Cycle of the Serpent

"Farengar, I think I've found some people who can help you with your dragon project."

Farengar Secret-Fire's office was, on the surface, a horrendous mess of mythic proportion. Papers and books littered half the surfaces in the room, one desk carrying ingredients and half-scribbled notes, another bearing a couple of small containers with soul gems haphazardly shoved into them, and unenchanted staves resting against the wall. But deeper, beneath this chaos, there was order. Everything was in its own place, and Farengar knew exactly where he put everything in the office he occupied and could pluck out every particular item on his mind. The sign of a true wizard, Wyndrelis thought to himself as he stepped into the rectangular room. It was spacious enough for what it was, and for the wizard, it must have been the perfect station. He had plenty of room to spread out his experiments without being crammed into a closet to work, and never had to worry about other wizards and mages coming in and messing with his very intricate system. Next to one of his many tables and high along a board was a large, worn map of the province of Skyrim with quill marks here and there, crossing out pieces of the landscape.

As of right now, the wizard himself was at his arcane enchanter, palms clenched against the sides of the black, well-smoothed surface. Sensing the presences - or simply hearing their footsteps - he looked up, the hood of his robes betraying nothing until he turned around, where the group saw his wild and sleepless eyes, circles engraved above his cheekbones in brilliant hues.

Jarl Balgruuf gestured to the wizard. "Go ahead and fill him in with all the details."

Farengar scrutinized the trio, Wyndrelis taking the initiative and inching closer into the room, the hopes to discuss their shared interest clear in his pale eyes. Farengar didn't appear receptive to the idea at the moment. Instead, he moved from the arcane enchanter to one of the many desks of his workspace, his back straightening with a couple of tiny cracking noises. "So the Jarl thinks you three can be of use to me?" His eyes caught the edges of some papers he'd laid about on the table recently, familiarity of the words scrawled in harsh scratches bringing the purpose of the words back to his mind. "Oh, yes, he must be referring to my research into the dragons. Yes, I could use someone to fetch something for me." He gesticulated with a hand as he made the request, then scrunched his face, twisting his mouth to one side before seeming to relax. "Well, when I say fetch, I really mean delve into a dangerous ruin in search of an ancient stone tablet that may or may not actually be there," he clarified, tone still as easygoing as before, catching the suspicion on Emeros' features, mild excitement on Athenath's, and confusion on Wyndrelis'.

"What does this have to do with dragons?" Enunciated Emeros, resting fingertips lightly over the surface of the workspace before him, caution in the lowering of his brow.

"Ah, no mere brute mercenary, but a thinker - perhaps even a scholar?" Farengar paused, smiling vaguely, then relaxed his features again as he moved to the map he'd nailed to a board. "You see, when the stories of dragons began to circulate, many dismissed them as mere fantasies, rumors. Impossibilities. One sure mark of a fool is to dismiss anything that falls outside his experience as being impossible. But I began to search for information about dragons; where had they gone all those years ago? And where were they coming from?"

"So, what do you need us to do?" Athenath piped up.

"I, ah, learned of a certain stone tablet said to be housed in Bleak Falls Barrow, a 'Dragonstone,' said to contain a map of dragon burial sites. Go to Bleak Falls Barrow, find this tablet - no doubt in the main chamber - and bring it to me. Simplicity itself." He finished his explanation with his back turned to the group, checking something at the enchanter. The trio traded uncomfortable looks. Wyndrelis turned his attention back to Farengar.

"What would this 'Dragonstone' look like?" He questioned. Farengar shrugged.

"I believe that, based on the descriptions I've been reading of it, the stone would be of a sort of... Pentagonal shape. And very old, and flat. It should contain a map of dragon burial sites, but I'm not yet sure how that would look-"

Athenath dropped his knapsack down on the table, the thud causing Farengar to wince. The Altmer dug through their belongings, determination burning in their dark eyes as he hoisted an object he'd nearly forgotten about - if not for the uncomfortable weight of it on their spine every time they wore their pack. Before Farengar could chastise them for almost destroying the minute organization system he'd had in that corner of the table, they hoisted the Dragonstone from their bag, handing it over. The sound of a soul gem rolling on the table's surface didn't reach Farengar's ears as he spotted the engravings, the shape, the weathering of the item.

With a sense of gentle reverence, running square fingers over the stone, Farengar scanned the object fervently. He looked up from it and to the Mer, a smile gathering strength on his lips. "Ah! The Dragonstone, you've already found it! You three are cut from a different cloth than the usual brutes the Jarl foists on me."

