Brynjolf, when you said unconventional, I assumed you meant... creative infiltration techniques. Not... whatever this is."

"They did burn exactly three beehives at Goldenglow," Brynjolf offered weakly. "Technical proficiency is there, even if the methodology is..."

"Innovative," the Dragonborn supplied helpfully. "Revolutionary. Paradigm-shifting."

"Concerning," Karliah finished, though her tone held more resignation than anger. "But time grows short, and the Skeleton Key must be returned. Let us proceed with the ceremony and hope that Nocturnal's legendary sense of humor extends to pastry-based worship innovations."

They entered the Sepulcher together, the Dragonborn's floating sweet rolls trailing behind like sugary devotees. The ancient temple's interior was a study in shadows and secrets—curved stone passages illuminated by ethereal blue light that seemed to emanate from the walls themselves. The scent of ancient incense lingered in the still air, mixed with the distinctive ozone tang of magic that had been maintained for millennia.

The ceremonial chamber awaited at the center of the temple—a circular space dominated by the central conduit to Nocturnal's realm. Here, the shadows seemed almost solid, moving with purpose rather than simply responding to light. The very air vibrated with the expectation of divine presence.

"Prepare yourselves," Karliah instructed, taking her position at one of the three ceremonial platforms surrounding the central well. "When Nocturnal appears, speak your oath with sincerity and reverence."

Brynjolf nodded, assuming his own position. The Dragonborn followed suit, though not before arranging their floating sweet rolls in a perfect circle around the central conduit, creating what appeared to be a sugary orbit around the point where the Daedric Prince would manifest.

"Is that really necessary?" Karliah asked, her patience visibly thinning.

"Aesthetic harmony," the Dragonborn insisted. "Crucial for optimal divine manifestation conditions. Very scientific approach to supernatural communication."

Before further objections could be raised, the chamber resonated with growing power. Shadows coalesced above the central well, twisting and merging to form a vaguely humanoid shape wrapped in darkness and stars. The temperature dropped noticeably as Nocturnal's presence filled the space, her voice echoing with the timelessness of one who existed beyond mortal constraints.

"My Nightingales gather once more in my—" The divine voice paused, the shadowy manifestation seeming to focus on the orbiting pastries. "Are those sweet rolls?"

The silence that followed contained multitudes. Brynjolf found himself holding his breath, certain they were about to experience the wrath of an offended Daedric Prince. Karliah had gone perfectly still, her expression frozen in what might have been either terror or the acceptance of impending doom.

The Dragonborn, showing no awareness of the potential cosmic catastrophe their decorative choices might have precipitated, nodded enthusiastically. "Devotional enhancement. Very respectful. Harmonious vibration frequencies for improved oath resonance."

Another silence, this one stretching to uncomfortable lengths. Then, to the astonishment of both senior Nightingales, Nocturnal's manifestation seemed to... ripple? The motion, Brynjolf realized with disbelief, resembled laughter.

"Centuries of worship," the Daedric Prince's voice carried what could only be described as divine amusement, "and you are the first to consider the vibrational frequencies of my shrine. How... unexpected."

The Dragonborn preened visibly at this acknowledgment, adjusting their pot helmet to a more ceremonially appropriate angle. "Very scientific approach to divine reverence. Also, aesthetic improvement. Traditional shadow motifs enhanced by circular pastry arrangement. Mathematically harmonious."

Nocturnal's manifestation shifted, studying each of the three figures before her. Her focus lingered longest on the Dragonborn, something like curiosity emanating from her shadowy form.

"You bring chaos to my order," she observed. "Disorder to my carefully arranged Guild. Pastries to my sacred shrine."

"You bring chaos to my order," she observed. "Disorder to my carefully arranged Guild. Pastries to my sacred shrine."

The Dragonborn nodded, apparently taking these observations as compliments rather than potential concerns.

"And yet," Nocturnal continued, her voice rippling with something that might have been curiosity, "the threads of fate weave more strongly around you than any mortal I have encountered in centuries. Luck—my domain and gift—clings to you like a second skin, despite your methods that should, by all logic, lead to catastrophic failure. Fascinating."

Brynjolf and Karliah exchanged glances, both clearly unsure whether to be relieved or concerned by Nocturnal's apparent interest in their unorthodox colleague.

"Now," the Daedric Prince refocused, her form shifting like shadows at sunset, "to the matter at hand. You seek to become Nightingales, to enter my service in exchange for the gifts I bestow. Speak your oaths."

The ceremony proceeded with surprising smoothness after that point. Karliah and Brynjolf delivered their pledges with traditional reverence, while the Dragonborn's oath included several impromptu additions about "optimal cabbage arrangements" and "sweet roll tributes on auspicious occasions." Nocturnal accepted all three with equal measure, though Brynjolf couldn't shake the feeling that the Daedric Prince was particularly entertained by the Dragonborn's unique interpretation of the ancient vows.

As the manifestation began to fade, Nocturnal's final words seemed directed specifically at the Dragonborn: "Your methods may be unconventional, but your results align with my interests. Continue to bring your... particular perspective to my Guild. Chaos, after all, creates opportunities that order cannot foresee."

The shadowy form dissolved completely, leaving the chamber in silence broken only by the subtle humming of sweet rolls still orbiting the central well.

"Well," Karliah said finally, her voice slightly faint, "that was not the ceremony I had anticipated."

"But successful," Brynjolf pointed out, removing his Nightingale hood to run a hand through his red hair. "Possibly the most successful Nightingale induction in recent history, judging by Nocturnal's reaction."

The Dragonborn was already collecting their floating sweet rolls, carefully positioning each one in some predetermined arrangement that made sense only to them. "Nocturnal approves of innovation," they stated with satisfaction. "Very progressive divine entity. Open to modern thievery techniques."

Karliah's expression suggested she was reevaluating several centuries of Nightingale tradition in light of this encounter. "I suppose... adaptability is a virtue in our line of work."

As they departed the Twilight Sepulcher, the night air cool against their faces after the charged atmosphere of the ceremonial chamber, Brynjolf found himself wondering what other established Guild practices might be dramatically reimagined under the Dragonborn's influence. The thought was equal parts concerning and exhilarating.

***

The Skeleton Key's weight felt both familiar and alien in the Dragonborn's hands as they studied it in the dim light of the Ragged Flagon. The ancient artifact—a seemingly simple lockpick with the power to open any lock, physical or metaphorical—gleamed with subtle energy that marked it as something far beyond a common thief's tool.

"That needs to be returned to the Twilight Sepulcher," Karliah reminded them from across the table, her violet eyes fixed on the artifact with a mixture of reverence and concern. "It's the final step in your duties as a Nightingale."

The Dragonborn nodded absently, their attention already shifting from the key itself to its potential applications. With methodical precision, they approached a sealed barrel near the bar, inserted the Skeleton Key into the simple lock, and opened it to reveal a collection of fish that Vekel had been saving for the evening stew.

"That's... not what the key is for," Karliah noted, her brow furrowing. "It's meant for locks that cannot otherwise be opened, not for common storage containers."

Undeterred, the Dragonborn moved to a large wheel of cheese set aside for special customers, and somehow—despite the fact that cheese wheels do not traditionally have locks—used the Skeleton Key to "open" it, causing the wheel to split perfectly into eight equal wedges.

"Now you're just showing off," Vex commented from her position by the fence's counter, though her tone held more amusement than criticism.

The Dragonborn beamed, then proceeded to the most puzzling demonstration yet—they bent down, removed one of their own mismatched boots, and used the Skeleton Key to "unlock" it, causing the laces to untie themselves with serpentine precision.

"Practical applications," they explained to the bewildered thieves watching this display. "Infinite utility. Very efficient."

Brynjolf, entering from the Cistern in time to witness this unconventional use of a divine artifact, couldn't suppress a chuckle. "I'm pretty sure that's not what Nocturnal had in mind when she created the ultimate skeleton key."

"Nocturnal appreciates creative interpretation," the Dragonborn countered confidently. "Confirmed during ceremony. Very supportive of innovation."

Delvin Mallory, nursing a mead at his usual table, shook his bald head with the weariness of someone who had seen enough strange things in his career to no longer be truly surprised. "We've entered a new era of thievery, lads and lasses," he announced to no one in particular. "Welcome to the Age of Unlocked Cheese and Self-Opening Boots."

The Guild members present raised their drinks in a toast that was equal parts celebration and resignation. The Thieves Guild of Riften had weathered many changes over its long history—leadership transitions, internal conflicts, periods of prosperity and decline. But never had it experienced a force quite like the Dragonborn, who redefined not just how thievery was conducted, but the very nature of what could be stolen, organized, and cataloged.

"I've added a notation to the official ledger," Delvin continued, gesturing with his mug toward a leather-bound book on his table. "Warning: Cabbage Time is not a drill."

"Cabbage Time?" Tonilia asked from her position near the bar, her Redguard features creased with puzzlement.

"You'll know it when you see it," Brynjolf assured her. "And when you do, just step back and let it happen. Resistance is... counterproductive."

As if to demonstrate this very concept, the Dragonborn had begun what could only be described as a ritual arrangement of the various items they had "unlocked" with the Skeleton Key. Fish, cheese wedges, boot laces, and several other objects that had no business being grouped together were being positioned in a perfect circle around a central cabbage that had materialized from their seemingly bottomless inventory.

"Cabbage Time," Vex confirmed, nodding toward the display. "Best to wait it out."

The Guild members observed with the fascinated horror of those witnessing a natural disaster from a safe distance—unable to look away, yet grateful to be beyond the immediate zone of impact. The Dragonborn worked with the focused intensity of an artist creating a masterpiece, occasionally muttering phrases like "optimal symbolic alignment" and "metaphysical representation of lockpicking principles."

When they finally completed their arrangement, stepping back to admire their creation with evident satisfaction, a strange thing happened. The circular display began to emit a subtle glow, barely perceptible in the Flagon's dim lighting but undeniably present. The central cabbage, for reasons defying conventional magical theory, levitated approximately three inches above the table surface.

"Did they just..." Karliah began, her composure finally cracking.

"Create a magical cabbage shrine using the Skeleton Key? Yes," Brynjolf confirmed, his tone suggesting he had moved beyond surprise to a state of philosophical acceptance. "I believe they did."

"Very efficient magical conductor," the Dragonborn explained, patting the floating cabbage with evident pride. "Excellent energy storage properties. College experiments confirmed vegetable-based thaumaturgical amplification potential."

The gathered thieves stared at the glowing, floating cabbage with expressions ranging from bewilderment to reluctant fascination. Even Mercer Frey, passing through on his way to the Cistern, paused to observe the phenomenon, his perpetual scowl momentarily replaced by something approaching genuine confusion.

"I don't want to know," he declared after a moment, continuing on his way with the rigid posture of someone deliberately ignoring an inconvenient reality. "Not my problem until it affects the Guild's profits."

"Actually," Delvin called after him, consulting a ledger on his table, "our income is up twelve percent since they joined. Seems the chaos is good for business."

Mercer's only response was a grunt that contained multitudes of conflicted emotions, followed by the decisive sound of the Cistern door closing behind him.