"What can you tell us about the barrow?" Wyndrelis queried, his memories of the strange ruins and their terrible inhabitants brewing in the back of his mind. He still dreamt of the draugr, and longed to know if this was one strange fluke of existence, or a pattern among the ruins that likely dotted the Skyrim landscape.

"An old tomb, built by the ancient Nords, perhaps dating back to the Dragon War itself." He waved his hand dismissively as he examined the stone, the day providing ample light by which to get a close look at the carvings and marks that had been made thousands of years ago.

"Dragon War?" Emeros repeated. Farengar looked from the stone to the Bosmer, whose earrings caught the gold light of the sconces adorning the walls.

"I'm not surprised you've never heard of it. Even I used to think it was just a myth. But not anymore," he moved from the table to a series of bubbling phials, removing one from a small flame he then extinguished, setting the glass aside as he continued his explanation, "the Dragon War was a real event, although only the barest glimmer of the actual events has come down to us. Far back in the Mythic Era, the dragons were worshipped as gods in Skyrim. Many of the monumental ruins that still dot the landscape were, in fact, built as temples to the dragons. The details are lost, but at some point the Nords rebelled. After a long and terrible war, the Nords overthrew their dragon overlords."

"Were all dragons killed, then?" Wyndrelis asked as Farengar continued to examine various things in his office, some small experiments here and there, organizing scrolls, maintaining conversation as he worked.

"Oh, no," he snorted, "Many were killed, of course. But many survived into historical times. Why, this very palace was built by one of Balgruuf's ancestors to hold a captive dragon. Hence its name: Dragonsreach."

Each member of the trio was on the verge of pushing him for more information when the sound of heavy, hurried footsteps made a fast approach, Irileth coming into view. Her eyes rapidly searched for the wizard as she called, "Farengar!" She stopped in the doorway, the wizard's face tightly bound as though he'd been interrupted in the middle of a particularly important observation. "Farengar, you need to come at once. A dragon's been sighted nearby," her attention shifted to the trio, her usual composed demeanor wearing the tiniest, hairline fracture, "you three should come, too."

"A dragon! How exciting! Where was it seen? What was it doing?" He interrogated with a tooth-bearing smile. Irileth sneered. It was clear she had little time nor patience for his questions.

"I'd take this a bit more seriously if I were you. If a dragon decides to attack Whiterun I don't know if we can stop it." She motioned urgently with a strong, gauntlet-clad hand. "Let's go."

Wyndrelis wiped his glasses on his tunic, looking to Emeros, then to Athenath. "We're really doing this?" He whispered to them. Athenath picked at their nails with a tight brow, while Emeros made a brisk turn on his heel towards the doorway.

"I don't believe we've much of a choice," the Bosmer whispered back bleakly, "if I were in their position, I believe I would also call upon the only people I know who have seen one of these things with their own eyes."

That was the end of it. Within moments, the trio had emerged into the upper room where they met Irileth, Farengar, Jarl Balgruuf, and a guard who, despite being covered head-to-toe in armor, gave off a level of dishevelment that only came from running the way to the city in pure terror and determination.

"So, Irileth tells me you came from the western watchtower," came the Jarl's voice. When he wasn't seated in his throne, it was clear he carried an imposing figure, with his arms folded over his chest making them appear larger, stronger, his chin level, feet the perfect shoulder-width apart.

The guard, clearly uncomfortable being the center of so much attention, nodded rapidly. "Yes, my lord."

"Tell him what you told me. About the dragon," Irileth insisted, urgency in her throat.

"Uh- that's right. We saw it coming from the south. It was fast... faster than anything I've ever seen." He panted, his voice tight, his exhaustion radiating off every word.

"What did it do? Is it attacking the watchtower?" The Jarl's composure never broke, but his concerns calcified in his eyes as he pressed for more information.

"No, my lord. It was just circling overhead when I left. I never ran so fast in my life... I thought it would come after me, for sure." The stink of sweat poured heavily from him, his words giving everything his facial expressions could not behind his helmet.

Jarl Balgruuf landed a hard hand on the guards shoulder. "Good work, son. We'll take it from here. Head down to the barracks for some food and rest. You've earned it." He turned to his Housecarl, "Irileth, you'd better gather some guardsmen and get down there."

"I've already ordered my men to muster near the main gate."

"Good. Don't fail me." Jarl Balgruuf then turned his attention to the trio, at last acknowledging the presences of the three Mer who'd spent the ordeal lingering near the stairs, his resolve firm as he addressed them. "There's no time to stand on ceremony, my friends. I need your help, my people need your help. I want you to go with Irileth and help her fight this dragon." Before the group could raise concerns, stammering and sputtering with mouths agape, he held a hand up to silence them as he went on, "you three miraculously survived Helgen, so you have more experience with dragons than anyone else here. But do not think I'm sending you out unprepared. Irileth, take them to the barracks and get them armored and ready, I will have weapons for you when you return."

"At once, my Jarl," Irileth turned to the stairwell. She didn't look back as she descended, already aware that the Mer would follow.

Irileth had done her damned best at preparing them, her dedication to the hold and her duties showing with every firm tug and adjustment of the armor she made. It was not the best, but it would do, and it would be good enough to keep them from getting killed by the dragon. And it was a hell of a lot better than the ill-fitting, hurriedly donned pieces from Helgen. Still, wearing armor meant for guards of Whiterun set the Mer on edge. Athenath had only picked up a blade a few times in their life, mostly because someone in their life thought he should know how to fight with one. This wasn't anywhere remotely near their territory. Wyndrelis, too, wore his discomfort in every stretch he made to get used to the armor. He was no warrior. He'd never been. And Emeros, despite the grace of his motions, had never fancied himself a fighter in any regard. Self-defense on the roads was one thing, but going out intentionally to fight? Let alone to do battle with a dragon. It was all absurd beyond measure.

Time was of the essence, and every second that wasted away on preparing for the fight ahead, the uneasier everyone became. Athenath bit their lip, Wyndrelis fidgeted with his fingers in the shining metal gauntlets, and Emeros tapped his foot impatiently. Irileth gave them one more look-over, and when her approval made its way into words, she marched them back to the Jarl.

"Take these," he passed an enchanted sword into each of the Mer's hands, the hilt chilly even in the air, the blade even more so. Frost enchantments. "As a token of my esteem, of course."

"I should come along. I would very much like to see this dragon," Farengar insisted, bringing with him several scrolls and a quill, inkpot likely stuffed into one of the pockets of his robes.

"No. I can't afford to risk both of you. I need you here working on ways to defend the city against these dragons," Jarl Balgruuf instructed. Farengar reluctantly agreed, but the descent down the stairs told everyone that he wasn't exactly happy about the arrangement. Jarl Balgruuf then looked to Irileth, the Dunmer caught off-guard by his intensity. "One last thing, Irileth. This isn't a death or glory mission. I need to know what we're dealing with," he explained gravely.

"Don't worry, my lord. I'm the very soul of caution."

Athenath had the distinct feeling that she was not, but he knew that placing their trust in her was all he could do.

"But it's more than our honor at stake here. Think of it: the first dragon seen in Skyrim since the last age. The glory of killing it is ours, if you're with me! Now what do you say? Shall we go kill us a dragon?"

The rousing speech did little to assuage the nerves of the trio. Everyone around them cheered, and how could they not? Taking on a dragon, a mythical beast that threatened their very existences, the idea had practically been tailored to the Nord sense of honor and glory, to do battle and even die for the honor. To meet Tsun at the whalebone bridge.

Athenath offered prayers to Mara under their breath, shoulders high up their neck. The sun drained the land of color. The sky blotted out the fear of the soldiers, what was there to fear if you couldn't see it? A dragon wasn't that much of a big deal if they couldn't see it circling overhead.

But they had not been in the fires. They had not watched the destruction at the tiny outpost near Riverwood.

Emeros adjusted his helmet, other hand firm on the hilt of his blade. When the other Mer turned to Wyndrelis, it was as though he'd entirely shut down, like the reality meant nothing and he was standing here to stand here among the crowd, an observer.

The gates to Whiterun parted, and like a gleaming, silvery parade, they marched with the soldiers, eyes on the sky.

First, it was the black plumes of smoke. Then the slow-dying fire. The rubble. The pathway cracked by it. Then, there it was in full glory.

What remained of the Western Watchtower revealed itself in the stench of burnt corpses and fresh death. It perfumed the air like mildew in a closet, sour and sobering. Irileth sprung into action, clouds apathetically rolling above their heads.