In the thoughtful silence that followed, Brynjolf considered the remarkable changes the Dragonborn had brought to an organization that had, perhaps, grown too set in its ways. Traditional thieving methods were being replaced—or at least supplemented—by approaches that defied conventional understanding yet produced undeniable results. The Guild was adapting, evolving, becoming something new while maintaining its core purpose.

"You know," he said finally, raising his tankard in a toast to their newest member, "I think Nocturnal was right. Chaos does create opportunities that order cannot foresee."

"To chaos, then," Vex agreed, raising her own drink with uncharacteristic enthusiasm. "And to floating cabbages, whatever they might symbolize."

"To Cabbage Time," Delvin added solemnly. "May we survive it with our sanity intact."

The Dragonborn beamed, producing their own drinking vessel—a hollow skull (species undetermined) filled with what appeared to be mead—and joining the toast with enthusiasm.

"To proper vegetable arrangement," they declared. "Very important for Guild prosperity!"

As mead flowed and the glow from the cabbage shrine cast strange shadows across the ancient walls of the Ragged Flagon, Brynjolf couldn't help but feel that the Thieves Guild of Riften had entered a new and fascinating chapter in its long history. One defined not by traditional stealth and subterfuge, but by sweet rolls, floating vegetation, and a chaotic approach to problem-solving that somehow, against all logic, worked perfectly.

The Age of the Cabbage had indeed come to the Thieves Guild. And despite their initial resistance, even its most hardened members were beginning to suspect that perhaps—just perhaps—this might be exactly what they had needed all along.

Except Mercer. Mercer was definitely still concerned about the cheese wheel accusations.

But that, as the newest Nightingale would say, was a problem for future cabbage arrangements to resolve.

***

As dawn broke over Lake Honrich, casting golden light across Riften's weathered wooden walkways, the letter already journeyed northward in a courier's leather satchel. Penned by Brynjolf in a moment of rare seriousness, it was addressed to stewards across Skyrim—an addendum to Proventus Avenicci's increasingly comprehensive Dragonborn Protocols.

To The Esteemed Stewards of Skyrim's Holds,

I write to suggest an important addition to your developing protocols regarding our mutual acquaintance. While Proventus has admirably cataloged many of the Dragonborn's collection habits and behavioral patterns, recent observations from Riften indicate a new phenomenon requiring specific preparation and response procedures.

We have termed it "Cabbage Time"—a period of intense focus during which the Dragonborn arranges various collected items (frequently including, but not limited to, cabbages) into patterns that occasionally manifest unexplained magical properties. These arrangements may include any combination of the following:

- Sweet rolls (often hovering) - Left boots (never right) - Cutlery organized by reflective properties - Tankards from local establishments - Cheese wheels of questionable aura

Should you observe the beginning of Cabbage Time, we strongly recommend the following response: 1. Do not interfere with the arrangement process 2. Clear a radius of approximately ten feet around the activity 3. Remove all items you are not prepared to see incorporated into the display 4. Under no circumstances question the purpose or meaning of the arrangement

While these episodes may appear concerning to the uninitiated, our experience suggests they are harmless and occasionally beneficial, sometimes resulting in minor magical effects such as improved crop yields or spontaneous lockpicking success in the vicinity.

Additionally, I feel it prudent to mention that those encountering unusual accusations regarding "cheese wheel auras" should neither dismiss nor directly challenge such statements. Our research suggests a correlation between these seemingly nonsensical observations and actual behavioral patterns that may become significant in retrospect.

I trust this information will prove useful in your ongoing efforts to adapt to the Dragonborn's presence in your respective holds.

Respectfully, Brynjolf Senior Operative, Thieves Guild (Currently Acting as Unofficial Dragonborn Behavior Analyst)

P.S. Should you find your establishment mysteriously depleted of forks, I can only offer my sympathies. They are likely serving a greater purpose in some form of cutlery-based accounting system.

As the letter made its way toward Whiterun, Riften continued its own adaptation to the Dragonborn's unique influence. The Ragged Flagon now featured a permanently floating cabbage above the central table, serving as both conversational centerpiece and unexpectedly effective night light. The market had accepted the "Dragonborn Priority Lanes" as a simple fact of life, while shops throughout the city had begun implementing "Sudden Inventory Reorganization Protocols" that primarily involved not having emotional attachments to the original arrangement of one's merchandise.

The Thieves Guild, for its part, was experiencing an unprecedented period of prosperity, with jobs succeeding through methods so unconventional that targets often didn't realize they had been robbed until long after the Dragonborn had departed with their left boots, silverware, and occasional wall decorations.

Maven Black-Briar, having finally secured replacement tankards for her meadery (imported at great expense from Solitude), had taken the practical approach of having extras hidden in a locked room that even the Dragonborn's collection instincts had not yet penetrated.

And somewhere in Skyrim, a harried housecarl named Lydia continued her ordained task of cabbage transportation, wondering if her Thane would ever return to release her from her vegetable-guarding duties.

The Age of Cabbage continued its inexorable spread across the province, one hold at a time, one confused steward at a time, one floating sweet roll at a time.

And the Dragonborn, newest member of the Thieves Guild and Nightingale of Nocturnal, continued their quest to save the world—one perfectly arranged vegetable at a time.

Chapter Text

The Abandoned Shack creaked and groaned with each gust of wind that swept in from the marshes of Hjaalmarch. Decades of neglect had left the wooden structure in a state of perpetual decay—roof tiles missing, walls warped by moisture, floorboards that threatened to give way with each cautious step. The air inside hung heavy with the distinctive cocktail of marsh decay, mildew, and the metallic tang of fresh blood. A lone candle guttered on a makeshift table, casting elongated shadows that danced across the walls like spectral observers to the scene unfolding within.

Astrid leaned against the far wall, her lithe form nearly invisible in the deep shadows. Years of training had taught her how to become one with darkness, how to control her breathing until it was indistinguishable from the ambient sounds of a space. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a practical braid that emphasized the sharp angles of her Nordic features, while her eyes—cold and calculating as a winter predator's—assessed the room with professional detachment. The black and red leather armor of the Dark Brotherhood hugged her athletic frame, its supple material allowing for silent movement while providing protection where needed.

Three figures sat bound and hooded before her—a Nord mercenary, a Khajiit merchant, and an Imperial nobleman. Each represented a contract the Brotherhood had received. One of them was the true target, but that information was irrelevant for the test she had prepared. What mattered was whether her unexpected visitor would demonstrate the moral flexibility required of an assassin, the willingness to kill on command without question or hesitation.

She had been surprised when the Black Sacrament had been answered so quickly. Normally, Brotherhood members waited for her specific instructions before responding to such summons. But word had reached her through their network that someone had completed the contract on Grelod the Kind in Riften—a cruel orphanage matron whose death few would mourn. The manner of the killing, however, had been... unusual. Reports mentioned a cabbage, a sweetroll, and somehow the rearrangement of every piece of silverware in the building into shapes that resembled shadowmarks.

The door hinges squealed a warning, drawing Astrid from her contemplation. She smiled, the expression not reaching her eyes. It was time to meet this potential recruit and determine if they were Brotherhood material.

What she had not anticipated was the figure that entered—a Nord in mismatched armor pieces topped with what appeared to be a cooking pot modified with eyeholes. They moved with a strange combination of predatory grace and childlike curiosity, their head tilting at a bird-like angle as they surveyed the shack's interior. Most disconcerting of all, they made no attempt at stealth despite entering an unfamiliar location with a hooded figure standing in shadow.

"Sleep well?" Astrid purred, the practiced greeting she used for all kidnapped initiates.

The stranger's head swiveled toward her with unnerving precision. Those eyes behind the makeshift helmet—alert, focused, and yet somehow communicating an understanding that operated on an entirely different plane—surveyed her with interest.

"Kidnapping protocol," they nodded, as if approving of a particularly clever hunting technique. "Very traditional. Good atmosphere." They gestured around the dilapidated shack. "Excellent smell integration. Creaky floors. Premium assassination ambience."

Astrid blinked, momentarily thrown off-balance by this response. None of her previous recruits had commented on the "atmosphere" of their abduction.

"You're not afraid?" she asked, curiosity getting the better of her.

"Appropriate fear for context," the stranger nodded again. "Based on aesthetic presentation. Very professional."

"I... see." Astrid composed herself, slipping back into her rehearsed speech. "The Dark Brotherhood has come to know you. Someone performed the Black Sacrament, and now a contract has been placed on your life. But there's a problem. You see, that person has been killed by you. And now, you owe us a debt."

"Grelod the Kind," the stranger offered helpfully. "Very unkind, actually. Misleading name."

"Yes, precisely." Astrid pushed away from the wall, moving into the dim candlelight. "You stole a Dark Brotherhood contract. A kill that belonged to us. Now, your debt to the organization must be repaid." She gestured to the three bound captives. "One of these poor souls has a contract on their life. Kill one, and I'll consider your debt paid."

The stranger observed the three captives with the intensity of someone memorizing complex architectural details. Then, without warning, they reached into their bizarre armor and produced—Astrid had to blink twice to confirm—a cabbage.

"What are you—" Astrid began, but was interrupted by the stranger.

"FUS!" they Shouted, the word carrying physical force that propelled the cabbage forward with devastating speed.

The vegetable projectile struck the Khajiit merchant in the chest with such impact that he and the chair toppled backward. The force of the fall combined with some quirk of physics caused the chair to splinter precisely where the bindings were secured. The Khajiit's neck landed at an unnatural angle against a previously unseen bucket, producing a sickening crack that echoed through the shack.

Before Astrid could process this unconventional execution method, the stranger produced a bowl of soup—where from, she couldn't begin to fathom—and somehow maneuvered it beneath the Imperial nobleman's hooded head. With a series of movements too quick to follow, they tilted the chair just enough that the man's face submerged in the hot liquid.

The nobleman thrashed briefly, then stilled.

The Nord mercenary, perhaps sensing his imminent doom, began struggling against his bindings with renewed vigor. The stranger approached him with casual ease, produced yet another cabbage, and—rather than employing the same projectile technique—simply placed it atop the man's hooded head.

"Balance important for life," they explained to the confused captive. "Very symbolic."

Then they kicked one leg of the chair with precise force, causing it to skid across the warped floorboards and crash into a rotten support beam. The impact dislodged a section of the roof, which collapsed directly onto the mercenary. When the dust settled, a hand protruded from the debris, still clutching the cabbage.

Absolute silence fell over the shack. Even the marsh insects seemed to have paused their chirping in stunned respect for what had just transpired.

Astrid stood frozen, her practiced composure shattered like the mercenary's chair. In her decades with the Dark Brotherhood, she had witnessed countless assassinations—poisonings, blade work, arranged "accidents"—but never had she seen three lives extinguished via vegetable projectile, soup drowning, and architecturally-guided roof collapse in the span of fifteen seconds.

"All three?" she finally managed, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Efficiency," the stranger nodded, clearly pleased with their work. "Stealth vegetables very effective. Cabbage has optimal aerodynamic properties when propelled by Thu'um."

"None of them screamed," Astrid observed, her analytical mind struggling to process the methodology. "One just... slipped. And the other drowned in soup?" She blinked rapidly, attempting to recalibrate her understanding of assassination techniques. "Gods, why soup?"

"Practical liquid medium," the stranger explained, retrieving both cabbages from the deceased captives with surprising reverence. "High viscosity. Nose and mouth coverage optimal for silent elimination. Also, nutritional benefits."

Astrid found herself nodding as if this made perfect sense, then caught herself. "The task was to kill one of them. You killed all three."

"Best value," the stranger nodded. "Comprehensive solution."

Despite herself, Astrid felt a smile forming—a genuine one this time. Whoever or whatever this bizarre individual was, they possessed a creative approach to killing that the Brotherhood might find valuable. Unorthodox, certainly, but undeniably effective.

"Well, well," she said, regaining some of her professional demeanor. "Aren't we the overachiever. Three possibilities, three victims. Must have been one of them, right? So why take chances?"

The stranger tilted their head, apparently pleased by her understanding of their logic.

"I would say you've repaid your debt in full," Astrid continued. "But why stop here? I think you'll find the Dark Brotherhood has much to offer someone of your... particular talents." She extended a hand, the gesture as much a test as the assassinations had been. "My name is Astrid."

"Dragonborn," the stranger replied, accepting the handshake while simultaneously producing a sweetroll from somewhere within their armor and offering it with their free hand.

"I... thank you?" Astrid accepted the pastry automatically, noting with puzzlement that it was still warm despite having seemingly been stored in armor of questionable cleanliness. "If you're interested in joining our family, travel to the southwest of Skyrim. Near Falkreath, you'll find the Black Door. When questioned, answer with the words 'Silence, my brother.' Then we'll see where this goes."

The Dragonborn nodded with apparent enthusiasm, then promptly began rearranging the bodies of the three captives into what appeared to be a tableau representing a dinner party, complete with the recovered cabbage positioned in the center like a macabre centerpiece.

"Um, you don't need to clean up," Astrid said, watching this bizarre post-assassination ritual with growing fascination. "We have people who handle disposal."

"Artistic presentation important," the Dragonborn explained, adjusting the soup bowl to catch the light from the candle at a specific angle. "Creates psychological impact for discoverers. Builds reputation through distinctive style."

"I... see," Astrid said again, though in truth she did not see at all.

As the Dragonborn completed their grisly arrangement and departed the shack with a cheerful wave, Astrid remained behind, studying the scene. The tableau did possess a strange aesthetic cohesion—the bodies positioned with a precision that suggested not randomness but deliberate symbolic intent. The cabbage centerpiece caught the candlelight in a way that cast unexpectedly beautiful patterns across the blood-spattered table.

"We need this one," she murmured to herself, taking an absent-minded bite of the offered sweetroll.

It was, she noted with surprise, possibly the most delicious pastry she had ever tasted.

Something told her, however, that bringing this particular recruit into the Dark Brotherhood might have consequences she couldn't begin to predict. Was it a prickling at the back of her neck, a premonition born of assassin's instinct? Or merely the lingering bewilderment of watching three people dispatched with soup and vegetables?

Either way, as she slipped out of the shack and into the marsh night, Astrid couldn't shake the feeling that the Brotherhood was about to change forever.

She just had no idea how right she was.

The Falkreath Sanctuary had stood for centuries as a haven for the Dark Brotherhood, its location known only to those who served the void. Nestled against a rocky hillside and concealed by ancient pines, the entrance was marked by the Black Door—a foreboding portal adorned with a massive skull, a skeletal hand, and arcane symbols that glowed with subtle red energy. The scent of pine needles and forest loam provided natural cover for any lingering traces of blood or alchemical components that might otherwise betray the sanctuary's purpose.

Inside, the sanctuary was a marvel of ancient Nord construction integrated with natural cave formations. Chambers and corridors had been carved from the living rock, supported by massive wooden beams and decorated with the distinctive iconography of Sithis and the Night Mother. Candles and braziers cast warm light across stone surfaces worn smooth by generations of assassin footsteps, while the air carried a complex bouquet of scents—alchemical ingredients, weapon oil, leather, and the faint metallic note that came from regular blade maintenance.

Astrid paced the main chamber, periodically glancing toward the entrance tunnel. Three days had passed since her encounter with the Dragonborn in the Abandoned Shack, and each day her anticipation had grown. Would they actually come? And if they did, what changes might they bring to the Brotherhood's carefully ordered methods?

"Still no sign of your special recruit?" Arnbjorn's gruff voice interrupted her thoughts.

Her husband lounged against a stone column, his massive Nord frame dwarfing most furniture in the sanctuary. Where Astrid was precision and calculation, Arnbjorn was raw power and barely restrained aggression. His silver-white hair and beard framed features that seemed permanently set in a scowl, while his eyes held the feral gleam that came with his lycanthropic nature. The simple tunic he wore indoors did little to conceal the powerful muscles developed through years of wielding the massive battleaxe that was his preferred tool for Brotherhood contracts.

"Patience, husband," Astrid replied, though patience was increasingly difficult to maintain. "This one is... different. Worth waiting for."

"Different how?" Nazir asked, looking up from the ledger where he recorded contracts and payments. The Redguard assassin's dark skin contrasted sharply with his distinctive curved blade, as did his preference for organization and record-keeping among a group that typically disdained bureaucracy. His immaculate robes and carefully trimmed beard spoke to a man who valued precision in all things—from his kills to his accounting.

"They killed all three captives," Astrid explained, "using methods I've never seen before. One with a cabbage, one with soup, and one with... architectural manipulation."

Nazir's eyebrows rose toward his wrapped headdress. "A cabbage? As in, the vegetable?"

"Propelled at lethal velocity, yes."

"And we're recruiting this person because...?"

"Innovation, Nazir," Astrid smiled thinly. "The Brotherhood has always adapted to survive. And this recruit has a creativity that could prove valuable."

"Or dangerously unpredictable," Festus Krex muttered from his alchemy table across the chamber. The elderly mage's wrinkled features contracted into a deeper scowl than usual, his bushy white eyebrows drawing together like warring caterpillars. "I've seen what happens when amateurs get creative with killing. Usually ends with messy cleanup and compromised contracts."

Before Astrid could respond, a distinctive sound echoed from the entrance tunnel—the stone grinding of the Black Door opening, followed by footsteps that managed to be simultaneously stealthy and strangely rhythmic, as if the walker was moving to music only they could hear.

"Ah," Astrid straightened, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from her armor. "It seems our new family member has arrived."

The Dragonborn entered the main chamber with the same birdlike curiosity they had displayed in the shack, head swiveling to take in every detail of the sanctuary with unnerving focus. They had apparently expanded their armor collection since Astrid last saw them—the cooking pot helmet remained, but was now adorned with what looked like sweetroll frosting arranged in a pattern that vaguely resembled the Brotherhood's handprint symbol. Their mismatched armor had been supplemented with pieces of Dark Brotherhood gear, though worn in configurations that defied conventional placement.

Most notably, they carried a sack from which protruded what appeared to be kitchen implements, no fewer than three cabbages, and what might have been a human foot wearing a jester's boot.

"Welcome to the family," Astrid greeted, spreading her arms in a gesture that encompassed the sanctuary. "I hope you found the place without difficulty."

The Dragonborn nodded enthusiastically, then immediately began inspecting the nearest stone column with alarming intensity, occasionally tapping it and listening to the resulting sound with a tilted head.

"Excellent acoustics," they announced. "Superior resonance properties for stealth operations. Very professional."

Astrid exchanged glances with Nazir, whose expression suggested he was already reconsidering several life choices that had led him to this moment.

"Yes, well," Astrid continued, determined to maintain the formal welcome protocol despite the recruit's eccentric behavior, "this is the Falkreath Sanctuary, home to our Family. The Dark Brotherhood has a long tradition of—"

She paused as the Dragonborn abruptly abandoned the column inspection and approached Arnbjorn with predatory focus. Her husband straightened, hand instinctively moving toward the dagger at his belt as the strange Nord circled him, examining his considerable frame from all angles like a sculptor assessing a block of marble.

"Werewolf," the Dragonborn announced, not a question but a statement of fact. "Excellent olfactory capabilities. Good for tracking. Suboptimal for stealth approaches. Unless..." They produced a cabbage from their sack and held it up to Arnbjorn's increasingly confused face. "Vegetable masking protocol? Very effective for scent suppression."

Arnbjorn looked to Astrid, his expression a perfect blend of bewilderment and irritation. "What is happening right now?" he growled.

"Our new brother is... assessing your capabilities," Astrid improvised, having no better explanation for the bizarre behavior. "Why don't we continue the tour? There's much of the sanctuary to see."

The Dragonborn nodded agreeably, though not before pressing the cabbage into Arnbjorn's reluctant hands with what appeared to be ceremonial gravity. "For future operations," they explained seriously. "Very important strategic component."

As Astrid led them deeper into the sanctuary, she couldn't help noticing how the Dragonborn paused at each chamber, not merely glancing around but cataloguing every detail with the methodical precision of someone memorizing architectural plans for later reference. Their head tilted at that now-familiar bird-like angle whenever something particularly caught their interest—the alchemical laboratory, the training area, the sleeping quarters.

"And here," Astrid said, arriving at her personal planning room dominated by a map of Skyrim marked with potential contracts, "is where we coordinate our operations. As the newest family member, you'll receive contracts from Nazir initially, working your way up to more significant targets as you prove yourself."

The Dragonborn was studying the map with that unnerving intensity, occasionally reaching out to tap specific locations marked with pins. "Suboptimal arrangement," they declared finally. "Requires geographic reorganization for maximum efficiency. Color-coding by target type. Separated categories for stealth vegetables versus soup-based eliminations."

"I... what?" Astrid blinked, momentarily at a loss for words. "The arrangement has served the Brotherhood for decades."

"Outdated methodology," the Dragonborn shook their head sympathetically, as if saddened by this adherence to tradition. "Requires modernization. Will implement comprehensive redesign." They patted Astrid's arm with surprising gentleness. "Don't worry. Very professional improvement. You'll adjust."

Before Astrid could formulate a response to this declaration, a commotion from the main chamber drew their attention. A sound like no other in Tamriel—a voice that somehow combined maniacal glee, theatrical projection, and the vocal equivalent of a dagger twisted in soft flesh.

"Cicero has ARRIVED! The Keeper has completed his sacred JOURNEY! Where oh where is the welcome? Where are the streamers? The confetti? The enthusiastic APPLAUSE?"

The Dragonborn's head snapped toward the sound with such speed that Astrid feared they might damage their neck. Their entire demeanor changed in an instant—the methodical assessment replaced by what appeared to be genuine excitement.

"Interesting vocal patterns," they murmured, already moving toward the source with purpose. "Must investigate tonal qualities."

"Wait," Astrid called after them, suddenly struck by a premonition that bordered on dread. "That's Cicero, our new Keeper. He's a bit... unstable. Perhaps we should approach carefully and—"

But the Dragonborn was already gone, sprinting toward the main chamber with a speed that belied their chaotic inventory of cooking implements and vegetables.