"No signs of any dragon right now, but it sure looks like he's been here," Irileth murmured to herself, tightening her brow as she turned to the guards. "I know it looks bad, but we've got to figure out what happened, and if that dragon is still skulking around somewhere. Spread out and look for survivors. We need to know what we're dealing with."

Emeros inched back, closer to the other two. "We're staying close together," he stated in a hush, solely so the other Mer would hear. Wyndrelis pooled magicka into his palms, forming a purple-hued mist.

"Agreed," he whispered back, his spell brightening. A figure began to glow the same lavender hue in his vision. "I see someone in the rubble, they're still alive."

"Still alive?" Athenath repeated, disbelief painting their features as they looked from Wyndrelis to the rubble. The mage nodded rapidly, Emeros starting in Irileth's direction. Before he could get far, the figure rushed out of the tower, sprinting down the rubble in uneven steps, arms frantically waved above his head.

"No! Get back! It's still here somewhere, Hroki and Tor just got grabbed when they tried to make a run for it-"

Irileth's firm grip on his shoulders stopped the man in his tracks. "Guardsman! What happened here? Where's this dragon? Quickly now!" Irileth urged, the guard struggling for proper breaths, eyes darting around the horizon. His body shook like he were freezing, his wide eyes wildly darting in every direction, his lungs doing all they could to cough up the smoke he'd inhaled while waiting for someone, anyone to come and save him from this nightmare.

"I don't know!"

A massive shadow cut through the sky. Wherever it went, darkness followed and eclipsed the world beneath its wings, thunderous flight throwing the wind in every direction it swept. From one mountain edge to another, bloodied claws still glistening wet, the dragon dove and rose and consumed the sky with its shape.

"Kynareth save us, here he comes again!" The guard cried. Irileth never took her eyes off the beast, slapping a firm hand on the guards shoulder and sending him back into the tower. She readied herself, giving the guard a few more shoves until he made the mad sprint back into cover.

"Here he comes, find cover and make every arrow count!"

The dragon slowed. Time itself came to a crawl as though Akatosh were stretching it like dough, further and further out in the mind of the observers. The beast landed, its clawed feet hitting the ground with enough force to knock several of the guards back, all clamoring for stability as they froze in the gaze of the dragon, scales iridescent in the light of the mid-day sun. The wings stirred up the earth around it, dust in plumes as it took in the sight of the mortal beings before itself. Guards' weapons forgotten. Focus solely on the beast which eyed them like prey, head swinging in slow, side-to-side motions. A king observing its feast.

Before its maw could open, Emeros' fists knotted around the gauntlet-clad wrists of his companions. He didn't look back, dragging the other two until their feet could catch up with his own pace, the flurry of three pairs of boots in a mad dash to the watchtower as the world erupted into flames. Wyndrelis flung a ward up over the group as they ran, Athenath's head tucked down as they squeezed their eyes shut, attention only on escape. The fire spread faster than anything they could have prepared for, and with a hard shove, Wyndrelis forced the other two into the stone tower, ward blocking the onslaught of flames, the dragon swerving high above them and into the blue realms of Kynareth. The Dunmer backed into the tower before he let the ward drop, the other two with their backs to the stone walls, away from any windows.

Wyndrelis uncorked a magicka potion and downed half the bottle before returning it to his bag, crouching against the wall with his companions, sweat down their foreheads and breaths ragged. Athenaths hands over their ears, he curled in himself like a ball. The steely look in the Bosmer's eyes, determination on his face, Emeros checked his arrows and readied his bow. There was no way he wouldn't go down fighting, at the very least. His mind raced with plans to keep the situation from going from bad to totally fucked.

Another torrent of fire rained outside, scorching the ground and turning the sky above them a sickening shade of orange. Every time the dragon made its rounds around the tower, the trio could hear commands and shouts and screams. The stench of burning flesh and hair corraled them into the half-crumbled tower, and it was only a matter of time before their only cover became a tomb.

"We have to do something," Emeros said as he examined the stairwell up to the top of the tower, "we can't just- we can't do nothing in here."

"Are you fucking insane?" Athenath shrieked. "It'll tear us apart! What the fuck can we even do?"

Wyndrelis unsheathed his sword, his other palm emitting a staticky, shrill noise. "I can distract it if you can get some arrows in."

"What?!" Athenath shouted, pushing himself up off the floor. "No, absolutely not, you'll die out there-"

"He has a much better chance than we do," Emeros cut in sharply, "I say we let him distract it so the guards have a bloody chance at taking it down."