Astrid hurried after them, a sense of impending catastrophe growing with each step. The thought of their unpredictable new recruit meeting the equally unpredictable Keeper filled her with a specific kind of terror she had previously experienced only when particularly complex assassination plans began to unravel in real-time.

She arrived in the main chamber just in time to witness what could only be described as destiny unfolding before her eyes.

Cicero—clad in his distinctive jester's outfit complete with cap and bells—was performing an elaborate dance of introduction for the bemused Brotherhood members. His pale features were accentuated by carefully applied cosmetics that transformed his face into a theatrical mask, with red circles on his cheeks and dark kohl around eyes that contained equal measures of madness and calculation. His movements, while appearing chaotic at first glance, contained the precise muscle control of someone who had mastered the blade as thoroughly as the dance.

"Behold, brothers and sisters!" He twirled, the bells on his motley jingling with each movement. "Cicero has arrived with his precious cargo! The NIGHT MOTHER herself has come to bless this sanctuary with her silent wisdom! Her desiccated MAGNIFICENCE!"

Behind him, a massive iron coffin stood propped against the wall—the vessel containing the preserved corpse of the Night Mother, spiritual leader of the Dark Brotherhood and conduit to their dread father, Sithis.

The Dragonborn's approach interrupted Cicero's performance, causing the jester to whirl in mid-pirouette, daggers appearing in his hands with practiced speed. But before he could register the new arrival as a potential threat, something extraordinary happened.

The Dragonborn dropped into a crouch and began circling Cicero in a perfect mirror of the jester's own movements, their head tilted at precisely the same angle, their steps following the same rhythm. When Cicero's eyebrow raised in confusion, the Dragonborn's raised as well. When he tilted his head the opposite direction, they matched the motion exactly.

For perhaps five seconds, absolute silence fell over the sanctuary as everyone present tried to process the bizarre mimicry unfolding before them.

Then Cicero broke into the widest grin Astrid had ever seen—a manic expression of pure delight that would have sent most sensible people running for safety.

"Oh! OH! What's THIS? A dancer? A MIMIC? A shadow-self come to play with poor Cicero?" He began an intricate series of movements that no normal person should have been able to follow—spins, leaps, and contortions that seemed physically impossible.

To the astonishment of every assassin present, the Dragonborn matched every movement perfectly, adding occasional flourishes of their own that somehow complemented Cicero's style while introducing elements no one had seen before—primarily involving the strategic placement and retrieval of cabbages during particularly complex spins.

"MAGNIFICENT!" Cicero cackled, his voice rising to a pitch that threatened to shatter nearby alchemical vials. "The stranger DANCES! They UNDERSTAND! Oh, Mother will be so PLEASED to have such entertaining company!"

The Dragonborn abruptly ceased their dance, focusing instead on the iron coffin with sudden intensity. They approached it with something resembling reverence, circling it as they had circled Arnbjorn earlier, occasionally pressing an ear against the metal surface as if listening for something inside.

"Night Mother," they nodded, the gesture containing unexpected solemnity. "Very important. Spiritual centerpiece. Requires appropriate decorative enhancements."

Cicero's expression shifted rapidly from delight to protective suspicion. "Decorative... enhancements?" he repeated, his hand moving to the dagger at his belt. "Mother needs no enhancements! She is PERFECT in her preserved splendor! Her desiccated ELEGANCE!"

The Dragonborn nodded in apparent agreement, then reached into their seemingly bottomless sack to produce—to Astrid's mounting horror—a sweetroll. This they presented to Cicero with ceremonial gravity, their expression suggesting this was an offering of profound significance.

For one terrible moment, Astrid was certain violence would erupt. Cicero's protection of the Night Mother was fanatical, his reaction to perceived disrespect often lethal. She tensed, preparing to intervene before blood could be shed in the sanctuary.

But Cicero's reaction defied all prediction. He accepted the sweetroll with a reverence that matched the Dragonborn's, examining it from all angles before nodding decisively.

"YES! Yeeeeeees! An offering for Mother! Sweet treats for the sweet speaker of DEATH!" He turned to the coffin, holding the pastry aloft like a holy relic. "See, Mother? Already we have new friends bringing GIFTS! Offerings of SUGAR and SYMBOLISM!"

"Symbolic confectionery," the Dragonborn agreed, producing another sweetroll and adding it to what was apparently becoming a collection. "Very important for proper spiritual nourishment. Metaphysical sustenance."

"Metaphysical SUSTENANCE!" Cicero echoed, his voice rising with excitement. "The stranger UNDERSTANDS! They COMPREHEND the spiritual needs of preservation and presentation!"

Astrid watched in growing disbelief as the two continued their exchange, adding more sweetrolls to a rapidly growing pile before the Night Mother's coffin while discussing the "symbolic resonance" and "metaphorical nutritional value" of various pastries in relation to assassination techniques. What had begun as concerning was rapidly evolving into something beyond her ability to categorize.

"Should we... stop them?" Nazir murmured, having appeared at her side to witness the spectacle.

"I'm not sure we could if we tried," Astrid admitted, a new emotion beginning to surface beneath her professional control—something that felt unsettlingly like the first tremors before an avalanche. "Let's see where this leads. The Brotherhood has survived strange initiates before."

But as the sweetroll pile grew higher and Cicero's maniacal laughter blended with the Dragonborn's methodical explanations of "optimal pastry arrangement for maximum spiritual impact," a small voice in the back of Astrid's mind whispered that perhaps, just perhaps, the Dark Brotherhood had never encountered anything quite like this before.

And they might never be the same again.

With growing trepidation, Astrid followed him to the Night Mother's shrine. The coffin itself remained standing in its place of honor, but had been... enhanced. Sweetrolls adorned every available surface of the iron maiden, arranged in intricate patterns that vaguely resembled Daedric script. Small vials of what appeared to be glowing alchemical compounds had been placed at strategic intervals, casting multicolored light across the ancient metal. Most alarming of all, someone had affixed a decorative plaque above the coffin that read "MOMMY ROLLS" in elaborate calligraphy.

"They call it 'spiritual illumination enhancement,'" Nazir explained, his tone suggesting he was still processing this development himself. "Cicero was initially... resistant."

"Resistant?" Astrid raised an eyebrow. The Keeper's fanatical devotion to the Night Mother typically manifested as violent opposition to any unauthorized approach to the coffin.

"There was a... moment," Nazir chose his words carefully. "Daggers were drawn. Then the Dragonborn presented what they called 'evidence of metaphysical approval'—apparently the coffin resonates at a different frequency when tapped after sweetroll application? Cicero tested it himself and became instantly converted to the new decorative philosophy."

As if summoned by mention of his name, Cicero pirouetted into the chamber, his jester's hat bouncing with each movement. Following close behind was the Dragonborn, the two of them engaged in what appeared to be a conversation conducted entirely through exaggerated pantomime and occasional cabbage motions.

"Ah! The LEADER graces us with her PRESENCE!" Cicero exclaimed, executing a bow so deep his nose nearly touched the floor. "Has she come to admire Mother's new ADORNMENTS? Her SWEETROLL SPLENDOR?"

"I was just... taking inventory of recent changes," Astrid managed, striving for diplomatic phrasing.

"Changes? CHANGES?" Cicero spun in place, bells jingling frantically. "IMPROVEMENTS, dear Astrid! ENHANCEMENTS of the most METAPHYSICALLY SIGNIFICANT variety!" He gestured to the Dragonborn with flourishing admiration. "Our new brother understands what poor Cicero has known all along—that Mother requires PROPER representation! ADEQUATE appreciation!"

The Dragonborn nodded solemnly, then proceeded to adjust one of the sweetrolls by approximately half an inch, stepping back to assess the modified arrangement with the critical eye of a master artist evaluating their composition.

"Perfect symmetry achieved," they announced with evident satisfaction. "Optimal spiritual resonance frequency."

"RESONANCE FREQUENCY!" Cicero echoed, clapping his hands in delight. "The harmonious VIBRATIONS of proper devotion! Listen, Astrid! LISTEN to the metaphysical approval!"

He tapped the coffin in what appeared to be a specific pattern. To Astrid's discomfort, the metal did indeed produce a tone that differed subtly from its usual hollow sound—a richer resonance that somehow carried further through the chamber.

"See? SEE? Mother APPROVES!" Cicero twirled again, narrowly avoiding collision with a particularly elaborate sweetroll arrangement. "She has never sounded so MELODIOUS!"

Astrid exchanged glances with Nazir, whose expression suggested he had abandoned any attempt to maintain his usual pragmatism in the face of overwhelming confectionery spiritualism.

"And these... decorations help with our contracts how, exactly?" Astrid ventured, grasping for any connection to the Brotherhood's actual purpose.

"Spiritual alignment creates optimal assassination conditions," the Dragonborn explained, as if this were obvious. "Sweetroll arrangements channel Night Mother's guidance. Very scientific process."

"SCIENTIFIC!" Cicero agreed enthusiastically. "The PRECISE application of spiritual CONFECTIONERY! A methodology of METAPHYSICAL BAKING!"

"And the glowing vials?" Astrid indicated the alchemical components interspersed among the pastries.

"Alchemical illumination enhancement," the Dragonborn clarified. "Color-coded by assassination category. Red for blade work. Blue for poison. Green for 'accidents.'" They made quotation marks in the air around this last category. "Very organized system."

"I... see." Astrid did not, in fact, see at all, but she was rapidly learning that requesting further explanation often led to demonstrations that left her with more questions than answers.

As if to confirm this wisdom, the Dragonborn suddenly produced a cabbage from their ever-present collection and handed it to Cicero with ceremonial solemnity. The jester accepted it with equal gravity, examining the vegetable from all angles before nodding decisively.

"The GREEN SIGNAL!" he declared cryptically. "It is TIME!"

Without further explanation, both of them dropped into their synchronized sneaking crouch and scuttled from the chamber, leaving Astrid and Nazir staring after them in bewildered silence.

"Should we... follow them?" Nazir asked after a moment.

"I'm not sure I want to know," Astrid admitted, then sighed. "But as leader of this increasingly peculiar family, I suppose I should maintain awareness of all... activities."

They followed the sound of bells and occasional cabbage-related exclamations to the training area, where they discovered a scene that defied immediate comprehension. The Dragonborn had apparently recruited not just Cicero but several other Brotherhood members into some kind of demonstration. Veezara, Gabriella, and—most surprisingly—Festus Krex stood in a line, each holding what appeared to be kitchen implements modified to resemble weapons.

"Now, REMEMBER the principles of proper CABBAGE COMBAT!" Cicero instructed, pacing before them like a general addressing troops. "The vegetable is an EXTENSION of your murderous INTENT! It CHANNELS your deadly PURPOSE!"

"The density-to-aerodynamics ratio is actually quite fascinating," Festus muttered, examining his cabbage with unexpected scientific interest. "If properly enchanted, the cellular structure could carry a distributed frost effect that would activate on impact."

"Exactly! EXACTLY!" Cicero cackled, delighted by this analysis. "The old man UNDERSTANDS! The SCHOLARLY application of VEGETABLE VIOLENCE!"

The Dragonborn, meanwhile, was demonstrating what appeared to be proper cabbage-throwing technique to Veezara, guiding the Argonian assassin's arm through precise motions accompanied by detailed explanations of "optimal rotational velocity" and "target-specific impact calculations."

"FUS!" The Dragonborn suddenly demonstrated, sending a cabbage flying across the room with such force that it exploded against the far wall in a splash of green. "Thu'um enhancement optional but effective for long-range eliminations."

"I don't have that particular ability," Veezara pointed out, his reptilian features expressing what might have been relief at this limitation.

"Conventional propulsion also effective," the Dragonborn assured him, producing another cabbage and launching it with a perfectly executed throw that somehow caused the vegetable to curve in mid-air, striking a training dummy with surgical precision. "Requires practice. Daily vegetable training essential for mastery."

Astrid leaned against the doorway, a strange sense of disorientation washing over her. This was the Dark Brotherhood—Tamriel's most feared assassins, legendary dealers of death whose very name inspired terror throughout the Empire. And they were currently engaged in what could only be described as weaponized produce training.

"The truly disturbing part," Nazir murmured beside her, apparently following her train of thought, "is that I'm starting to see the practical applications. That throwing technique does allow for impressive precision."

"Nazir," Astrid turned to him, a note of alarm in her voice, "tell me you're not being converted to... whatever this is."

The Redguard assassin straightened his robes defensively. "I maintain professional skepticism. But I also maintain professional curiosity about effective elimination methods, regardless of how... unconventional they might appear."

Before Astrid could respond, a triumphant shout from Gabriella drew their attention. The Dunmer assassin had apparently mastered some aspect of the cabbage technique, as evidenced by the perfect hole drilled through a training dummy's head by her vegetable projectile.

"The rotation creates a drilling effect!" Gabriella's normally reserved demeanor had given way to uncharacteristic excitement. "The outer leaves act as cutting blades when velocity is sufficient!" She turned to the Dragonborn with newfound respect. "This could revolutionize our poisoning methods—a delivery system that creates its own entry wound..."

"Veggie Vengeance," Cicero supplied helpfully, dancing from foot to foot. "The GREEN DEATH! The CRUEL CABBAGE!"

"Cruel Cabbage incompatible with branding guidelines," the Dragonborn shook their head seriously. "Veggie Vengeance has superior alliterative quality. More memorable for reputation establishment."

"Of COURSE! The ALLITERATION!" Cicero agreed immediately. "The POWERFUL PERCUSSION of proper PRONUNCIATION!"

Astrid closed her eyes briefly, centering herself in the way she had been taught as an initiate decades ago. The Brotherhood had weathered many changes over the centuries—shifts in leadership, evolving methods, the rise and fall of various Sanctuaries across Tamriel. Surely this current... situation was simply another adaptation, albeit one that involved more baked goods and vegetables than traditional assassin evolution typically encompassed.

When she opened her eyes, the Dragonborn was standing directly before her, having approached with that unnerving silent grace that contradicted their otherwise chaotic persona. They held out a cabbage with ceremonial gravity, their expression suggesting this was an offering of profound significance.

"Leadership cabbage," they explained seriously. "Very important for directional authority. Symbol of assassination innovation."

Astrid found herself accepting the vegetable automatically, its weight solid and somehow reassuring in her hands. "Thank you?" she managed, surprising herself with the genuine note of question in her voice.

The Dragonborn nodded, satisfied with this exchange, then produced a small, leather-bound journal which they also presented to her. "Contract records," they explained. "Color-coded by elimination methodology. Very organized system."

Curious despite herself, Astrid opened the journal to discover meticulous documentation of recent Brotherhood contracts, each annotated with diagrams, efficiency ratings, and detailed descriptions of the methods employed. Most striking was the fact that every contract had been completed successfully, often in less time than traditional approaches would have required.

"This is... surprisingly thorough," she acknowledged, leafing through pages of what was unquestionably professional-grade assassination documentation, albeit with unusual categorization systems involving various food groups.

"Efficient record-keeping essential for professional development," the Dragonborn nodded. "Brotherhood methodology requires modernization for optimal contract fulfillment. Traditional approaches supplemented with innovative techniques. Best of both worlds."

Astrid found herself nodding, the familiar territory of assassination efficiency providing momentary respite from cabbage-based combat training and sweetroll spiritualism. "I appreciate your dedication to the family's improvement," she said, and was somewhat surprised to realize she meant it.

The Dragonborn beamed, then immediately dropped back into their characteristic crouch. "New contract preparations underway," they announced. "Target in Markarth. Silver-Blood family associate. Requires comprehensive feng shui assessment for optimal elimination environment."

"Feng... shui?" Astrid raised an eyebrow.

"Furniture arrangement science," the Dragonborn explained. "Very important for assassination flow. Creates natural pathways to guide target movements. Bedframe inversion particularly effective for 'accident' scenarios."

With that cryptic explanation, they scuttled away to join Cicero in what appeared to be preliminary planning for this new contract, involving elaborate diagrams drawn with frosting on the back of a training dummy.

"Did they say 'bedframe inversion'?" Nazir asked quietly.

"I've stopped asking for clarification," Astrid admitted. "The demonstrations are often more disturbing than the mystery."

As if to punctuate this wisdom, the sound of Cicero's maniacal laughter echoed through the sanctuary, accompanied by what could only be described as the rhythmic thudding of cabbages being employed in some form of percussive training exercise.

Astrid looked down at the vegetable in her hands, then at the journal of surprisingly effective contract completions, and finally at the increasingly enthusiastic participation of her previously traditional assassin family in what could only be described as culinary combat training.

"We were an order of shadow," she murmured to herself. "Now we're... we're a snack pantry with knives."

Yet even as the words left her lips, she couldn't deny that the Brotherhood's contract completion rate had never been higher, their methodological innovation never more pronounced. Whatever strange alchemy the Dragonborn had introduced into their ancient organization, it was producing results that even the Night Mother herself couldn't argue with—if the resonant hum of her sweetroll-adorned coffin was any indication.

Astrid tightened her grip on her leadership cabbage and straightened her shoulders. If this was the new direction of the Dark Brotherhood, then as its leader, she would adapt. After all, assassination was ultimately about results, not methods.

Even if those methods now involved synchronized sneaking, weaponized produce, and metaphysical baking.

The Age of the Snack Brotherhood had begun.

The first time Cicero saw the stranger, he knew they were special. Not in the mundane ways that boring people recognized specialness—skill with a blade, stealth in shadows, the tired hallmarks of conventional assassination. No, the stranger possessed a specialness that transcended such pedestrian metrics. They viewed the world through a lens of chaos so perfect, so PRISTINE in its disorder, that it circled back around to a higher order that only the truly enlightened could perceive.

Cicero understood. Oh yes, he UNDERSTOOD.

The jester assassin capered through the Sanctuary's main hall, bells jingling with each precisely calculated step. To the untrained eye, his movements might appear random, manic, the product of a mind untethered from reason. But there was METHOD in Cicero's madness, PRECISION in his prancing—just as there was undeniable logic in the Dragonborn's seemingly chaotic innovations.

Take, for instance, the cabbage bombs currently lined up on the alchemy table before him. Seventeen verdant spheres, each hollowed and filled with a distinct alchemical mixture created under the Dragonborn's exacting guidance. Paralysis agents, combustible compounds, clouds of poison that bloomed upon impact—all contained within the humble vegetable's cellular structure, which, as the Dragonborn had so BRILLIANTLY explained, provided "optimal absorption matrices for sustained alchemical stability."

"Cicero understands!" he declared to the empty room, selecting a particularly promising specimen and holding it aloft like a sacred relic. "The VEGGIE VENGEANCE! The calibration of CABBAGE COMBAT!"

"Hmm?" Nazir's voice interrupted his reverie, the Redguard's head appearing around the doorway with the cautious assessment of someone approaching a potentially unstable alchemical experiment—which, to be fair, was not entirely inaccurate.

"Ah! The skeptic approaches!" Cicero twirled to face him, cabbage bomb still held high. "Has he come to WITNESS the revolutionary refinement of our ancient arts? The MODERNIZATION of murder methodology?"

Nazir entered the room fully, his dark eyes fixing on the row of modified vegetables with what Cicero recognized as reluctant curiosity. The Brotherhood's contract manager had been the slowest to embrace the Dragonborn's innovations—apart from Astrid herself—but even he could not deny the results.

"I'm here for the contract report on the Silver-Blood associate," Nazir said, maintaining his professional demeanor despite the alchemical cabbage display before him. "It was due yesterday."

"REPORTS! RECORDS! DOCUMENTATION!" Cicero pirouetted dramatically before leaping to a nearby shelf and retrieving a scroll tied with red ribbon. "Cicero keeps METICULOUS notes, as instructed by our INNOVATIVE brother! The TARGET has been ELIMINATED with SPECTACULAR efficiency!"

Nazir accepted the scroll with visible caution, as if expecting it to explode or perhaps transform into a vegetable. When no such metamorphosis occurred, he unrolled it to reveal—to his evident surprise—a comprehensive and professionally detailed account of the Markarth contract, complete with diagrams, timing notes, and efficiency ratings.

"This is... remarkably thorough," Nazir admitted, scanning the document. "Though I'm not sure I understand the section on 'furniture-based redirection techniques' or the 'sweetroll gradient measurement' mentioned in the approach phase."

"The FENG SHUI of DEATH!" Cicero explained enthusiastically, resuming his inspection of the cabbage bombs. "The target's home required SIGNIFICANT rearrangement to create optimal elimination conditions. The bed turned UPSIDE DOWN! The chairs positioned at PRECISE angles! The silverware arranged in PATTERNS of psychological influence!"

"And this... worked?" Nazir asked, a note of professional interest breaking through his skepticism.

"WORKED? It TRANSCENDED conventional success! The target literally WALKED into their own demise! Followed the FURNITURE PATHWAY directly to the prepared 'accident' scenario!" Cicero danced with glee, remembering the beautiful precision of the elimination. "Three hours of furniture arrangement for fifteen SECONDS of perfect execution! The statistical EFFICIENCY is unparalleled!"

Nazir made a noncommittal sound as he continued reading the report, though Cicero could see the way his eyebrows rose at certain details—particularly the section describing how the arranged furniture had created a chain reaction that resulted in the target's death appearing entirely accidental, leaving no evidence of assassination.

"And the 'sweetroll gradient'?" Nazir asked finally, looking up from the document.

"PSYCHOLOGICAL MANIPULATION!" Cicero explained, setting down his experimental cabbage to demonstrate with expansive gestures. "Sweetrolls placed throughout the dwelling, each with slightly INCREASED appetizing qualities as they approached the elimination zone! The target followed the SCENT GRADIENT like a skeever follows cheese! Their own HUNGER became the LURE that led them to DOOM!"

To illustrate this principle, Cicero retrieved a sweetroll from the ever-present supply that now existed in every corner of the Sanctuary. With theatrical precision, he broke it in half to reveal a center that glowed with subtle alchemical enhancement.