Athenath's brow lowered, the Altmer swallowing hard as they assessed the situation. He was right. If Wyndrelis could get the dragon's attention, he had the best chance at keeping it busy long enough for the guards to get some more arrows through it. And if the other two did the same, then maybe they could force the thing to land and attack from the ground. He didn't want to get anywhere near it, but options limited and growing slimmer, there was nothing he could do but give a firm nod.

The trio looked between one another. Wyndrelis looked back at his friends, then pushed himself into a sprint as Emeros handed Athenath the bow and some arrows. "I need you to get to the top of the tower-"

"The what?!" Athenath examined the bow as Emeros held it against the other until Athenath finally wrapped their fingers around the wood. "You're fucking joking-"

"Please," Emeros urged, "please trust me. I need you to do that, now go!"

Athenath wasted no time. Despite the fear in every limb, they flew up the stairs, boots thudding against the stone. He looked to Wyndrelis, just outside the tower, the magicka in his palm expanding into a tiny flurry of lightning. The Dunmer aimed the spell at the dragon as it slid overhead, the spell making contact with its scales, scorching the beasts stomach. The dragon roared, swinging higher above where the mage couldn't make contact, Wyndrelis cursing loudly to himself.

"I think if I paralyze it, we can force it to land-"

"I don't care what you do, just make sure we can kill it!" Emeros shouted back, peering out the tower. Courage hard to gather against the odds, he glanced from Wyndrelis to the ceiling above himself to the field outside, and rushed out the tower as fast as his legs could take him.

The scene outside was of utter carnage. Bodies strewn about, some in parts and some whole, some scorched beyond recognition and some left the barest dignity of a face, he resisted covering his nose with his palm as he ran through the field, meteoric flurries of fire all around him as he dodged and dashed, changing direction frequently. He never left too far from the tower, Wyndrelis aiming his spells carefully, sweat pouring down the back of his neck as his magicka drained. Athenath watched from the top of the tower, peering into the sun as the wings crested over him, pulling back the string weakly and firing off arrows left and right. They'd never learned archery and were glad they had the strength to even get an arrow out, and with every prayer to Mara under their breath, they fired off another and another until an arrowhead made contact with the chest of the beast. It roared and swam through the air, flinging itself in a downward arc, claws extending as it slid over the roof of the tower.

Athenath scrambled down the stairs, Wyndrelis shooting a paralysis spell into the injured dragon, slowing its flight further with a furious roar. Before it could descend on the Dunmer, Emeros shouted for the beast to come get him instead, and spying an easy target, the dragon obliged.

Every time the dragon would get close enough to one of the Mer to snatch them, another would intervene, arrows and spells and taunts, the world made of dry and burning grass and scorched earth and oxygen-deprived skies, choking the guards and the trio alike. The dragon howling in frustration, it swept and swarmed the skies until its focused on the city in the distance, and with the world underneath again brushed with the fierce winds of its wings, it sped through the skies off towards Dragonsreach.

"It's heading for Whiterun!" Irileth shouted, her arrows doing no good as the injured dragon started its arc towards the city. The guards, in vain attempts to stop it, aimed more arrows and fired and shrieked orders, but the dragon already had its sights set, distance between itself and the city closing every moment.

"Fus!"

No one could determine where the sound came from first, but it came out instinctual, a last-resort that burned through the trio, hammering into the skies above, the combined shout of three Mer erupting into the air and pausing the dragon's arc in the sky. The word echoed through the clouds as the dragon swung back. This was no longer about conquest. This was about the ancient challenge.

It landed with its full, earth-rattling force. The guards and Mer swarmed it, but each bat of its leathery wings slashed through the Nords. No, this was not about them. This was between the dragon and the ones who shouted. The trio charged, Wyndrelis beating with his mace into the flesh of the dragon as it attempted to push them aside and shout in its own tongue at them, Emeros firing his arrows through its neck, Athenath using the enchanted sword and hacking at the tail. The Altmer swung their body onto the dragons back, crawling up its spine as it desperately tried now to shake him off, the other two clinging to its body, Emeros with his hands around a horn, Wyndrelis climbing up the wings, fighting against the might of the much stronger beast. The trio unsheathed their blades, and in one strong motion, stabbed through into the body of the weakening beast.

Driving each blade in, the trio dug all of their resolve and fury into the motions. There was no escape from whatever fate fell before them, but if they had to die here, they'd take this damned thing with them.