"The Dragonborn's CULINARY GENIUS incorporated appetite-enhancing compounds into the BAKING PROCESS! Each sweetroll subtly MORE COMPELLING than the last, creating an IRRESISTIBLE trail that guided the target's movements with SCIENTIFIC ACCURACY!"

Nazir stared at the glowing pastry, his expression cycling through disbelief, reluctant fascination, and finally—to Cicero's delight—professional respect.

"That's actually... ingenious," the Redguard admitted, setting down the report. "Environmental control through appetite manipulation. I've never considered using food as a movement predictor."

"The GASTRONOMIC ARTS applied to the arts of DEATH!" Cicero agreed, twirling with happiness at this conversion of another skeptic. "The Dragonborn UNDERSTANDS that assassination is not merely the application of blade to flesh, but the COMPREHENSIVE ARRANGEMENT of circumstances that make death INEVITABLE!"

As if summoned by discussion of their methodology, the Dragonborn appeared in the doorway—silent and sudden as always, despite the pot helmet and the jangling collection of cooking implements that somehow never made noise unless they wished it to.

"Contract report delivered," they noted with satisfaction, observing the scroll in Nazir's hands. "Environmental manipulation assessment complete?"

"I was just explaining the FURNITURE PATHWAY and SWEETROLL GRADIENT to our skeptical brother!" Cicero informed them, delighted by this timely arrival. "The SCIENTIFIC PRECISION of your methods!"

The Dragonborn nodded, then approached the row of cabbage bombs with focused interest. They examined each specimen, occasionally tapping one and listening to the resulting sound with their head tilted at that characteristic bird-like angle that Cicero found so KINDRED to his own methods of assessment.

"Alchemical stability excellent in specimens three, seven, and twelve," they announced after this examination. "Others require additional fermentation period for optimal explosive potential."

"Cicero has maintained the PRECISE temperature and humidity conditions as instructed!" he assured them, pointing to the alchemical monitoring devices that had been installed alongside the Sanctuary's more traditional equipment. "The vegetable vessels are NURTURING their destructive contents as dutiful PARENTS raise children of CHAOS!"

The metaphor appeared to please the Dragonborn, who nodded approvingly before turning to Nazir. "Emperor assassination preparations progressing on schedule. Requires coordination of multiple methodologies. Very complex operation."

Nazir's professional composure faltered visibly at the mention of this highest-profile contract. "The Emperor of Tamriel? We're actually going forward with that?"

"CONTRACT ACCEPTED! PREPARATIONS UNDERWAY!" Cicero confirmed, unable to contain his excitement. "The most PRESTIGIOUS elimination in Brotherhood history! A TARGET worthy of our MODERNIZED methods!"

"The client's payment has been verified," the Dragonborn added with unexpected practicality. "Amaund Motierre's credit excellent with Iron Bank. Down payment already converted to operational funding."

They gestured to the alchemical equipment and specialized cooking implements that now supplemented the Brotherhood's traditional assassination tools—all apparently financed by the substantial down payment for the Emperor's elimination.

"I didn't realize we'd progressed that far in the planning," Nazir said, a note of concern entering his voice. "Astrid usually consults the senior members before accepting contracts of this... magnitude."

"Leadership cabbage granted authorization," the Dragonborn stated, as if this explained everything.

"Leadership... cabbage," Nazir repeated slowly.

"SYMBOLIC AUTHORITY!" Cicero clarified helpfully. "The VEGETATIVE SCEPTER of command! The GREEN MANDATE of directional approval!"

"Astrid accepted a cabbage as some kind of... authorization token?" Nazir's skepticism had returned in full force.

"Ceremonial transfer of operational oversight," the Dragonborn nodded. "Very official. Proper protocols observed."

Cicero noticed the way Nazir's hand moved unconsciously to the dagger at his belt—a reflexive gesture of the old Brotherhood when confronted with potential overstepping of authority. He tensed, ready to defend his kindred spirit should the Redguard's traditionalism override his recent acceptance of innovation.

But the moment passed as the Dragonborn, either oblivious to or unconcerned by this potential conflict, produced a detailed blueprint from their seemingly bottomless inventory and spread it across the alchemy table, carefully shifting the cabbage bombs to accommodate the document.

"Tactical assessment of Imperial flagship," they explained, gesturing to the meticulously drawn plans. "Structural analysis complete. Weak points identified." They tapped specific locations marked with red X's. "Requires specialized delivery system for targeted elimination. Conventional approaches insufficient."

The quality of the document was undeniable—detailed to a degree that suggested either extensive reconnaissance or access to classified Imperial information. Despite his reservations, Nazir leaned forward to examine the plans with professional interest, his assassin's instincts apparently overriding his concerns about procedural irregularities.

"How did you obtain these? The Imperial flagship's design is a closely guarded secret."

"College of Winterhold has excellent library," the Dragonborn replied, though something in their tone suggested this wasn't the complete explanation. "Also, guard in Solitude very helpful after sweetroll persuasion protocol."

"SWEETROLL PERSUASION!" Cicero cackled, incapable of containing his delight at the elegance of this methodology. "The PASTRY PATHWAY to imperial SECRETS!"

"Guards highly responsive to baked goods with special ingredient integration," the Dragonborn elaborated. "Memory modification properties very effective for information extraction without subject awareness."

The implications of this statement—that the Dragonborn had developed some form of truth serum or mind-altering agent delivered via sweetrolls—might have troubled Cicero had he been burdened with conventional moral constraints. But as one who had long ago embraced the beautiful chaos that existed beyond traditional ethical boundaries, he found it simply another confirmation of his kindred spirit's GENIUS.

Nazir, however, appeared to be wrestling with professional admiration and moral discomfort in equal measure. "You've been... drugging imperial guards? With pastries?"

"Temporary cognitive enhancement targeting communication centers," the Dragonborn corrected. "Subject experiences pleasant conversation with unexpected insight. No lasting effects except occasional sweetroll cravings. Very humane information gathering approach."

Before Nazir could formulate a response to this novel interpretation of "humane," the sound of footsteps announced Astrid's arrival. The Brotherhood's leader entered the alchemy laboratory with the measured stride of someone deliberately projecting calm despite inner turbulence. Cicero noted with delight that she carried the leadership cabbage tucked under one arm like a military commander might carry a ceremonial helmet.

"I understand we're discussing the Emperor contract," she said, her tone neutral but her eyes sharp as she surveyed the blueprint spread across the table. "I don't recall authorizing the planning phase to begin."

"Leadership cabbage provided operational approval," the Dragonborn repeated their earlier assertion, gesturing to the vegetable Astrid herself carried. "Symbolic authority transfer completed three days ago during strategic consultation session."

Cicero watched with fascination as Astrid's expression cycled through confusion, realization, and finally something that might have been either resignation or reluctant amusement.

"The... consultation session," she repeated carefully. "When you presented me with the cabbage and contract journal?"

"Precisely," the Dragonborn nodded. "Ceremonial authority object accepted. Traditional protocol observed. Very proper procedural adherence."

Cicero could practically see the battle taking place behind Astrid's eyes—the leader weighing the diplomatic cost of contradicting this interpretation against the operational reality that preparations for their most significant contract in decades were already well underway. The fact that these preparations appeared remarkably thorough and professional, despite their unconventional origins, clearly factored into her calculation.

"I see," she said finally, setting the cabbage down on the edge of the table with deliberate care. "Then perhaps you should update me on the current status of these... authorized preparations."

The Dragonborn nodded, seemingly oblivious to the subtle power negotiation taking place, and launched into a detailed briefing that was simultaneously bizarre in its methodology and impressive in its tactical comprehensiveness.

As they outlined a plan involving "cheese-based structural targeting," "sweetroll distraction matrices," and what appeared to be some form of "synchronized sneak assault choreography," Cicero observed the gradual shift in both Astrid's and Nazir's expressions—from skepticism to reluctant interest to undeniable professional respect.

That was the BEAUTIFUL GENIUS of the Dragonborn's approach, Cicero reflected as he capered silently at the edge of the gathering. They presented absolute MADNESS with such precision, such METHODICAL CARE, that it circled back around to a form of sense that even the most traditional assassin couldn't dismiss. Like Cicero himself, they existed in that glorious space between chaos and order where true innovation was born.

"And the final elimination?" Astrid asked as the Dragonborn concluded their explanation of the approach and infiltration phases. "How do you propose to actually execute the Emperor once these... preparations are in place?"

The Dragonborn and Cicero exchanged glances—a moment of KINDRED UNDERSTANDING that needed no words. But for the benefit of their less enlightened siblings, the Dragonborn retrieved another blueprint from their collection and unrolled it across the table.

"Cheese trebuchet," they announced, indicating a remarkably detailed diagram of what appeared to be a siege weapon constructed entirely from tankards, linen wraps, and what might have been parts of a bed frame. "Constructed on adjacent rooftop. Calibrated for precise trajectory. Loaded with specially prepared projectile."

"A... cheese trebuchet," Astrid repeated, her tone carefully neutral. "You plan to assassinate the Emperor of Tamriel... with cheese?"

"Initial impact creates distraction and disorientation," the Dragonborn clarified, tracing the trajectory line on the blueprint. "Target's instinctive response triggers secondary mechanism—concentric sweetroll arrangement on floor creates controlled slipping pattern, guiding target's fall toward tertiary elimination system."

Their finger moved to indicate what appeared to be a meticulously designed trapdoor system integrated into the Imperial flagship's cabin floor. "Cabbage-lined drop chute serves dual purpose—friction reduction for optimal fall velocity and additional psychological disorientation through unexpected vegetation exposure."

"And at the bottom of this... cabbage chute?" Nazir asked, his professional curiosity evidently overcoming his instinctive skepticism.

"Detonation zone," the Dragonborn concluded, indicating the final element of the diagram—an elaborate arrangement of what appeared to be fish barrels rigged with frost runes. "Specialized aquatic explosive matrix. Developed at College of Winterhold. Very effective against heavily armored targets. Complete deniability through apparent storage accident."

The silence that followed this explanation was absolute. Cicero could almost HEAR the traditional assassin paradigms shattering in Astrid's and Nazir's minds as they processed a plan that was simultaneously the most ridiculous and most meticulously constructed assassination scheme in Brotherhood history.

"This is..." Astrid began, then paused, visibly searching for appropriate words.

"GENIUS!" Cicero supplied helpfully, unable to contain himself any longer. "REVOLUTIONARY! The pinnacle of MODERNIZED METHODOLOGY!"

"Comprehensive," Astrid settled on, her tone suggesting this was a significant concession. "And admittedly thorough in its... contingency planning."

The Dragonborn nodded, accepting this assessment with the quiet confidence of someone who knew their work transcended conventional evaluation metrics. They rolled up the blueprints with practiced efficiency, storing them back in their mysterious inventory alongside the countless cabbages, sweetrolls, and cooking implements that had become the new symbols of Dark Brotherhood innovation.

"Implementation begins tomorrow," they announced. "Requires coordination of multiple team members. Synchronized sneaking essential for optimal timing."