The beast howled and roared in wrathful pain, every inch of resolve in its form drained through the icy blades, a word crying out from its mouth as the final of its breaths left.

When it collapsed to the ground, fully limp, the Mer hesitantly climbed down from the dragon. The guards gathered around, Irileth at the helm, apprehension in every step made. The three stood before it, panting, hearts racing, pulses rattling their frames, bloodstains against their armored forms, soot and ash clinging to them as it had done only days prior.

"Let's make sure that overgrown lizard is really dead. Damned good shooting, boys!" Irileth congratulated her ranks, the guards letting out a cheer that fell deathly silent as they watched the scene before them. The Mer turned slowly as the world behind them ignited. The corpse began to peel apart like parchment in a flame, scales and flesh setting themselves alight. The sight was blinding, the trio shielding their eyes but unable to look away from the horror of it all as bones undressed themselves from flesh. As muscle and sinew faded off the bones of the beast, a terrible wind flowed, dividing like a river into three streams, the power of the rush nearly sending the Mer backwards.

When the world cleared, the trio stood, checking themselves over, exhaustion and injuries wiped away as if there had never been a fight at the Western Watchtower at all.

One of the guards cautiously removed his helmet, reverence worn on his heat-flushed face. "I can't believe it! You're... Dragonborn..." He gaped.

"Dragonborn? What...?" Athenath tried to get words to come out of their mouth, but all fell flat on his lips as he looked back at the bleach-white bones behind them.

"In the very oldest tales, back from when there were still dragons in Skyrim, the Dragonborn would slay dragons and steal their power. That's what you did, isn't it? Absorbed that dragon's power?" The guard's wide-eyed wonder at the three seemed to calm the others in his rank, reigniting memories of stories told around hearths by relatives long-gone.

"I- we-" Wyndrelis tried, but all he could do was fumble as nothing seemed to come together in his mind.

"We have no idea what just happened to us," Emeros answered, his brow knit tight.

"According to the old legends, only the Dragonborn can Shout without training, the way the dragons do. That's what you did, that was Shouting!"

Another guard stepped forward, "Dragonborn? What are you talking about?"

A third guard chimed in. "That's right! My grandfather used to tell stories about the Dragonborn. Those born with the Dragon Blood in 'em. Like old Tiber Septim himself."

A fourth guard, smugly, "I've never heard of Tiber Septim killing any dragons."

The first guard rolled his eyes, turning to face the third guard. "There weren't any dragons then, idiot. They're just coming back now for the first time in... forever."

The fourth guard gave a childish, mocking expression to the first guard, before turning to the trio, "But the old tales tell of the Dragonborn who could kill dragons and steal their power. You must be Dragonborn, then!"

The second guard, as though coming back to reality, turned to his superior. "What do you say, Irileth? You've being awfully quiet."

The third guard chimed in again, "Come on, Irileth, tell us, do you believe in this Dragonborn business?"

Irileth stood there, her observations kept to herself as she took in the carnage before them. The Western Watchtower would need extensive work if they ever hoped to use it as a tower again. The ground cracked beneath the grass with heat. The air still stunk of rotten, burnt flesh, and the wind did little to keep the smell from reaching the group.

"Some of you would be better off keeping quiet than flapping your gums on matters you don't know anything about," she scoffed, gesturing to the now-skeletal remains, "here's a dead dragon, and that's something I definitely understand. Now we know we can kill them. But I don't need some mythical Dragonborn," she looked to the trio and, with the faintest hint of respect, said, "someone who can put down a dragon is more than enough for me."

The fourth guard rolled his eyes. "You wouldn't understand, Housecarl. You ain't a Nord."

"I've been all across Tamriel," she objected indignantly, "I've seen plenty of things just as outlandish as this. I'd advise you all to trust in the strength of your sword over tales and legends." She began to examine the bones of the dragon, dry as though they'd been in the sun for years, the guards returning their attentions to the group of Mer. The trio's discomfort melted from internal into their features, now turning to follow Irileth as she scrutinized the ruins of the Watchtower. Her expression, unreadable, still held the minute signs of discontent. They'd lost some good men in this fight. Finally acknowledging the other Mer, she looked to them and folded her arms over her chest. "That was the hairiest fight I've ever been in, and I've been in more than a few. I don't know about this Dragonborn business, but I'm sure glad you're all with us. You three better get back to Whiterun right away. Jarl Balgruuf will want to know what happened here."