"SYNCHRONIZED SNEAKING!" Cicero clapped his hands in delight. "The CHOREOGRAPHY of CHAOS! The DANCE of DEATH!"

"I'm not having the entire Brotherhood perform... whatever that is," Astrid said firmly, apparently finding her leadership resolve in the face of this particular innovation. "Standard stealth protocols will suffice for team coordination."

The Dragonborn considered this for a moment, head tilted in that now-familiar evaluative angle, then nodded. "Acceptable compromise. Traditional methods integrated with modern enhancements. Hybrid approach optimal for transition period."

With that cryptic statement—which Cicero interpreted as a gracious concession to the Brotherhood's ongoing evolutionary process—they dropped back into their characteristic crouch and scuttled from the room, presumably to continue preparations elsewhere in the Sanctuary.

Astrid and Nazir exchanged glances that contained volumes of unspoken communication, before Astrid sighed and picked up the leadership cabbage once more.

"It appears," she said carefully, "that we are indeed moving forward with this contract. Nazir, inform the family. Full briefing tonight."

As Nazir departed to execute this instruction, Astrid turned to Cicero with an expression that suggested she was bracing herself for his response even before asking her question.

"The Night Mother," she began, her tone carefully neutral. "Has she... commented on these new methods? Through you, as Keeper?"

"Oh, Mother APPROVES!" Cicero assured her, pirouetting with joy at the opportunity to confirm divine endorsement. "She RESONATES with satisfaction! Her SWEETROLL ADORNMENTS vibrate with METAPHYSICAL AGREEMENT!"

Astrid's expression suggested she had received exactly the answer she had expected, though perhaps not the one she had hoped for. "Of course she does," she murmured, more to herself than to Cicero. She looked down at the cabbage in her hands with an expression that might have been resignation, amusement, or some complex blend of both. "Well, at least we maintain some connection to traditional authority structures, even if they now involve produce."

"SYMBOLIC CONTINUITY!" Cicero agreed enthusiastically. "The VEGETATIVE VALIDATION of leadership legitimacy!"

"Yes, that," Astrid said dryly, then turned to leave, leadership cabbage still tucked firmly under her arm.

Left alone with his alchemical cabbage bombs, Cicero allowed himself a moment of pure, unfiltered glee. The Brotherhood was TRANSFORMING before his eyes, evolving from a stagnant adherence to outdated methods into a GLORIOUS fusion of tradition and innovation. And at the center of this beautiful metamorphosis stood his kindred spirit—the chaos-wreathed catalyst who understood, as Cicero did, that true assassination was an ART form that transcended conventional boundaries.

"The SNACK BROTHERHOOD rises!" he declared to the empty laboratory, executing a perfect pirouette that sent his bells jingling in harmonic resonance with the subtle hum emanating from the cabbage bombs. "The CULINARY KILLERS! The GASTRONOMIC EXECUTIONERS!"

He paused in his dance, a sudden inspiration striking him with the force of divine revelation. Taking up a nearby quill and parchment, he began composing a new verse for his growing collection of Brotherhood hymns:

"Sweetrolls and cabbages, daggers and death,
The Emperor's drawing his very last breath!
A trebuchet of cheese shall seal his doom,
While synchronized sneakers dance through the room!"

Not his finest work, perhaps, but it captured the ESSENCE of their glorious new era. Cicero tucked the verse away for further refinement, already envisioning the performance piece it would become—the DRAMATIC RECITATION that would accompany their greatest assassination in centuries.

The Emperor of Tamriel would never know what hit him.

Or rather, he would know EXACTLY what hit him—cheese, sweetrolls, and cabbage-lined trapdoors—but would have no conceptual framework to UNDERSTAND it before the fish barrel explosion ended his Imperial reign.

Such was the beautiful, incomprehensible genius of the Dragonborn's methods.

And Cicero, humble Keeper that he was, felt privileged to dance along the edge of this glorious chaos, bells jingling in perfect harmony with the madness.

The Imperial flagship Katariah rocked gently in Solitude Harbor, its magnificent hull gleaming in the moonlight. Banners bearing the Imperial dragon symbol fluttered in the cool evening breeze, while the distinctive sounds of a vessel preparing for royal occupancy—orders being called, supplies being loaded, guards performing security checks—carried across the water. The scent of the sea mingled with the smells of fresh paint, polished metal, and the expensive oils used to condition the Emperor's quarters—all detectable to Astrid's trained assassin senses as she observed from the shadows of a nearby dock.

Three weeks of preparation had led to this moment. Three weeks of increasingly bizarre training exercises, methodological innovations, and what could only be described as culinary combat refinement. The entirety of the Dark Brotherhood had been transformed into what Cicero enthusiastically referred to as "GASTRONOMIC EXECUTION SPECIALISTS!"—a phrase that still made Astrid's eye twitch whenever she heard it.

"Status report," she murmured into the darkness beside her, where Nazir's distinctive silhouette was barely visible against the wooden pilings.

"All teams in position," the Redguard assassin confirmed, his voice a professional whisper. "Gabriella has disabled the outer perimeter guards with what she calls 'sleep-inducing tea cakes.' Apparently they're quite delicious."

Astrid pinched the bridge of her nose, a gesture that had become reflexive over the past weeks. "Of course they are. And the... special equipment?"

"Deployed according to the blueprint. The cheese trebuchet is assembled on the warehouse roof with line of sight to the Emperor's cabin. Babette has prepared the specialized projectile with, and I quote, 'optimal density-to-fragmentation ratio for maximum disorientation impact.'"

"And the sweetroll... arrangement?" Astrid forced herself to ask, still unable to believe this was a legitimate assassination plan she was overseeing.

"Veezara completed the concentric pattern in the Emperor's quarters during the guard rotation. He reports that the 'slippage gradient' has been calibrated for, and again I'm quoting, 'precise directional control toward the designated convergence point.'"

"The cabbage chute?"

"Festus and Arnbjorn integrated it into the existing structure. Festus was surprisingly enthusiastic about the 'friction-reduction properties' of the vegetable lining. Your husband was less verbal about his participation, but did admit the structural integrity was 'impressively sound for something so stupid.'"

"And the fish barrel detonation zone?"

"In place and armed with frost runes. Tested on a practice dummy with apparently spectacular results. The cleanup crew is still scraping frozen fish parts off the training chamber walls."

Astrid nodded, absorbing this information with the professional detachment she had cultivated through decades of assassination work. On one level, the entire operation was absurd beyond reason—cheese trebuchets, sweetroll slip paths, vegetable-lined trap chutes. Yet on another level, she couldn't deny the meticulous planning, redundant safety measures, and strategic thoroughness that had gone into each bizarre element.

The plan was ridiculous. And it was brilliant.

"And our mastermind?" she asked finally. "Where are they now?"

"In position with Cicero for the trigger phase," Nazir replied, a note of resignation in his voice. "They insisted on handling the trebuchet personally. Something about 'optimal rotational velocity calculations requiring real-time adjustments.'"

A flicker of movement from the ship caught Astrid's attention—the distinctive torch pattern that indicated the Emperor had boarded. Across the harbor, Imperial security protocols unfolded with mechanical precision, each guard taking position, each safety measure implemented according to centuries of tradition.

None of which had anticipated a sweetroll-based assassination plot.

"It's time," Astrid said quietly. "Signal the team to initiate."

Nazir lifted a small lantern, uncovering it briefly in a pattern that meant nothing to conventional military signals but had been established as the Brotherhood's new "Operation Commenced" indicator. In the distance, a responding flash confirmed receipt of the message.

"May Sithis guide their... sweetrolls," Nazir murmured, with only the slightest hesitation before the final word.

Astrid found herself nodding in solemn agreement, despite the absurdity of the prayer. "Indeed. The Night Mother's will be done, through whatever... culinary means she deems appropriate."

They settled into watchful silence, the familiar pre-assassination tension building despite the unorthodox methods being employed. Years of Brotherhood operations had taught Astrid to anticipate the unexpected—guards changing routes, targets moving to unplanned locations, weather interfering with carefully laid plans.

Nothing, however, had prepared her for what unfolded on the Imperial flagship over the next seventeen minutes.

It began with a distinctive sound that carried clearly across the harbor—the creak and snap of the cheese trebuchet releasing its payload. A massive wheel of what appeared to be specially aged Eidar hurled in a perfect arc through the night sky, its trajectory so precise it sailed directly through the open window of the Emperor's cabin.

The impact was followed by shouts of confusion, audible even at this distance. Guards rushed toward the Emperor's quarters, only to be intercepted by what Astrid recognized as Phase Two of the plan—Brotherhood members in carefully selected positions creating diversionary chaos throughout the ship with synchronized sweetroll deployments.

"It's working," Nazir whispered, disbelief evident in his tone. "They're actually following the exact pattern predicted in the briefing."

Astrid nodded, watching as Imperial guards responded exactly as the Dragonborn had anticipated—rushing to secure specific areas of the ship in a sequence that left a clear path for the primary operation to continue unimpeded. It was as if they were actors in a play, following stage directions written by a playwright who understood their protocols better than they did themselves.

A flash of movement from the Emperor's cabin window drew her attention—a figure in elaborate robes stumbling backward, arms pinwheeling in what appeared to be the "controlled slipping pattern" induced by strategically placed sweetrolls.

What followed was visible only as shadows against cabin walls, but the sequence matched the blueprint exactly—the Emperor's distinctive silhouette slipping, sliding, and ultimately disappearing downward through what must have been the activated trapdoor mechanism.

A muffled thump suggested he had reached the bottom of the cabbage chute, followed seconds later by a flash of blue light and a crack of magical energy that could only be the frost rune detonation.

"By the void," Nazir breathed. "It actually worked."

"Of course it worked," came a voice from directly behind them, causing both assassins to nearly jump out of their skins despite decades of stealth training.

The Dragonborn crouched there, pot helmet gleaming in the moonlight, not a trace of exertion or tension in their posture despite having apparently traveled from the trebuchet position to the dock in impossibly little time.

"Comprehensive tactical planning accounts for all variables," they continued, producing a sweetroll from somewhere within their armor and offering it to Astrid with ceremonial gravity. "Celebration pastry. Very traditional for successful operation completion."

Astrid accepted the sweetroll automatically, her mind still processing the successful assassination of the Emperor of Tamriel via methods that would sound like a madman's ravings if reported accurately.

"The... cleanup?" she asked, professional concerns reasserting themselves despite her bewilderment.

"Complete destruction of evidence in progress," the Dragonborn assured her. "Delayed alchemical reaction transforms all cabbage elements into harmless vapor. Sweetroll residue dissolves into untraceable sugar compounds. Cheese trebuchet disassembled and components distributed across multiple water routes for maximum dispersal."

"And Cicero? The others?" Nazir asked, clearly struggling to reconcile the bizarre methods with their undeniable effectiveness.

"Exfiltration proceeding according to schedule. Cicero implementing 'jester distraction protocol' near dock entrance. Very effective. Guards completely focused on 'bouncing figure in jester pants saluting with ladle.'"

As if to confirm this assessment, shouts of confusion erupted from the main harbor entrance, where Imperial soldiers could be seen chasing what appeared to be Cicero performing elaborate acrobatics while waving kitchen implements in a pattern that somehow mesmerized and disoriented his pursuers.

"We should depart," the Dragonborn advised, already dropping back into their characteristic crouch. "Rendezvous at Sanctuary in three hours for comprehensive debriefing. Will bring appropriate snacks for mission review session."

Without waiting for acknowledgment, they scuttled away into the darkness, leaving Astrid and Nazir staring after them in a mixture of professional awe and existential bewilderment.

"The Emperor of Tamriel," Nazir said quietly as they made their own stealthy withdrawal from the harbor, "has just been assassinated by cheese, sweetrolls, cabbages, and frozen fish."

"And no one will ever believe it," Astrid replied, a strange feeling bubbling up inside her—something that might have been hysterical laughter or possibly a complete nervous breakdown. "The greatest assassination in Brotherhood history will be recorded in Imperial histories as... what? A storage accident?"

"A tragic convergence of unlikely events that somehow resulted in the Emperor falling through his own floor into a fish storage area where a frost spell misfired," Nazir suggested, a rare note of humor entering his voice. "Truly, the ways of the universe are mysterious."

"The ways of the Dragonborn, more like," Astrid muttered, though she couldn't suppress the smile that tugged at her lips.

As they melted into the shadows of Solitude's backstreets, the sounds of Cicero's maniacal laughter and jingling bells faded behind them, replaced by the ordinary noises of a city unaware that history had just been rewritten through methods no chronicle would ever accurately record.

The Dark Brotherhood Sanctuary hummed with the energetic aftermath of a spectacularly successful contract. Assassins moved through the ancient stone corridors with the particular swagger that came from participating in a legendary operation, while the air filled with the smells of celebration—fresh-baked sweetrolls, alchemically enhanced mead, and what appeared to be an entire roast ox that had somehow been transported into the dining area overnight.

Astrid sat in what had once been her command center but now served as what the Dragonborn referred to as the "murder charcuterie lounge"—a bizarre blend of assassination planning space and elaborately catered snack environment. The table before her, once covered with maps and contract notes, now displayed an architectural masterpiece of cheese arrangements, meat selections, and bread sculptures, all organized in patterns that somehow corresponded to recent Brotherhood operations.

The leadership cabbage sat in a position of honor at the center of this spread, now adorned with a miniature Imperial crown fashioned from gold leaf.

"A fitting tribute," Nazir observed, taking the seat across from her. "The cabbage that authorized the death of an Emperor."

Astrid smiled despite herself, reaching for a goblet of wine. "I'm still not entirely sure how that authorization happened."

"Does it matter? The contract was completed with unprecedented success. The payment has been received—a sum that will support the Brotherhood for years. And our reputation..." Nazir shook his head in something like wonder. "The rumors are already spreading. The Emperor's death is being attributed to the Dark Brotherhood, but no one can explain how it was accomplished. The mysterious circumstances have only enhanced the fear our name inspires."

"Fear of what, exactly?" Astrid mused, running a finger along the rim of her goblet. "That we might break into their homes and... redecorate? Rearrange their furniture based on 'feng shui assassination principles'? Leave strategically placed sweetrolls to guide them to their doom?"

"Precisely," Nazir nodded seriously. "The unknown is always more terrifying than the understood. Our methods have become incomprehensible to outsiders, and therefore more frightening than a simple blade in the dark."

Before Astrid could respond to this surprisingly philosophical assessment, the sound of synchronized chanting echoed from the main chamber. Both assassins turned toward the noise, exchanging glances that contained equal parts curiosity and trepidation.

"Should we...?" Nazir gestured vaguely in the direction of the disturbance.

"Probably," Astrid sighed, rising from her seat. "Whatever new ritual they've invented, it's best we stay informed."

They made their way to the Sanctuary's central chamber, where a scene of organized chaos greeted them. The entire Brotherhood had gathered in a circle around what appeared to be an elaborate display constructed from various food items, assassination tools, and the dismantled remains of what might have been the cheese trebuchet. At the center of this construction stood the Dragonborn and Cicero, leading the assembled assassins in what sounded like a chant involving the words "snacks" and "shadows" in rhythmic alternation.

"What exactly is happening here?" Astrid asked Babette, who stood at the edge of the gathering with the resigned expression of someone far too old to be surprised by mortal oddities.

"The Celebration of Successful Shadows," the vampire child replied, her ancient eyes reflecting amusement despite her formal tone. "Apparently it's a new tradition to honor particularly effective contracts. The centerpiece is called a 'Victory Vestibule'—a representation of the assassination constructed entirely from edible components."

Astrid examined the elaborate structure with reluctant fascination. Now that it was pointed out, she could indeed recognize elements of the Emperor operation—cheese wheels representing the trebuchet, sweetroll spirals mimicking the slip path, green cabbage leaves forming the chute, and at the bottom, blue-tinted ice shards suggesting the frost rune detonation.

"It's... detailed," she acknowledged, unable to find a more appropriate word for the bizarre food diorama.

"And surprisingly accurate from a technical perspective," Babette added. "The structural principles are represented with remarkable precision. The loft trajectory of the cheese projectile, the calculated resistance coefficients of the sweetroll arrangement—all replicated in miniature."

Astrid stared at the vampire, momentarily speechless. "You're... analyzing this as a serious assassination model?"

"Of course," Babette's childlike features arranged themselves into an expression of scientific interest. "The methodologies may be unconventional, but the underlying principles are fascinatingly sound. I've been practicing alchemy for three hundred years, and I've never considered using cabbage as a delivery medium for paralytic agents. The cellular absorption rate creates possibilities I'm still exploring."

Before Astrid could process this betrayal by the Brotherhood's oldest and presumably most sensible member, the chanting reached a crescendo. Cicero spun in a final elaborate pirouette while the Dragonborn placed a sweetroll atop the display with ceremonial gravity.

"THE TRIBUTE IS COMPLETE!" Cicero declared, his voice echoing off the ancient stones. "The EMPEROR'S DEMISE immortalized in GASTRONOMIC GLORY!"

"Comprehensive documentation for historical reference," the Dragonborn nodded, adjusting the sweetroll a fraction of an inch to achieve what appeared to be perfect symmetry. "Very important for assassination archives. Traditional record-keeping modernized for optimal knowledge preservation."

The gathered assassins broke into enthusiastic applause, many reaching for pieces of the display which were apparently meant to be consumed as part of the celebration. The atmosphere held an energy Astrid hadn't felt in the Sanctuary for years—a blend of professional pride, camaraderie, and genuine enthusiasm for their shared craft.

"You have to admit," Nazir murmured beside her, "morale has never been higher."

It was true. Despite—or perhaps because of—the bizarre methodological revolution, the Brotherhood had been revitalized. Contracts were being completed with unprecedented efficiency. Initiates were training with enthusiasm rather than grim determination. Even Arnbjorn seemed to have made a reluctant peace with the new order, though he still occasionally growled when sweetrolls were placed too near his forge.

"I asked for a killer," Astrid whispered, more to herself than to Nazir. "We got a walking fever dream in jester boots."

"And yet," Nazir replied thoughtfully, "the Night Mother's coffin resonates more clearly than it has in decades. The Dread Father seems pleased, if the success of our contracts is any indication. Perhaps this is exactly what the Brotherhood needed."

Before Astrid could respond, a distinctive sound drew everyone's attention to the far side of the chamber—the sound of large objects sliding at high velocity across the stone floor. The crowd parted to reveal Cicero and the Dragonborn, both lying flat on their backs atop what appeared to be large slabs of butter, propelling themselves through the Sanctuary with remarkable speed.

"LONG LIVE THE BROTHERHOOD!" Cicero cackled as he shot past, bells jingling frantically. "AND SNACKS!"

"Essential celebration protocol," the Dragonborn explained as they followed in a perfect butter-assisted glide. "Very traditional for historic achievement commemoration."

The assembled assassins watched this display with reactions ranging from bewilderment to amusement to enthusiastic applause. Several younger members were already eyeing the remaining butter slabs with clear intent to join the activity.

"Well," Nazir said after a moment of silence, "at least the floors will be well-polished."

Astrid found herself staring into the middle distance, her mind finally accepting what her senses had been telling her for weeks. The Dark Brotherhood—Tamriel's most feared assassins, keepers of ancient traditions, servants of Sithis and the Night Mother—had become something new, something unprecedented. A lethal blend of ancient mysticism and chaotic innovation, of deadly purpose and inexplicable methodology.

They had become, for lack of a better term, the Snack Brotherhood.

And against all logic, all tradition, all reasonable expectation, it worked. It worked spectacularly.

"Sithis help us all," she murmured, a smile finally breaking through her professional reserve as Cicero executed a particularly impressive butter-slide that sent him spiraling around the Night Mother's sweetroll-adorned coffin.

Beside her, Nazir produced a sweetroll from his robes—a habit he had apparently adopted despite his initial resistance to the culinary assassination revolution. "Snack?" he offered, his tone suggesting he was equally surprised by his own participation in the new order.

"Why not?" Astrid accepted the pastry, noting with professional interest that it appeared to have been prepared according to the Dragonborn's "optimal spiritual resonance" recipe—the one that supposedly enhanced assassination planning capabilities when consumed during strategic discussions.

As she took a bite, watching the Brotherhood celebrate their greatest contract in centuries through methods that defied all conventional description, Astrid found herself wondering what other assassin guilds across Tamriel would make of their transformation. The Morag Tong in Morrowind, with their rigid adherence to legal documentation and traditional methods. The scattered remnants of other Brotherhood sanctuaries, still performing the Black Sacrament according to rituals unchanged for centuries.

None of them had a Dragonborn. None of them had embraced the chaotic evolution that had transformed the Falkreath Sanctuary into something beyond traditional categorization.

None of them, presumably, had assassinated emperors with cheese trebuchets and sweetroll slip paths.

"I believe," she said to Nazir as butter-sliding celebrations spread throughout the Sanctuary, "that we may have accidentally invented an entirely new school of assassination."

"Culinary warfare," Nazir nodded thoughtfully. "Environmental manipulation through gastronomic engineering. Strategic deployment of edible assets."

"Snack-based elimination protocols," Astrid added, finding herself warming to the terminology despite years of traditionalist resistance.

Across the chamber, the Dragonborn had set up what appeared to be a demonstration of new assassination techniques involving levitated cabbages enhanced with destruction magic—creating what they enthusiastically described as "vegetative elemental bombardment options." A crowd of assassins watched with professional interest as flaming, frost-covered, and electrically charged cabbages performed elaborate aerial maneuvers before exploding with remarkable precision against designated targets.

"The Age of the Snack Brotherhood," Nazir mused, raising his mead in a toast to this new era. "May our enemies tremble at our approach, and never suspect that their doom smells of fresh-baked sweetrolls."

"To innovative execution," Astrid returned the toast, finally surrendering to the absurdity of their transformation. "And cabbage-lined trapdoors."

As their goblets clinked, somewhere in the shadows of the Void, Astrid could have sworn she heard the Night Mother laughing.

Next Chapter Loading: Status....[On Hiatus Until July].